My Transition Story

Every single gender/transition story is different, interesting, and inspiring in their own way. In this post, I will be telling my story.

I was born in March of 1999, assigned female at birth (AFAB). My first name was taken from my great-grandmother on my mom’s side, and my middle name was taken from one of my Indigenous ancestors on my dad’s side. Fast forward to around 2002 or so, and I’m in preschool. Another little girl from my class invited me to her princess-themed birthday party. I accepted the invitation enthusiastically, but there was a problem: I didn’t want to dress up as a princess. I wanted to be a prince. My parents made me a prince costume, complete with a crown and cape with stars on it, and I went to the party as the lone prince.

Weeks before my family moved to Spencerport, New York from Eugene, Oregon, after my dad graduated from college with his PhD, we went to Hawaii for a family reunion. My grandma had bought my sister and I dresses to wear for a family photo. I have no recollection of this happening, but when it was time to get dressed for the photo, my mom gave me the dress to put on, and I threw the temper tantrum of the century. Screaming, crying, rolling on the floor. I did not want to wear the dress. We compromised, and I was allowed to take the dress off after the photo.

I started elementary school in the fall of 2004. I was known for wearing “boys clothes,” rather than the typical pink, frilly, sequin dresses and skirts many girls my age loved to wear. Not me. I wore pants, sneakers, and never wore pink. Sequins were out of the question as well. A couple of years ago when I was visiting family in Florida, one of my cousins told me that around this time in my childhood, I had told her, with no confusion or hesitation at all, that I was not a girl. I was a boy. While I do not remember telling her this, I do remember asking my mom if I could cut all of my hair off and get a buzz cut. Mom told me that if I were to get a buzz cut, I had to wear earrings so people wouldn’t think I was a boy. (That was the whole point, mom!)

I was a very active child, playing sports all the way until my senior year of high school. My sports career started with baseball. Not softball- baseball. I was the only girl on the team. Then, came karate, where, once again, I was one of maybe half a dozen girls. Once I was old enough to realize that I would be perceived as “weird” if I continued playing baseball with the boys, I switched to softball. But the summer before I started playing on the girls’ softball team, I attended an all-boys baseball summer camp, once again, being the only girl. 

The fall after baseball camp, I started the sixth grade, where my very masculine style of dress did not go unnoticed. This marked the beginning of a long and painful experience with bullying. Not to excuse my bullys’ behavior, but I was pretty fucking weird. I wore sweatpants, jeans, sweatshirts, T-shirts, converse sneakers, and flannel (obviously not all at the same time). My strangest quirk was my choice of instrument in the school band. I played the tuba. Yup, the tuba. (I was actually pretty good at it!) My one saving grace was sports, where I could wear more masculine clothing, and get credit over the morning announcements for hitting home runs and winning races. But this short-lived popularity only worked for so long. This one girl, who we will call AK (apparently I’m the bigger person who won’t publish her name on the internet), would call me a fag and a dyke, of which I did not know what either of those terms meant, spit food in my face at lunch, tripped me in the hall, and even joined the swim team for the express purpose of making my life miserable. 

Other than the bullying, there was something else going on. I was different- I knew that. But how I was different was what baffled me. My so-called “friends,” who never stood up for me, had this type of confidence and swagger that I could never tap into. It was such a confusing time. What made them different from me? It seemed that their makeup was always on point. I wore makeup too. Their clothing, which, to be honest, by the time late middle school and early high school rolled around, was not all that different from mine. But I was different. I didn’t know how, or why, but I just was. 

The town in New York that my sister and I grew up in was very small, conservative, and religious. Starting at around the age of 10, I decided that I was an atheist- something I kept to myself. I did not know what the words “gay,” “lesbian,” or “bisexual” meant until I was almost 12, and when I found out, thanks to the internet, I realized that those labels were not to be discussed out of fear of being labeled as one of them. I had not heard the word “transgender” until almost 15, and it was not even that word that I learned- I learned the slur “tranny” instead. And to be accused of being a “tranny” was even worse than being labeled as a lesbian, gay, or bisexual.

After my family moved back to Eugene, the summer before my sophomore year of high school, I felt much more comfortable experimenting with my appearance, with my average outfit consisting of jeans, a flannel shirt or t-shirt, a hat, and boots. Basically, I looked super gay all the time. I finally mustered up the courage to chop my hair off, unfortunately receiving a pixie cut for the initial chop. But damn, I looked so much better with short hair. I even had my first two girl-crushes at this time as well. I did not want to admit it, and I would have denied it if asked. I rationalized my feelings for these two girls as more of an admiration of style, not romantic at all.

I graduated from high school in 2016, having skipped my junior year. I immediately started college as a tuba performance major at the University of Oregon. My manner of dress rapidly became more and more masculine. I lived in the girls’ dorm in Hamilton Hall, and met my current best friend. Everyone, for the first time ever, was nice to me, and supportive. And I had learned how to stand up for myself now too, although I never had to at this point. 

Everything changed in my sophomore year. The topic of my sexuality had been on my mind for quite some time now, now knowing that to be queer was healthy, natural, and acceptable. I had broken up with my really gross boyfriend at the beginning of the school year, and had hooked up with a couple of guys in the following weeks, but something was missing. This is when I realized I was bisexual. I changed my settings on my dating apps, and soon started dating my first girlfriend.

That summer, I got a job as a landscaper working for the university. My girlfriend and I had broken up at this point, and stricken with heartbreak, I threw myself into work. I decided that I needed to reflect upon my recently discovered sexuality. I started listening to queer-run podcasts while working. One particularly hot day, I had chosen a podcast that had a transgender man as a guest. (I don’t remember the name of the podcast) This man talked about his experiences before and during his transition. I found myself agreeing with, and finding parallels between my own thoughts and feelings about how I moved through the world, and how I viewed my body. Then, it clicked. I realized that I was transgender.

That very afternoon, I called my therapist to get my letter of recommendation to start hormone therapy. Of course, having never talked about my gender or sexuality with her before, she wanted to have a few sessions to explore this in a bit more depth. That was fine with me, but I was already so eager to begin my physical transition. I moved into a new apartment later that summer with three roommates, one of whom was non-binary. I decided that I would try out they/them/theirs pronouns with my new roommates. 

I came out to my parents about two weeks before starting testosterone. At first, they seemed to be okay with it, which was good, however they were not making much of an effort to use my new pronouns. More on this later. 

On November 6th (or possibly 7th? I don’t remember) in 2018, I had my first T shot. It wasn’t long before I was seeing the effects. One of the first things that happened was my voice breaking. I found this out while I was scream-singing in the car, and my voice cracked. I was so excited. I lost weight and gained muscle, resulting in  a 6-pack of abs about three months in. I started growing facial hair, starting with a creepy little moustache and sideburns. My face shape was changing as well. 

Now, for the painful part. On Christmas Eve, I got into an argument with my parents over my new pronouns, of which they had made no effort to use. It got pretty ugly. I left, and on the drive home, I decided to skip Christmas that year, and go no-contact for a while. I sent one last text to my mom, and then turned off my phone. I did not talk to them for almost 6 months until my living situation fell apart and I had to move back in with them. Good god it was awkward. However, I was secretly happy to see them all again. I really missed them. And I think they missed me too. They handwrote an apology, and said that they loved me just the way I was. And I slowly but surely forgave them. Now, we have the best relationship we have ever had. The rest of my family was fairly accepting too, especially after they saw how happy I had become.

That January, I had officially changed my name and gender marker, and received a new social security card, birth certificate, and passport. 

About a year later, I now had my own apartment and was working full time. I was also scheduled to have top surgery. I was a bit worried about the recovery. I knew I would have to wear a surgical binder, would be unable to lift my arms, have drains in for a few days, and would be in a moderate amount of pain. But it was so worth it. And honestly, the pain wasn’t really that bad. The self-confidence boost of that surgery was absolutely astounding. 

Another year passed, and I had now had a full hysterectomy. That was easy. I think I stated in a past post that I had periods that were worse than that surgery. And it’s true. That surgery was one of the best decisions I have ever made for my physical and mental health, especially now that our absolute joke of a president is attacking reproductive and trans healthcare. 

Nowadays, about 4 years after my hysterectomy, I consider my transition to be “finished,” as now I’m pretty much just maintaining the progress I had worked so hard to achieve. Bottom surgery, specifically a simple metoidioplasty, has been on my mind lately, but I’m in no hurry to do anything about it right now. Of course, there is never an “end” to a physical transition, but more like ebbs, flows, and maintenance. It has taken almost seven years, but I am now finally happy and comfortable in my own body. Many friends and family say that I am visibly happier, calmer, and more comfortable with myself. Of course, I don’t need them to tell me that- I already know. But I am happy that the changes in my outward vibes and disposition are visible. I think about how I was before my transition, and honestly, I don’t know how people could stand to be around me! I was such a miserable, angry, and difficult person. I am living proof of how a physical and social transition can truly change someone’s outlook and way of life. 

If you are on the fence about transitioning, I can honestly say that it is so very worth it. You are worth it. People don’t transition out of hatred for themselves. They transition because they love themselves enough to value their personal happiness. If I hadn’t transitioned, or lived in a place where it was illegal, I would have killed myself years ago. I am so thankful for all of my friends and family who encouraged me to go through with it. Thank you for reading! 

I am trying to monetize this website, but I don’t really know how to, being famously bad with computers. So I’m going to plug my venmo and paypal. Any gifts I get from you all will be met with the utmost gratitude. I’ve got bills to pay, and pets to feed!

Paypal: @RyanYounker

Venmo: @Ryan-Younker-26