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It was the pandemic, and Larsen had pulled the phrase from a popular guidebook called “The Artist’s Way” by Julia Cameron, which was designed to help people tap into their creativity and has been praised by the likes of Alicia Keys, Elizabeth Gilbert and Doechii. For many, the book’s spiritual grounding and daily journaling practice enable a deeper level of insight.

“It’s one of the most important things I’ve ever done in my life,” Larsen told the Star, explaining how the book factored into his decision to transition. “You can only write ‘I am not comfortable in who I am’ so many times in your journal and sit with that before you feel compelled to explore it.”

This exploration is documented on the 27-year-old’s just-released sophomore album, “Blurring Time.” When he first put pen to paper in 2021, Larsen was flooded with questions that became the seeds of its nine tracks: Who am I? (“Blurring Time.”) Who am I in relation to the people I love? (“514-415.”) Once I change, what gets left behind? (“Questions.”)

By the time he wrote the album’s last track, “Might,” Larsen had decided to start taking testosterone. He knew that his voice would change, but rather than recording the entire album in one register or the other, he opted for both. In 2022, he used his higher voice. After beginning testosterone, he recorded the vocals again, harmonizing with himself.

The result is a richly layered, folk-forward album whose approach feels peerless. Larsen imagines a listener in a café hearing one of his songs, thinking “this girl-boy duo bangs,” only to Shazam it and realize it was recorded by one person.

But just as important as the inclusion of both voices on “Blurring Time” is noticing when, and how, they’re being used. “Might” considers the changes that may result from his transition, so he chose to rely mostly on his high voice. “Questions” is written from the point of view of someone who already changed, so the song leans more on his low voice. On other tracks, both voices are woven together.

“I felt like I hadn’t seen a whole lot of trans representation that included parts of one’s past and parts of one’s future,” he explained. “I understand why that is. It is so valid for trans people to want to place their old self to the side so that the new self can shine. However, I think that is partially why it took so long for me to figure out that I was trans, because my old self is still very much with me. I still am that person. I just needed to make some changes so that I could be comfortable in my own skin.”

Growth is often measured by the distance we can put between different versions of ourselves. For some, this distance is not only helpful, it’s essential. But for Larsen, “both/and” felt more honest than “either/or.”

Minutes after taking a seat in an Annex café, the musician was already acknowledging the many dichotomies in his life. He had just come out of a weekend celebrating both Easter and Passover, for his dad’s and mom’s sides, respectively. He splits his time between Montreal and Toronto, toggling between a joual-speaking Quebecer and a born-and-raised west-ender. He views his album’s duet approach as yet another dichotomy — one that embraced his multitudes.

“It’s not at all that my transition has been an art project,” he said. “But if I knew that I was going to transition no matter what, I figured that I want to offer this album to myself as a parting gift, and I also want to offer this album to myself as a housewarming gift, too.”

In these ways, “Blurring Time” communicates a sort of homecoming — an arrival-to-self that can only be mined from periods of great uncertainty, which can result in what Larsen refers to as “good grief.”

“It’s about taking something hard and trying to make it good, not by virtue of toxic positivity, but through art,” he says. “I think it’s OK for there to be grief in transitioning. It’s OK for me to miss parts of my old self. Now that I have changed and I’m different than I was three or four years ago, I’m still grieving past versions of myself. But I don’t think that’s unique to being trans.”

As Larsen embarked on his physical transition, the “leap” maxim remained affixed to his mirror in plain sight — a hopeful buoy among the unknowns.

“I understood what the leap was,” he said. “I hoped that the net would appear, and I understand today that it has.”

New questions posed

While many of the questions that Larsen poses on “Blurring Time” are deeply personal, their relevance is far more expansive. On “My Brother & Me,” when he considers what it means to be a good man, it isn’t only about one person’s renegotiation with masculinity, but the rigid concepts of gender isolating so many young men from themselves and others.

“Pretty soon I’ll go through puberty again / Will I be an asshole or gentleman?” Larsen sings, reflecting on his then teen brother’s draw to personalities like Jordan Peterson — an interest sparked by the loneliness of being a high schooler stuck at home during the pandemic.

“He turned to thinkers that contradict my existence,” Larsen said.

In the last few years, Larsen’s brother has moved on from these harmful ideologies and thinkers. The musician lights up describing the “beautiful ally” his sibling has become — a sentiment recently echoed in an Instagram post: “I am verklempt to have my masculinity be informed by his.”

But as much as he has been influenced by the men in his life, Larsen acknowledges his own ability to now do the same.

“I almost see it as a sort of superpower that I can be kind and be thoughtful, and people who don’t know that I’m trans can just read me as a kind and thoughtful guy,” he said. “That can make a bit of a positive dent in the world.”

Larsen was looking forward to making an even bigger dent with his “Blurring Time” tour this spring. He had six U.S. shows scheduled, as well as a series of Canadian dates. But two weeks ahead of his album release, Larsen’s reality was shaken.

On April 2, the U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services updated its policies to specify that it “only recognizes two biological sexes, male and female,” and that it considers a person’s sex as that which they were assigned at birth. As a result, Larsen, whose passport has an “M” gender marker, was told by the American Federation of Musicians of the United States and Canada that he would not be able to apply for a visa.

There were already risks to crossing the border as a trans person in 2025, and Larsen had taken the necessary steps to ensure that he would be as safe as possible: he was travelling with his guitarist, a cisgender man; he was crossing borders via plane; and he was performing exclusively in blue states. But in the end, the decision was made for him.

“It was a very surreal moment of understanding that I am, in some ways, part of the group that’s first in the firing line of these new policies,” he said. “This is the first time in my adult life that I have been personally implicated.”

He took to Instagram to announce the cancellation of his U.S. dates.

“This new policy has crushed my dreams,” he wrote. “I am more and more gutted with every day that passes by the (seeming) dissonance between the world in which I created this project and the world into which I am releasing it.”

Larsen is not the only Canadian artist experiencing the impact of these anti-trans policies. Halifax singer-songwriter T. Thomason recently cancelled an appearance at Maine’s All Roads Music Festival because he didn’t feel safe crossing the border as a trans man. Comedian Ava Val pulled the plug on her U.S. dates because of her own visa issues.

The policy changes also implicate non-binary Canadians. In declaring that “only two biological sexes” would be recognized by the U.S. government, the roughly 3,600 Canadians with “X” gender markers on their passports are left in a precarious position.

These developments have led LGBTQ advocacy groups to raise alarms with the Canadian government.

“Trans and gender-diverse Canadians are continuing to face real fear and uncertainty when it comes to crossing the U.S. border,” Helen Kennedy, executive director of Egale Canada, told the Star. “This uncertainty makes it incredibly difficult to assess whether it’s even safe to travel.”

Egale Canada have cancelled their own plans to travel to the U.S. to “safeguard (their) trans and non-binary staff,” and have also called on Canada to update its travel advisory for the U.S.

In Larsen’s case, “visagate” has also eclipsed his album promotion cycle. Stories in the Hollywood Reporter and the Guardian have certainly helped him raise awareness around the realities of being a trans person in 2025, but they also emphasize how simply existing at this intersection of identity can be perceived as a political act. It’s a duality that Larsen continues to struggle with.

“Today is my T-day,” he said. “So at some point, I’m going to go home, I’m going to unzip the little pencil case that I bought at Dollarama and inject myself with testosterone. It’s a five-minute process — a 10-minute process, depending on how nervous I am. I put a Band-Aid on, I go about my life, and that’s it. Because I have access to that kind of care, it allows me to look a certain way, feel a certain way, have a certain je ne sais quoi in my step. That’s it. I have a bit of trouble with the politicization of my identity, because it doesn’t actually involve anyone but me.

“But if we zoom out and look at transness on a global level, my community is being profoundly dehumanized. We’re being scapegoated right now. So I totally get why this is political, too.”

Where to now?

Larsen’s warmth is as contagious as it is calming, but he frequently uses the word “anxious” to describe himself. Throughout our conversation, I noticed him playing with something in his right hand. As we started talking about what keeps him grounded, he opened his fingers to reveal a smooth, heart-shaped white rock. Placing it on the counter, he explained that it was given to him by a friend as a token of support following the events of the last few weeks.

He then reached into his left pocket and pulled out a single Polaroid — of his partner, standing in a forest in Sainte-Adèle, Que.

“I’m grounding myself in my friendships and in the love that I feel,” he said. “Romantic, yes, but another part of queerness is community and the love that isn’t romantic. If there’s one thing that I’m sure of after the last couple of weeks, it’s that I am very loved.”

“These two things,” he gestured to the rock and photograph, “are a real testament to that.”

In the coming months, he’ll focus on playing shows in Canada. He’ll also be opening for Canadian indie rocker Dan Mangan this fall. Larsen said he might explore touring overseas as an alternative to the U.S. But as he observes peers announcing their American dates without issue, he plans to carve out time to grieve the significance of what has been decided for him before deciding what’s next.

“I want to keep the momentum going because I can feel the ways in which this album is going to, and has already, changed my life,” he said. “But I also want to live my life a little bit.”

On Thursday, he’ll play a packed show at the Great Hall on Queen Street. The last time he performed at the west end venue, he was part of someone else’s band and was so nervous that he had to look down at the floor.

But this night will be different. Larsen’s friend Lane Webber, a Toronto-based trans musician, as well as non-binary artist Your Hunni will be accompanying him on vocals. For Larsen, having this shared lived experience on stage was critical. The rest of his band are men who Larsen said have helped inform his sense of masculinity in some way.

On this night, he’ll look up — at his peers on stage and to his community of fans — and in more ways than one, he’ll be home.