Tranniversary, Euphoria and when Ciswomen Shed Their Armour.

Like bathing in sunshine.

It’s been more than a thousand days since I first popped the pills from their packs, steeled myself and threw them into my mouth. More than a thousand doses later, a thousand deliberate acts of change, a thousand moments of perseverance, of hope, of joy… and a hell of a lot of gulps of water to get the awful taste of the testosterone blocker out of my mouth.

To celebrate my three-year-tranniversary of taking the titty-sprinkles I want to tell you about one such discovery, one such moment of joy. It was bitter-sweet, it was unexpected, and it reshaped my understanding of the world.

Okay!

Listen up cisgendered men: Story time.

Can I call you cisgendered? Quite a few out there on the electric internet have been lamenting that term, feeling confronted and dare I say, insulted by it? Okay, no problem. I’m asking the world to shift its language when it refers to me, so I shall offer that same compassion to y’all…

Okay! Listen up NON-trans men: Story time. 

I caught up for lunch with some of my boys last week. The three of us swaggered up Brunswick Street. To any onlooker this trio were clearly friends, clearly in good spirits. We stood at the lights waiting for the green man to open his legs (as my grandmother always used to refer to it as), where I took the opportunity to adjust the various items of clothing that I encase this body in. My boys, in their baggies and casuals, looked on as I pinched and pulled, shifted and arranged the vacuum-packed ensemble I wear to try and accentuate femininity in this frame. Loudly to the ether I proclaimed, “Christ! My tits are about to fly out of this top!” We all laugh. One of the boys shoots back, “Look, they’re nice, but they’re not exactly double-D’s!” We cackled. And then I noticed someone: A woman… A cisgendered woman standing behind my friend. And she was scowling at the back of his head.

She doesn’t know. 

Oh Christ! She doesn’t know!

She saw me, heard me talk about my body and then saw a man comment on it in a disparaging way. I could see the ticking windup of her thoughts. The internal math writ on her face, asking herself if she should intervene. Asking herself if she should give this man a public berating in my defence, and asking herself how dangerous it would be to do so. This example of sisterly solidarity played out in front of me, for me. In that moment I felt blessed, cherished, safe, but also horrified. What was it that this wonderful, kind, well-meaning woman didn’t know?

These were trans men. 

From the back (and from the front) these two absolutely look like conventional, stock, off-the-rack dudes, not the customized, modified, suped-up, got-rid-of-their-rack dudes that they actually are. She didn’t know! How could she know that both these men had previously been in the same situation as me? Both of them previously lived in bodies where they had to consider the likelihood of their tits flying out of their tops. If this trio of friends going for lunch had somehow managed to convey into the world all their collective lived experience “as women” then this wonderful, supportive sister would have likely laughed along with us about me inadvertently flashing my yams at traffic. But because of how we present into the world none of that is visible.

This is a thing I never expected to experience with transition. Because, my dear non-trans men, I don’t know if you realise, but the women who don’t know you act differently around you.

I’m talking about women’s armour. 

Yes, I’m the sort of girlie who would go to the renaissance fair in full plate to seduce maidens. But that isn’t the armour I’m talking about. I’m talking about the diverse ways in which women modify their behaviour to remain safe in the world. This takes many forms. Sometimes it can be the tactical use of “being a hassle”. Sometimes it’s the deliberate choice to say nothing at all and draw no attention. Which is not the same as the give-no-quarter-no-indication-of-interest maneuver. But they are all invisible shields. These Don’t Fuck With Me, Bro vibes are what women very quickly learn to exude to ensure their safety. There’s zero shame in it, and any non-trans man who resents it should instead take a swing at some self-assessment of their own subtle (and not so subtle) shifts in behaviour before commenting on women’s.

I wasn’t aware of the existence of women’s armour until I transitioned. I didn’t know that there was this unspoken culture of solidarity between women. It’s hidden in careful glances that ask “are you safe?” and convey whole conversations in response. It’s hidden in gestures and body language. It’s hidden behind bathroom doors (honestly, I think this is one of the reasons bathrooms feature so heavily in the trans discourse). It’s hidden in kind words of affirmation about how “your hair looks great, honey!” Guys, listen to me! There’s a secret fucking world and the reason you are not part of it is because so many predators and the enablers of predators hide in your ranks!

I should know, I pretended to be a man for four decades. 

But not anymore. 

One thousand and ninety-five days ago, when I took that first dose of HRT, I expected to be the first one to see the change in me. I imagined that I would wake up one morning and gaze into that hated bastard bathroom mirror and not feel the waves of dysphoria wash over me. That I would stand there and be struck by the thought, “Holy shit… That’s a woman!”. Wishing to fucking almighty that someone would please just turn off the wave machine so I could enjoy this body for one minute.

I wasn’t the first to notice. Now women talk to me in the street. Strangers compliment me, my hair, my clothes, my tattoos!? God, I can’t tell you how often young women gather and ask and praise this body, this ink, this look, this vibe. The shop-girls greet me with enthusiasm, women sit next to me on the bus without first triple-checking there is nowhere else to sit. I still don’t look in the mirror and see what I want to see, but I do see the tangible evidence of my transition. It started with catching only glimpses of the secret world, of having brief moments of solidarity of women. And it grew. I felt this comfort and care and compassion folding around me. The shining warmth of the enthusiasm of women brings me an immense joy.

It’s honestly like standing in sunshine, bathing in the glow of their validation.

Three years ago, I started taking the Femme-N-Ms so I could one day look into the mirror and see myself changed; see that I wasn’t the freak that all the movies and TV shows of my youth told me I was. But more than anything, feeling the world opening to me is one of my most cherished set of experiences as a trans woman. I feel blessed by it. But sadly, there’s a downside to it too. While I get to experience this secret world, I know that my boys, those spectacular, kind, compassionate trans men whom I love to surround myself with… That secret world is being shut off from them.

It’s a particularly shitty twist of fate.

The last three years have been full of discoveries. Some wonderful, some tragic. Some born out of my own experience, others born out of giving space to understand other trans folk, femme and masc alike. Every transition is different. I would never have survived this long if it wasn’t for both the trans and non-trans people in my life. 

As I learn more and more about “how to live as a woman”, taking guidance from other women and people who used to live “as women”, I’ve realised I now have a sacred responsibility. I have a duty to ensure that care and compassion is folded around others. It is my duty to ensure the shining warmth of the enthusiasm. It is my duty to ensure others feel like they are standing in sunshine, feeling the glow of validation.

– S