In the Wrong Body: The Tale of a Transcolt

I fluttered my strong, grown wings into the air, the handle of my scooter in my hoofs, and twist and turn and loopty-loop in all sorts of directions. I felt the wind blow through my short, purple mane with each flap of my wings. I landed perfectly and smoothly in front of the girls, Apple Bloom and Sweetie Belle.

"Wow, Scootaloo! That was an awesome!" Sweetie Belle exclaimed.

"Yeah, guess yer not much of a chicken anymore, are ya? Yer practically a full-grown stallion!"

I chuckled, feeling my deep, baritone voice vibrate in my throat. "What would I do without you guys by my side?"

I woke up from my dream, the glimmer or Celestia's sun shining brightly in my drowzy eyes. I slowly tumbled out of bed and fluttered out my wings. Still puny. I stretched out my legs and let out a groan, and I winced. Still the same girly voice. I stood there for a while, humming to myself in different pitches, trying to find a satisfying low one. Nothing. I have such a feminine voice. I hate it.

I trotted to the bathroom and brushed my hair. I glared at the mirror dreadfully. My hair is short, but it's still... girly. I turned sideways, studying my rounded-off snout, long eyelashes, and scrawny neck. I took my eyes off of the mirror and fixated them downward. My legs are so small, so lanky. My chest is so small. It should be broader and more muscular, like the Wonder Bolts stallions Rainbow Dash always talks about. Their bodies are perfect. Mine is so filly-like. I hate it.

I walked downstairs to the kitchen. My mother, a cheerful, bright yellow mare with long, flowing, violet hair, sat at the kitchen table, and gave a warm smile when she locked eyes with me.

"There's my pretty girl," she chimed. Pretty girl. I forced out a painful smile back. Mother was an easygoing pony, but she never hesitated to throw in the most feminine things for me. She bought me frilly gala dresses and dolls when I was very little. I never wanted to grow out my hair, despite her always telling me how beautiful I would look with a long mane like hers. I think there may have been a time where she realized that I didn't like all that nampy-pampy girly stuff, and just bought me scooters for toys and let me keep my mane at the length it is.

"Oh, there she is," my dad called out monotonously from the stove. She. I shuddered. My dad wasn't quite as cheery as my mom. He was definitely the "bad cop" out of my two parents, but I could never help but to envy him. He was a big, muscular pegasus, with wings as large as my whole body. His red coat accentuated each curve and crevice of the muscles and veins along his body. His dark purple mane was buzzed, and he had stubble that ran along his squared-off, masculine jawbone. I felt jealous of every square-inch of his body. He was such a cold stallion, and I never knew why he was so cold, but what I did know was that he was manly. It was intriguing to me.

Come to think of it, though, a lot of stallions I see fill me with the same kind of envy. I want my body to look like theirs. I want to have facial hair like them. I want my voice to be deep like theirs. Being a filly is dreadful in my eyes. Apple Bloom has no problem wearing a pink bow in her hair. Sweetie Belle has no problem loving all things cute. For me, however, those kind of things set me off - not in a grossed-out, tomboy way - but more so it makes me frustrated. I was born in the body of a girl. I should like things like this. I should not feel so much disgust when I think about my body. All the girls I know seem so okay with their female bodies, but I yearn to have the body of a boy. I want to be a boy.

I have heard of these ponies who feel like they should be a different gender, and sometimes even change their bodies to match who they are inside. "Transgender," I think they're called. However, all I've heard was bad things about those ponies. They get called all of these horrible names and get treated so badly. I wouldn't want to live a life that is surrounded by so much hate, but at the same time, I envy these poorly-treated ponies as much as I envy stallions and colts. Could I be "transgender?" Maybe-.

"Scootaloo? Honey?" I blinked and snapped back into reality. My mother was standing nearly three inches in front of my face. "Oh goodness, there you are, sweetheart!"

"You were spacing out big time, kid," My dad said, placing plates of pancakes onto the kitchen table. "Now eat up quickly, you're going to be late for school."

My mom lurched up in excitement. "Oh, Scoot, before you leave, I found something last night that you're going to love!" She galloped out of the kitchen and came back with a photo. It was a picture of me when I was younger, stuffed into a puffy, pink dress, and my hair was curled and styled with little bows. "Weren't you just the cutest little filly? And you're growing up to be the most beautiful young mare!" Cutest little filly. Beautiful young mare. I choked back my frustration and agreed politely. I'm growing up to be the most beautiful young mare. I hate it.