Here’s the thing you need to know about people who transitioned as adults: their transition is probably a truly epic saga. They might be the most basic person ever, and they might not tell you their story, but it’s there.
Maybe it’s about the extremes they reached running from their dysphoria. Maybe it’s an intricate web of relationships and pain and sorrow. Maybe it’s an internal tale of descending into themselves to battle daemons that society itself cursed them with.
Transition is wild, yo.
@Willow hmm...I was thinking about sharing the story of my name soon. Seems like a good reason to!
But yeah, it's a hell of a thing to get married to a trans woman who is a globally recognized trans activist with several trans friends and activists at your wedding...and still be convinced you are a cishet man unaware of the bomb waiting to go off six months later. Not to mention, I tried to escape dysphoria through 5 continents, 3 or 4 different careers, and some reckless behaviors that only happen when you do not feel any value to your own life.
...there's a reason I describe myself as having been a hard-boiled egg.
@Willow I wrote a whole ass post about my trans journey:
@Willow "there were no signs" has been a running joke for me and my wife for years. (We've swapped genders almost completely since lockdown.)
If you're looking for Dramatic Moments:
I got my passport corrected in November 2024, just before the US government stopped issuing X gender passports. I started T and got my name changed the same month.
My first successful date with a cis gay man was in early 2025 during a visit to the UK; in fact, a lot of that trip was about gender for me.
@Willow (more detailed thoughts here: https://wandering.shop/@WizardOfDocs/113903126434020959)
In summer 2025, I had a series of "is this who I'd have been as a boy in high school" moments (https://wandering.shop/@WizardOfDocs/114996941445566828).
In the fall, I married @storm , and I bought my first suit for the occasion. Both sets of parents were there; I'm still not entirely sure either of them fully understands what we're doing, but I'm glad they all wanted to be there.
@Willow @storm oh, and I came out to my conservative grandparents as part of the wedding planning
I'd spent years terrified of how they'd react---and then it wasn't so bad.
Possibly because we focused on the name change and minimized the pronoun change. Maybe they haven't quite put all the pieces together.
And I've mostly forgiven Mom for pushing me into it, entirely because it turned out okay.
@Undercat @Willow You too, huh? I suspect mine would be at least 30% flashbacks by volume.
I could write it as a linear timeline, but a dry retelling of the facts just wouldn't convey the impact of that realisation. The series of "wait, was that..?" and "now that makes sense" moments that just keep compounding, not to mention the growing collection of "did I even hear the words coming out of my own mouth?!"
@Willow Summer. 1993. I was 13.
Puberty hit me hard between grades 7 and 8. Fast. Ugly.
I was mistaken for my dad on the phone. Adam's apple to next week. Hair already giving away the fact I'll go bald. I hated every moment of it, way more than the other boys.
It hit so hard, in fact, that my pituitary gland had to balance my body out with estrogen, with an unexpected side effect: hard lumps under my nipples.
The doctor said it was temporary, puberty-induced gynecomastia, and that it would go away in about 6–12 months. Most boys would probably be elated and play video games. I walked out of his office numb. And that numbness bothered me. In fact, it bothered me the rest of the day.
You see, I was a kid who ideated suicide a lot, very quietly. My parents screamed and fought constantly. I was viciously abused at school for my high marks and my (unaware-to-me) queerness. I was used to the numbness of wanting to cease.
This wasn't that. This numbness pulled. At my mind. The rest of the day. And it wouldn't leave
I went to sleep bothered not to be able to figure it out, like a limb that fell asleep that won't wake up. I eventually decided to try to sleep and worry about it the next day. My brain went quiet. Until:
“Oh,” a little, calm, rational voice — my voice — said, “you have little breast buds and you don't want to lose them.
But. You're going to. And that hurts. That's the problem.”
That voice was tiny, but it split my brain like a thundercrack. I immediately knew.
I was a girl.
I cried silently in my bed for what seemed like hours. It wasn't a mistake, what this voice said. But God wouldn't fuck up this bad. Science wouldn't fuck up this bad. There has to be something.
What can I do?
What… could I do?
There's… nothing I could do.
I cried myself to sleep knowing who I was, but more trapped than I could imagine.
That's the story of discovery. I'll write more later.
@Willow Teen years: 1993–1997
My next two weeks were rough. I was trained at home by my mother to put on the act that I was always fine, but I couldn't care to. My mood even prompted my father, who was very stoic at the time, to ask if I was okay.
Eventually, I put the face back on. I was broken underneath it.
Over the next few years, I struggled to cope. I thought I was the only girl like me. Yes, I saw Ace Ventura. Yes, my mom liked to laugh at the trans women on Jerry Springer. Yes, I heard of people who had sex changes. But, the media depiction was so awful, so nefarious. I didn't make the link that those people were like me simply because these people were so caricaturized by media, intentionally demonized. I didn't feel like some evil, laughable character on TV. I just felt so alone.
But, I did manage to have moments that I'd steal for myself where I'd move through the world as a secret girl. In the hallways at school. On the bus. In my room. Walking home. No one had to know.
…until someone figured me out.
Grade 11 math class was awful, taught by a retired, Hall of Fame athlete who barely taught class and spent his time outside chainsmoking. He would answer questions with the phrase “Don't ask questions about things you don't understand.” Easily the worst teacher I ever had.
I made friends in the back of the classroom with some girls and we got along like a house on fire. Anytime the teacher left, we'd start joking and laughing. It was a lot of fun. I felt like me.
And the girls could tell.
At the end of semester, when the teacher left one class to smoke, the girls offered me a hangout. A shopping trip. For cosmetics. And clothes. And to show me how to use them. And going out for a movie. And it was all deeply sincere.
“You know… just a girl's night out. What do you think?”
I froze. I immediately replayed grade 11 in my head and realized that year, at school, that I somehow dropped my guard and stopped pretending I was a boy. And it showed. So much. The way I walked. Held my books. Talked. I was such a fool. Idiot. Stupid, stupid, stupid. I wasn't being so secret of a girl, anymore.
I refused her offer. Silently. We never talked about it, again.
The rest of the year, I changed the way I walked and wouldn't walk that way in a long, long time.
(Continued later)
@crowbriarhexe Our media absolutely told these stories not to just laugh at people like us, but to openly warn us what would happen to us if we dared try to be ourselves, to the point where we couldn't even resonate with our depictions.
“Barbaric” isn't even close to a correct term to try to describe it.
@Willow The end of high school and beginning of university, 1998–1999
The last year of high school seemed like a blur. It was also oddly the first year where bullying happened behind my back instead of to my face. And I was somewhat accepted.
Looking back, yeah: I finally learned how to assimilate.
I also started absorbing a lot of hot garbage my mom had been selling me for also a decade of throwing money at televangelists. Extremely regretful, with some of the usual stereotypes that come with it.
You wouldn't have wanted to know me. I didn't want to know me. I think that was probably the point.
But, for reasons I'll keep to myself, at the end of my first year of university, I had need to scroll through psychological and psychiatric resources on this thing called high-speed internet. I was looking up things to try to understand something someone I was close to was going through (unsuccessfully, sadly).
But, as I was going through a list of disorders, conditions, etc., I saw a link for something called “gender identity disorder”. This wasn't what I was looking for, but I was going through this website's disorders list alphabetically and thought “Eh, I've come this far. Why not?”
So I started reading.
Summary.
History.
…oh.
Diagnosis.
Symptoms.
Oh. Oh, no.
Treatment.
Prognosis.
…fuck.
Me. I'm reading about me. This whole page is me. I'm not even supposed to be here, but… this is me, dead to rights.
The prognosis section of the page outlined that studies show patients typically report their distress continues until relief was sought with treatment (gender transition).
“Not me. I'm going to be different.”
I closed the page and threw myself away completely for the next 22 years.
(Continued later)
@Willow I wrote a few posts on my journal about how I came to discover who I was and start on my path. The main summary is here, because it's FAR too long to post on mastodon, even as a thread.
(Admin note: I'm cross posting this here AND on my tumblr, because I do not trust PhotoMatt to not evaporate my account for no other reason than being transphobic, especially considering Cohost's eminent demise.)<br /><br />This long-ass post was inspired mainly by the <a href="https://rectanglefeet
Willow, Venus Pirate 🏳️⚧️
Mallie Sinn
Izzy Prime 
Bernie Luckily Does It
Aušrinė :neofox::floofytail: 
Alex, the Hearth Fire
Undercat
Kat S
Sosha Rahab
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Lou 🏳️⚧️
The Witch of Crow Briar
Ryan Elainska
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