From Woman to Man: It Took Me 29 Years to Realize I’m Transgender
Transgender—also called transidentity—means not identifying with the gender assigned at birth. As a trans man, I am a man who was born in a biologically female body. It took me 29 years to understand that there was never anything “wrong” with me as a person, only a painful disconnect between my identity and my body.
Some transgender people feel this conflict very early in life. For me, childhood felt simple and free. As a kid, gender didn’t seem to matter yet. I ran around carefree, loved Playmobil and dinosaurs, climbed trees, played in the mud, and caught animals. Dolls existed, but they were never my favorite. In kindergarten, I was outspoken and dominant during play—I liked setting the rules rather than waiting for others. At six, I discovered computer games, starting with racing and jump ’n’ run games and later diving into role-playing, strategy, and simulation games—almost always choosing male characters. Writing stories became another escape, a place where I could shape my own worlds.
Everything changed when I was ten. In the middle of my Harry Potter phase—glasses, scar, cape and all—I got my first period. Even now, words fail to capture how devastating that moment felt. I tried to ignore it, pretended nothing was happening, until panic set in. My body began to change in ways that felt violently wrong. My breasts grew, and in desperation I beat on them until they bruised, hoping they would disappear. I never told my parents. The shame was overwhelming, and I thought I had to handle it alone. Looking back, I wish my younger self had asked for help. I was still a child, trapped in a body that suddenly felt like a stranger.
As my female friends experimented with makeup and clothes, I withdrew further from my appearance. I hid in loose clothing as my body changed rapidly. While they giggled around boys, I wanted nothing to do with it. I didn’t want to be seen as attractive—because I found myself unbearable to look at. The thought of someone touching my body terrified me.
By the time I became interested in boys at almost fourteen, puberty hit me with full force. My first sexual experiences were deeply traumatizing. Once again, I tried to handle everything on my own, which led me straight into severe eating disorders. At fifteen, I was hospitalized with a BMI of 10, close to death from starvation. My body was skeletal, but I had managed to erase the curves that caused me so much pain. Losing my period was the only relief I felt—until it returned five years later, another shock to endure. What remained was a broken soul that could barely go on. But I didn’t give up. Fifteen is no age to die. The moment I realized how close I was to the end, I chose to fight. I didn’t know how to be happy—I only knew I wanted to survive. And somehow, I did. Despite repeated hospital stays, repeating a school year, and living under the grip of anorexia and bulimia, I graduated high school at nineteen.
When I moved out to study biology, my eating disorders slowly faded. Having my own apartment gave me a sense of control I had never felt before. I graduated in 2014 in the top 5% of my class. Was I happy? No. The body dysphoria remained, unresolved and relentless. I watched other women my age navigate fashion, makeup, and confidence with ease, while I felt utterly lost. At twenty-two, I barely understood makeup beyond mascara and eyeliner. Dresses were torture. Hoodies and leggings were my armor—comfortable, shapeless, and mercifully not feminine.
After graduation, I took various jobs, mostly in sales, hoping to reorganize my life. But I struggled to fit in, to communicate naturally, to meet expectations that felt foreign to me. I constantly felt misunderstood, as if others saw someone I couldn’t recognize. Trying so hard to please everyone nearly burned me out. In 2016, I shifted paths and began freelancing as a writer and editor, eventually full-time in 2018. I also started a distance-learning degree in computer science—something I had always dreamed of. For the first time, I was building a life aligned with my interests. Looking back, it makes sense why I never thrived in traditional companies. Self-doubt is often met with less respect, when in truth it needs the most compassion.
My realization that I am transgender began in early 2018 during a loving, three-year relationship with my then-boyfriend. He was the only man I ever envisioned a future with, and I owe him immense gratitude. Through him, I finally understood what had always felt wrong: I didn’t want to be loved as a woman, but as a man. The idea of marriage in a wedding dress felt impossible. That realization shook me to my core.
I began exploring myself honestly. At first, I thought I might just be a “gay woman,” but that label never fit. Slowly, I cut my hair shorter and shorter. With every inch gone, I felt lighter, happier—closer to myself. The first time I ran my hands through my short hair and thought, This is me, I cried tears of joy.
From there, everything flowed naturally. Boxer shorts. Men’s clothes. Binders to hide my chest—absolute lifesavers. I stopped shaving my legs, though the first times wearing shorts in public were terrifying. I was convinced everyone was staring. Even then, I didn’t yet realize I was a man—but I knew I was finally moving toward myself.
In January 2021, during another episode of unbearable period cramps, I collapsed crying on the floor. A thought crossed my mind that never had before: I searched for the conditions under which breasts and a uterus could be removed. That moment forced me to face the truth—my body dysphoria wasn’t just limiting my life, it was destroying it. There is nothing more crushing than hating your own reflection. You can smile, dress up, fool the world—but alone in front of the mirror, you break. It affects everything: work, relationships, friendships, even swimming with friends. Pretending to be okay is exhausting when you’re falling apart inside.
Then I found the word transgender. Suddenly, my entire life made sense. Within three months, I came out to family and friends—twice, actually: once as transgender, and once as gay. I chose the name Florian, from the Latin florere, meaning “to flourish.” Most people responded with openness and curiosity. My dad simply said, “I’m not surprised.” My mom needed more time. And that’s okay. Gender identity isn’t about rejecting womanhood—it’s about being true to yourself.
Transition doesn’t magically fix everything. No rewards fall from the sky. But becoming yourself changes everything. The inner battle quiets. Your potential unfolds.
To anyone at the beginning of their transition: don’t rush yourself. You don’t need to fit stereotypes. Explore what feels right. Give your loved ones time, too. And if someone refuses to respect you, protect your energy. This journey is demanding, and you deserve support.
It took me 29 years to understand who I am—largely because being attracted to men made it harder to imagine being both trans and gay. But timing doesn’t matter. You are trans enough, no matter when you realize it.
If you want to follow my journey, I share my progress, surgeries, changes, struggles, and joys openly. You’re never alone.
Lots of love,
Florian
