My journey with transition started long before I ever took hormones. Since I was a kid, I never felt like I fit in with girls. My interests and the way I wanted to look were more aligned with guys. I felt a lot of shame for being "like a man" and thought it would just be easier to live as one. I started socially transitioning as an adult, changing my name and wearing men's clothes years before I even learned that female-to-male transition was possible.

When I discovered the trans community online, it felt like an answer. I dove in deep, especially during the pandemic when I was isolated and relying on online networks. I spent countless hours researching and became convinced that medical transition was the key to finally feeling right. I started testosterone in early 2020. I liked the changes at first. My voice dropped, I got more muscular, and I grew body hair. I felt a mood boost and had more energy. I also had top surgery, a double mastectomy, because I never liked having breasts and had been hiding them for years.

I passed as a man very quickly. People were noticeably nicer to me, and guys accepted me easily because we had common interests. I lived stealth, meaning I didn't tell anyone I was trans. It was easier than being openly trans, where people treat you differently and you become the center of attention. For a while, I was happy. I celebrated the changes and even became a sort of "goal" for others online.

But after about a year and a half, I started to feel disillusioned. I had achieved my goals—I looked like a guy, I was muscular, I had top surgery—but it wasn't enough. I realized I would always be different. I looked like a short, 18-year-old boy and knew I would never grow up to be an adult man. I couldn't father children, and using the men's bathroom was a daily reminder that my body wasn't male. I felt like a fraud for hiding my past from my friends. The trans community talks a lot about getting to the point of passing, but not about what happens after, when you have to live your life in this in-between state. It became stressful and isolating.

At the same time, I started having serious health problems from the testosterone. I developed high blood pressure and high cholesterol, even though I was fit and ate healthily. I also experienced painful uterine atrophy, which I hadn't been properly warned about; it was downplayed as just "vaginal dryness." My anxiety was also through the roof. I realized my body, as a female, wasn't designed to handle synthetic testosterone long-term. The health risks were downplayed in the community, and any negative talk was dismissed as fearmongering.

I made the difficult decision to stop testosterone. It was one of the hardest things I've done. I was terrified of going back and losing all the social acceptance I had gained. Detransitioning was awkward. There's an uncomfortable stage where people aren't sure how to gender you. But over time, my body changed back. My body hair lightened, my body fat redistributed to a more feminine pattern, and my face softened. My voice lightened slightly, but it's still deep. I had to relearn how to use my voice without straining it.

I don't regret my transition in the sense that I learned a lot about myself, but I regret the permanent changes and the money spent. I miss the muscle and energy from testosterone, but I don't miss the health complications or the stress of living a double life. I had top surgery, and while I like how my flat chest looks and not having to wear a bra, there are parts of my chest that are still numb years later, and I'm a little sad I'll never be able to breastfeed.

My thoughts on gender have changed. I think a lot of my desire to transition came from internalized shame about being a masculine woman and pressure to fit in. There didn't seem to be a space for masculine women without being labeled butch or non-binary. Now, I see that it's better to accept being female. My life experiences have been shaped by it, and constantly comparing myself to men was making me unhappy. I'm learning to be comfortable with myself, focusing on my strengths and hobbies like weight training and singing. I'm much more content now, even if I'm not perfectly happy with every part of my body.

Looking back, I think transition is often a mental health issue treated with physical solutions. It can feel good initially, but it doesn't solve the underlying problems of self-acceptance. For me, the medical complications and the social limitations of being trans eventually made it not worth it.

Here is a timeline of my journey: