Kira Boyd

When I was a child, I wanted to be a boy. Not because I hated being a girl, but because I thought being a boy might mean people would stop looking at me like I was broken. I didn’t like my appearance—hated my long hair, hated dresses, hated the way people said I should smile more. So I cut it all off one morning with a pair of blunt kitchen scissors while my parents were at work. When they saw me, my mom started crying. My dad didn’t say a word—just grounded me for a month. I was nine.

Growing up in the Bronx wasn’t easy. Our building smelled like piss and weed half the time, and the other half like despair. Everyone had something to numb the pain—pills, crack, whatever they could get. Violence was just background noise. You heard a fight outside, you didn’t look. You heard sirens, you just kept eating your cereal.

At school, things weren’t much better. The other kids called me names—dyke, freak, tranny boy. I didn’t even know what half of it meant at first. All I knew was that I wasn’t welcome. I got into fights. More than once, I ended up in the nurse’s office with a bloody nose or a busted lip. I wasn’t tough at first. But I learned. You had to.

Around thirteen, I started writing rhymes in a battered notebook. It was just a way to deal with things—anger, loneliness, confusion. But it felt good. Real good. I started freestyling with some older kids on the block. I was the only girl, and they didn’t take me seriously until I dropped a verse that shut them up for a full minute. That felt better than anything I’d ever known.

By sixteen, I was recording on my phone and uploading videos in secret. I didn’t think much would come of it. But one track blew up—millions of views overnight. I was in shock. People started reaching out. Real people, with real offers. At twenty-four, I’m a name. A lesbian hip hop artist from the Bronx, touring, getting press, showing up in places that would’ve laughed at me years ago.

I’m not soft. I’ve earned this. I’m proud. Not just of the music, but of surviving long enough to make it. And now, I get messages from girls like me—telling me they feel seen. That they’re not alone. That’s worth more than any record deal.