We all know how difficult transitioning can be. If you’re questioning, you’ve read the stories. If you’ve already started, you’re living this reality.
I could share many stories of doubt, disapointment, despair… and I probably will.
Today however I want to make the case for hope. For persevering in the face of adversity. For recognizing that sometimes we are the ones who hold ourselves back the most.
I’m 40 years old AMAB, she/they pronouns. I started feminizing diy HRT at age 37. At the time I had one person to confide in: my partner. They were supportive of my evolving gender identity and decision to transition. Without them I might not even be alive. Everyone else I kept in the dark, for better or worse.
I did all my own research, spending years considering if this was right for me, what the best option was. I tried to balance concern over my age and increasing masculinization, with the need to make responsible decisions.
The initial breast tenderness and growth from 3 weeks to 3 months, gave way to a prolonged period of waiting. Waiting for changes that might never come. Would I ever see fat redistribution, would my face change, would my hair stop thinning?
I wasn’t sure how to cope with my new body. My first instinct was to hide it, to delay the inevitable point at which I would have to show the world my true self. After all, that could be dangerous. What if they rejected me, what if they hurt me?
So I kept wearing boy clothes (“boymoding”). When my chest growth became clearly visible under shirts, I began wearing sports bras.
I wasn’t ashamed of my body, far from it. I loved the changes. But I wasn’t ready for everyone to know.
I waited. Weeks turned into months, and months into years, while HRT worked its slow magic. But I wasn’t sure – was it really working? Was something wrong? Was I broken, why did other girls look so different and better than me? Much time wasted on selfie and timeline posts.
Not everything was great. Sex was… difficult. Sometimes it hurt. For months I couldn’t be with my partner. I was too sensitive down there. I worried I would have ED forever and never be able to enjoy sex again.
I waited. Sexual ability returned but it seemed my transition was stalled. No closer to social transition and still DIY, I had no doctor or therapist. My body wasn’t changing as much or as quickly as I hoped.
2023 – I want to pause the story at this critical point. A lot of things happened in my life. I unexpectedly lost a parent. My partner and I were moving in different directions. Work was stressing me out physically and emotionally. Every day brought fresh news of politicaI attacks on transgender people, starting with children, but before long it was all of us. I could no longer buy my HRT online and was faced with the dire prospect of running out.
I thought about giving up, was this all worth it? I did the one thing that seemed promising: found a therapist with whom I could discuss my struggles. She became the second person I confided in. Together we sorted out the depression and anxiety that had always held me back from life, from the vision of a future where I could be my true self. She helped me find agency, the will to take control.
I found an endocrinologist and made an appointment (super frustrating four month wait!). She gave my first official prescription for HRT and referred me to voice therapy, with the promise of surgical referrals in the new year.
I began to assert my identity more often. I changed my name and pronouns at work. I no longer tried to hide my body with loose clothes or walking slouched. When I wanted to wear a tight shirt or pants, I did. Nobody insulted me, nobody attacked me. My fears had been mostly irrational. I owned being transgender, and I owned my name and pronouns. I found others like me, at work, in my neighborhood, in bars and restaurants. I found strength and confidence.
Last summer, I bought a bikini and wore it to the lake. One of the most liberating moments of my life to that point. The feeling of the sun, the wind, the water on my skin. I wore a big wide-brimmed floppy hat inherited from my mother. It wasn’t easy to face the dysphoria, the fear of being so visible and vulnerable in a conservative area, but I did.
I started progesterone. I didn’t notice how subtly my body had been changing, how my bras seemed tighter, how lying on my side felt different. Suddenly I had cleavage, I had actual round feminine breasts – 36D baby! Not perfect, but mine. In full length mirrors, I noticed my hips, my body just a little curvier than before.
Clothes looked different on me. I tried dresses that had sat untouched in my closet for years. They fit so naturally now! I no longer felt the crushing sense of disappointment, dysphoria, the dreaded “man in a dress” feeling. Now I’m a woman in a dress. A woman in a polo and jeans, a woman wearing nothing at all…
Last year saw many people identify my gender correctly at first glance. While boymoding, without makeup or any special effort on my part I began to pass. I started to “male fail”. My partner had been telling me. Apparently I was the last one to notice the changes.
And I wondered, what if I actively tried? How would it feel to truly embrace who I was. With voice therapy, another piece has been falling into place. I can’t believe how my voice can sound, and I’ve had this inside me all along.
I started electrolysis hair removal on my face. The weekly sessions cut into my limited income and savings, and hurt like hell, but the prospect of never shaving or having beard shadow again makes it seem worthwhile. Already I can go a week between shaves, instead of having to shave daily – a major source of dysphoria.
In preparation for my 40th birthday, I planned a special outting, a “coming of age” and out of the closet as it were. Ordered a new wardrobe; pants, skirts, jackets, tops, boots, all according to my developing sense of style - dark, gothic, elegant. Bought makeup and promised myself to spend at least 5 minutes practicing every day, alongside my daily commitment to voice training.
Winter weather cancelled my planned outting, but another even more enticing opportunity presented itself. My partner and I took a ten day trip across the country. What if… what if I showed the world I am a woman? What if I stopped waiting for tomorrows and took control? What if I took that risk?
I packed my makeup, most of my new clothes, my favorite pair of boots, and no small amount of pride gear. Each day I created a new look. Sometimes goth, punk, western, androgynous or girly – but always uniquely, wonderfully me. My partner was tremendously patient as I passed through this silly phase of two and three hour agonized dressing sessions.
We traveled through some of the worst states in the US for anti-trans laws. In Kansas, I could have been arrested and fined for daring to set foot in a women’s restroom. Through states where elected politicians look upon us with contempt and scorn. Where our legal rights, our human rights, are being stripped away at this very moment.
Staying constantly aware of my surroundings, and not placing myself unnecessarily in danger, I walked into rural truck stops, ate in small town diners, sat in bars, moved through crowds with my head held high.
Turned heads in platform boots and miniskirts, was the subject of boomer gossip, and received a fair few compliments – a totally new experience for someone who had always “blended into the background” to be invisible and unnoticed in plainest clothes.
Amazed my partner with my newfound talent for applying eyeliner and nail polish in a moving car. I admit, I took a million selfies of this woman I’m becoming. No… the woman I have always been. Clothes and makeup alter my appearance, but I am and have always been ME. Nobody, no laws, no words or acts on anyone’s part can change that. Yet she looks so new and beautiful to me.
One of the more stressful moments of our trip was meeting my dad’s family, they finally saw me as my authentic self. No snide remarks, criticism, or awkward questions, just hugs and love for being there. Good conversation and good company. A huge relief.
But I didn’t need their permission to be happy, nor my doctor’s, insurance company, or even my partner’s. I only need my own permission. And in this miracle year, I am finally ready to grant that.
I have an appointment for orchiectomy in a few months to finally rid myself of my greatest source of dysphoria. I’m thinking about other medical procedures, like bottom surgery, facial feminization, trache shave, hair restoration. I’m doing this and I’m giving it my best.
I have persevered, despite odds, despite obstacles, despite my own fears, and I hope some of you, who maybe are in the position I found myself of not knowing what to do and close to despair, will take some inspiration from my story.
If all this can happen in one year, what does the next year hold? Or five years? I’m genuinely excited to find out.
