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When people talk about “gender-affirming care,” I often think about how differently my life could have unfolded if someone had simply affirmed my childhood discomfort without ever asking why it was there.
Because when I look back, it’s pretty obvious my gender dysphoria didn’t come from some innate sense of being born in the wrong body — it came from a lifetime of experiences that taught my nervous system that being female was unsafe, unlovable, and dangerous.
My story started before I could walk.
My mother almost died giving birth to me, and I was told that story repeatedly growing up. I internalised a deep, wordless fear: being a woman is dangerous; pregnancy is terrifying; my existence almost killed someone.
Then came the family dynamics.
My father’s grandmother openly despised females — she doted on the boys and treated my mum and me like furniture. That taught me early: girls aren’t valued.
My mum became seriously ill when I was a baby — bedridden for a year. I spent days in a cot beside her bed. Untouched. She was not able to ‘mother’ me in my earliest years. Dad worked, cooked, bathed us, did everything. I bonded to him deeply, but as I grew up, the relationship shifted. He became critical, perfectionistic, and intensely focused on my appearance and “femininity.”
“Stand like this.”
“Stick your chest out.”
“Walk properly.”
He never said those things to my brothers. I felt inspected, never enough, never feminine the right way.
Meanwhile, I was a tomboy — happiest outside, climbing trees, playing sport with my brothers, avoiding dresses, and feeling like my body wasn’t built for children or the stereotypical idea of “womanhood.” That part of me was authentic — but it also made me an easy candidate for feeling like I didn’t fit the mould of “girl.”
In my teens, another layer dropped:
I realised my dad was voyeuristic. Not toward me physically, but sexually inappropriate in his commentary and behaviour. That kind of environment teaches a girl’s nervous system: your body isn’t safe; being female puts you at risk.
Then I realised I was attracted to women.
When my mum found out, she rejected me. We barely spoke for a decade. She grieved the imaginary life she’d wanted for her daughter — the wedding, the children — and I absorbed the message that my authentic self was a disappointment.
Put all of that together, and honestly?
If gender ideology had existed when I was young, if a clinician had asked me, “Do you feel like a boy?” without exploring the trauma underneath…
I probably would have said yes.
I didn’t hate being female.
I hated what being female had meant in my family: danger, scrutiny, rejection, ridicule, invisibility.
And I coveted what males had: respect, power, freedom, adoration.
Therapy helped me understand all of that.
Therapy helped me unpack the fear, the shame, the identity confusion, the attachment wounds, the sexuality struggles, the childhood illnesses, the disrupted bonding — all the layers sitting underneath my discomfort.
And thank God no one rushed in to “affirm” me without asking deeper questions.
Today, I love being a woman. I love being me.
I’m still a tomboy.
I’m still a lesbian.
And I’m finally at home in my own body.
My story isn’t an argument against anyone else's identity.
It’s simply a reminder that some of us didn’t need a new gender — we needed someone to actually understand our pain, our history, and our nervous system.
Affirmation has its place, absolutely.
But rushed affirmation? “You say it, so it must be true”?
That could have taken me down a path that wasn’t mine.
I’m grateful I got time, space, and real exploration instead.
It saved me.
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