Lucy Sante, a Belgian-American writer and critic in her late sixties, begins her memoir, I Heard Her Call My Name, by sharing with readers a personal email sent to a group of her closest friends upon discovering within herself the ultimate truth about her life. After getting a new phone, she had uploaded a FaceApp to try and feed it photos of herself – from recent shots to ones taken decades ago.

For the first time, Sante could see herself growing up in her female form; this woke her up to the reality of being a trans woman. The truth, we learn, was always present inside her, until now unexplored. Consciously or otherwise, Sante protected herself from it until it could no longer sustain her life without hurting it beyond recognition. 

I Heard Her Call My Name talks, with honesty and lack of self-pity, about Sante’s internal struggle and her difficulties with transitioning late in life. It makes for a superbly written story, calm and clear as a brook’s water, structured in a way that reflects her initial discovery: following the author’s life backwards across the decades and pointing out the signs – obvious in hindsight, she says – regarding her true identity. This memoir reads like a reckoning of a soul and readers ought to be left feeling grateful and moved by Lucy Sante’s gift.