Realizing I’m Trans

For most of my life, I had considered myself to be a tomboy. I didn’t like dresses and makeup. Hated the color pink. In general I had a deep aversion towards anything considered feminine as I felt that these things didn’t represent who I was, and I hated the thought of anyone assuming that I was in any way similar to girly-girls.

There were numerous times while growing up where people thought I was a boy. Short hair, baggy clothes, rambunctious personality, it was easy to fit into that image. These moments always made me happy. At the time I thought this was just proof that I’d successfully presented myself as a non-feminine girl. Goal achieved, no need to think deeper into it.

But those boy moments dwindled and mostly disappeared by the time I’d reached college. My body had matured enough that cargo pants and t-shirts couldn’t hide enough of my curves. My voice was too high-pitched to be considered a pre-man voice. I was sad no one thought I was a guy anymore, but I clung to the idea that I was still a tomboy. I was still different from feminine women.

But my body presented a road-block in one area of self-expression. While I didn’t like dresses, I adored suits and waistcoats. I’ve always loved the style and wanted to wear such garments as I could afford. I’d seen women wear suits and suspenders before, and they looked great.

But something was off.

Each time I tried on a vest or donned on one of my dad’s suites, it didn’t look right. My curves detracted from the image I wanted to emulate. So while I looked longingly at suits in shop windows, I stayed clear of them.

“But it’s ok,” I’d tell myself. “I’m a strong tomboy. It’s fine… really…”

Then came 2018. My job at the time had a fitness room in the building that was free for employees to use. It had a simple layout. Large space for yoga and exercise videos, cardio machines in the back, and a weight room to the side with a window into the yoga space. I was in there frequently during the summer lifting weights, following Zumba videos, and running on the treadmill.

One day in September I was in the weight room working on my arms. I turned around and noticed a faint reflection of myself in the window. I was impressed. My biceps were more visible, and my torso was taking on a slight V-shape. This was fantastic progress! I felt strong, confident, and fascinated by this dim masculine shape in the window. I turned to get a side-ways profile.

And there they were. Breasts and a round butt ruining the manly image.

I broke down. Sobs shook my whole body, but I didn’t want to end my workout early. Tears gushed as I struggled through the rest of my routine. They didn’t stop as I drove home and hid in my room.

What was going on? Was I having a body image crisis? Is that why I’m loathing my body right now?

But it was more than that. After a few days of reflection, I knew this self-hating was part of something else, something that had been building and building for years, and it took a reflection to reveal the truth.

I wasn’t a woman. Never had been. And now I finally knew that I was transgender.