ON A MONDAY MORNING THIS PAST SUMMER, MARISSA ADAMS is telling me about her plans for the future. They are bubbling out of her as we drive to Johns Hopkins’s Bayview Medical Center in her red Honda Fit, its back seat a thicket of table legs and frames in preparation for her move to a new apartment next month. Adams, 25, wants to finish college — she has three semesters left, after some stops and starts — and go on to graduate school in psychology. She wants to be a therapist, or possibly a psychiatric nurse. And, of course, she wants to meet someone. “I can’t wait to be engaged one day,” she says not long after I climb into her car, complimenting the ring on my left hand. “I want it to happen so bad. I hate being single.” In her free time, she scrolls through dating apps, looking for women she’d like to get to know over coffee or Chinese food, since she’s not a big drinker.
▲ MARISSA ADAMS, 25
“I wasn’t used to talking about it, to being out about it. … And I was afraid that no one else’s story would be like mine.”
But before all that, there’s the reason we’re driving to the hospital today: Adams is looking for a doctor who will at least attempt to address the effects of the genital surgery performed with her parents’ permission when she was 18 months old — surgery that was meant to make her body more conventionally female, and that she wishes she’d never had.
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