Thanks to my parent’s early interventions, I grew up socialized as a boy. And while things looked okay for a while, the marks left by their interventions became visible during puberty. Most of these signs could easily be explained away with the hormonal changes, but it wasn’t that; these issues stayed with me for decades to come.
I carried an anger with me against everything, everyone, and the world. And this anger dragged me into downward spirals, which I had a hard time escaping. Countless nights, I would lay awake, unable to break the cycle, and self-regulate.
I had a dislike for my body, leading to a deep aversion of gendered spaces, especially locker rooms, gyms and public pools. The best I could do, was to not feel ugly, when walking past a mirror. And I always felt my manly bits were out of place, leaving me with recurring phantasies of mutilating myself.
I knew I wasn’t like the other guys. But in the absence of language and knowledge, unable to distinguish gender from sex or attraction from gender envy, my whole world became overly sexualized. So, sensing that this was not socially accepted, I self-identified as a creep; afraid that one day this would take over and burst out of me.
You might wonder why I didn’t speak up. But my parents had already made it unmistakably clear that there was no alternative to being a boy, I didn’t have the words, and there weren’t any suitable role models. So, who would I have spoken to, and what would I have said? Consequently, I kept this all to myself, burying my struggles as deeply as I possibly could.
The Long Road to Finding Myself
Moving forward, I never really felt comfortable in social settings. Things felt off, and I didn’t know how to replicate what others seemed to do so easily: getting drunk and doing stupid stuff, objectifying women, making misogynistic jokes, parading my junk in the locker room, farting and burping.
There was always a distance between me and my friends, and I never got really close to any of them. But maybe I didn’t try hard enough, so I continued played my part, hoping one day it would come naturally. I kept at it for decades, without this ever improving. And I am sure this disconnect went both ways; people around me must have sensed that something about me was disingenuous.
The deeply hidden aspects of myself made it difficult to develop any healthy self-image. As a shallow substitute, I identified as an engineer, I put everything into it, and I was good at it. My employer quickly promoted me into management, and, of course, I wanted to do that job well, too. But the role required asserting myself, and the further I advanced, the more I was pushed into an alpha‑male persona. That was a steep price to pay, and I hated myself for who I had to be during the daytime.
When I met my wife, it was love at first sight. She understood me without words. We immediately had (and still have) an unwavering bond and trusted each other with our lives. We were good with each other and for each other. But even with her, I kept my secrets, afraid I would lose her if she knew.
The years went by. We built a house, we had a child, we moved across continents and stayed together through all of it. Not because we had to, but because we wanted to. Nonetheless, the secrets remained, even though she had proven time and again that she had my back. I was ashamed. And the more time went by, the more impossible it seemed to reverse course.
As part of my job, I was traveling a lot, and one day, around age 45, I found a few pieces of female clothing left behind in a hotel room an ocean away. I was alone and I had nothing else to do, so I took the opportunity and tried them on. I really don’t know what I was expecting, but I certainly did not expect what I felt in that moment: calm and peace.
I bought my first lingerie set just days after, starting to underdress regularly. Wearing lingerie made me feel invincible, it was like secret armor. When my boss dressed me down, I could smile to myself thinking if only you knew. But in my oversexualized mind, I failed to recognize how much this feeling of safety was connected to my identity.
The tension between the persona I played during the day, and my true self became harder and harder to conceal, making it increasingly difficult to function in the environment I had built for myself. Finally, at 47, I couldn’t take it any longer and quit a safe job in top management. I blamed it on the company, the people, the stress and the travel, but it wasn’t any of that.
Working from home as a freelancing contractor was the first step in removing those parts from my life that didn’t serve me. I no longer had to play someone I wasn’t, but it was only the beginning. The reduced outside stimulation gave me space to think and figure out what truly mattered to me.
I bought a motorcycle, nearly killed myself with it, and sold it. I started making music again, busking on the street and gigging. I spent more time outside and started bicycling. I lost a lot of weight and formed a new relationship with my body. I bought a 3D printer and built things, to rediscover my creativity. And… I tried on all of my wife’s dresses, adding yet another secret to the pile.
Cracking the Egg
Considering myself broken and keeping secrets became unbearable. The pain of not being able to be myself outgrew the fear of what would happen if I came out. I know I hurt the people around me during that time, projecting my own pain onto them. It became clear to me that inevitably something big was about to happen.
I felt the urgency for me to come out and end the pain increase rapidly. But before I could do that, I needed answers — clarity about what this meant for me, and answers to the questions I knew my wife would ask. So, I started educating myself about crossdressers, because that was the closest label I had for myself at the time.
While searching for answers, I realized that none of this was sexual. Dressing felt right, but it didn’t arouse me. That feeling of being invincible really meant feeling at peace with myself. This realization lifted a huge weight off my shoulders and was the missing puzzle piece. I was finally ready to take the risk. I knew I couldn’t control the outcome, and that it could potentially cost me everything — my family, my friends, and my career. And yet, I had to move forward.
Coming Out
At 56, I finally came out to my wife. It was the scariest moment of my life, but I was well prepared:
No, this is not a fetish.
No, I am not gay.
No, I don’t want to be with someone else.
Yes, I love you.
No, the 25 years we spent together were not just lies.
No, I don’t think I want to be full‑time.
No, I don’t think I want to make physical changes to my body.
She took it well. We hugged and cried together. She was amused that I had tried her dresses. And just a few hours later, she ordered me a beautiful pink dress with polka dots, which is still my absolute favorite. Actions speak more than words. Coming out to her changed everything for me. No more secrets in my own house. No more guilt or shame around her. Finally, I could tiptoe back into the light.
I started engaging with the local trans community. Going out with people just like me, hearing their stories, seeing the similarities and differences helped create a sense of belonging and normalcy. I was no longer a lone freak but connected to people who made me feel safe and at ease. People who weren’t judging, and who I didn’t need to explain myself to.
We kept things quiet among our friends until we could talk to our son, as we felt strongly that he should be the first to know. It took a few months before he came home from college. Another big moment for me — and a complete non‑issue for him. He had only two questions: “Since when is this going on?” and “since when does Mom know?” That was it. Full acceptance, no more words needed.
With that out of the way, I started therapy. I needed help to sort things out, stop the pathologizing, and remove the doubts. My therapist was wonderful; she helped me accept myself, plan for the journey ahead, and deal with the inevitable setbacks. In hindsight, I should have started decades earlier, instead of spending sleepless nights thinking.
The anger that had followed me since puberty became a regular topic of my therapy sessions. Over time, my therapist convinced me that the emotional effects of starting hormone replacement therapy (HRT) would set in long before any irreversible physical changes. It was a low-stakes experiment to see if it would help. So, at 57, about nine months after coming out to my wife, I started HRT.
I was completely unprepared for the speed and magnitude of the changes. Within just weeks, I had access to a whole range of nuanced emotions. Previously, most of my feelings were mapped to anger, answered with aggression, and kept me spinning. Now, I could break those cycles. I cried a lot, but often out of happiness or gratitude. For the first time since puberty, I felt emotionally balanced, and life wasn’t so overwhelming.
I learned to insert the truth to conquer moments of doubts. And me experiencing emotional balance on HRT is an undeniable truth to me, proving that I made the right choice for myself. Over the next year, the physical effects trickled in. My hair got better. My skin softened. Fat redistributed. I grew breasts. These changes were all welcome, but to me, the emotional transformation remains the most important aspect.
In parallel, I came out in other areas of my life. My wife and I slowly told our closest friends, then our extended family in Europe, and after that some carefully selected friends. Most reactions were supportive, even though many people really don’t know how to be allies.
Of course, this period also implied big changes for my wife. She had to adjust to being part of a queer couple. She had to accept that the man she once married no longer existed. She had to learn how differently the world sees us now. And while I had years to prepare, she had mere months to adjust. Nonetheless, she has been courageous, positive, supportive, and strong through all of this. Together, we were scared, we conquered challenges, and we laughed about the absurdities of daily life (and still do). I truly lucked out with her, and I know other stories didn’t end quite that happy.
Transitioning
But coming out to more people also made something else very clear: there was no way for me to compartmentalize my identity. I would never feel whole if I stayed part‑time. Staying semi-closeted implied that there was something so wrong with me that it needed hiding. And for my mental health, I had to shed that very feeling.
So, just a little over a year after coming out to my wife, at 57, I started my legal transition. I changed my name. I updated my ID, birth certificate, and passport. I got new credit cards. And while I didn’t obsess over every little detail, I eliminated my deadname from the relevant parts of my daily life over the next twelve months.
Parallel to that effort, I came out to the remainder of our friends, acquaintances and business partners. It felt good to finally be me, and to leave the past behind. Yes, we lost a few friends. And yes, we also lost some business. But at least those people went quietly, and without making much noise. More important were the people who stayed, and those, that we actually grew closer to. Indeed, people seek authenticity.
With all this behind me, I have a new lease on life. I’m ready to step back into the world, personally and professionally, to prove to myself and to the naysayers that it can be done. There are setbacks and dark days, but they no longer define me. I am proud of what I have achieved, and I am excited for what’s next.
Through all this, I learned that self-discovery is not following a straight path. Instead, it is a messy journey with an uncertain destination. Not everything I told my wife when I came out materialized the way I said it would. I had to go much, much further than I initially anticipated. But self-acceptance is not optional. Every step was necessary and has been worth it; I have no regrets.
For anyone reading this, and questioning, I want to leave you with this: it’s never too late, it’s absolutely worth it, and you can do this, too.
Good luck on your journey!
Heartfelt hugs, Liz