Transitioning at a Mature Age — Musings On The Beginning Of My Story

I was born in the 69th year of my life and began puberty in my 70th. Transitioning is hard. Transitioning during a pandemic is harder. Transitioning at a mature age is harder still… But continuing to live as a fraud is the hardest of all. There is an old Chinese curse: “May you lead an interesting life.” Mine has been exceptionally interesting — full of heartache, dashed dreams and betrayals by those closest to me. But the silver lining is that interesting also means out of the ordinary — and mine has been anything but ordinary. Counterintuitively, it has on many levels been blessed.

At the moment I am an ugly duckling, no longer the man I once appeared to be, but hardly the girl I know I am — to outward appearances anyway. One of the fascinating things about my evolution is how new and raw my emotions have become. As Yogi Berra once said, it’s déjà vu all over again. It has been over 50 years since I went through puberty as a boy, and the memory of those times has faded for the most part; I don’t remember it as a dramatic transformation into adulthood. Rather it was more like one of the road signs on a long car trip, something to mark progress to the destination, but otherwise rather unremarkable. But of one thing I am certain, becoming a woman from the girl I currently am is far more rewarding and natural. I am truly at peace for the first time in a long time. I have found my way home. There is a connectedness with the universe and all the creatures in it that I have only glimpsed in the past. I am no longer the person who needs to dominate my world and beat it into submission, into my own image. I appreciate the richness of everything around me and just enjoy being. I can’t wait to see how this will all end, but paradoxically have gained the patience (for the most part anyway) to let everything unfold without any sense of urgency to discover what comes next. My world is complete amidst the changes. I am merely a part of it rather than its master, and it is enough; it’s a lot less work. It’s an old cliché that you can swim against a raging river or go with the flow. Either way you will inevitably find your way down stream, but working with the current will get you there a lot faster with a lot less effort. I know the ultimate result, the ultimate goal, will come in due time. It is enough to take joy in the journey.

I love movies with happy endings; they make me so sad I am happy, or perhaps to be more accurate, I cry buckets of tears of joy and I can’t get enough of them. For some reason movies about dogs and narrated by dogs have a particularly strong impact, perhaps because dogs are unconditionally loving with a higher sense of purpose, or maybe because they view the world from a totally different perspective than their human companions. Their simple authenticity makes them profoundly spiritual. My wife likes to say that God created animals before man to assure that something would be right with creation. I could not have made it through A Dog’s Purpose, A Dog’s Journey or The Art of Racing in the Rain without a box of Kleenex.

There is a scene about two-thirds of the way through the movie The Art of Racing in the Rain where Denny is seriously considering settling the custody dispute with his daughter’s grandparents by agreeing to let them have custody in return for generous visitation and their dropping a trumped-up criminal assault charge against him. In doing so, he would assure that he would not lose all contact with his daughter and not have a criminal record, but Zoe would no longer be his. During a conversation with a friend who is also the manager of the local track where he is a driving instructor, Denny worries that, if he continues to fight to clear his name and for total parental rights, he might lose everything. His friend observes that there is no shame in losing a race — only in failing to start and not even trying. For too much of my life, I have taken the safe way out. Too many times I have compromised, done what was expected. Too many times I have wondered what if?… as I passed up the opportunity to be who I could be, who I wanted to be. I have decided it is time to stop being a fraud. I have started the race.

When I was a freshman in College, I went through a period of writing poetry — not for publication or attention, but merely as a form of self-exploration and expression. I used blank, blue books, the kind handed out during exams. (The psychologists probably would have a field day with the unconscious ramifications of that habit and particular medium.) For the most part I treasured what I wrote and kept them for years. They continued to be special to me. Over the decades they have been misplaced or lost, and the memory of what inspired me has faded with time — all except one. An early poem was a musing on the relationship between happiness and truth. My conclusion was that I would rather know the truth than be happy because true happiness came from knowing the truth. To me ignorance was not bliss; knowledge was, and knowing the truth was essential for true happiness. Ironic that I spent over 60 years deceiving myself.

I look for commonality in the experiences of others on parallel journeys. It give me comfort that I do understand, that I can do this. I follow with interest the weekly videos posted on YouTube by my PhD gender therapist and often read a sampling of others’ comments before posting my own. What has struck me is not only how similar, but how different, our experiences have been. We all seem to get stuck at some point, feeling that nothing is happening even though in our hearts we knew that change continued to occur. Most have not shared it specifically, but I get the sense that we each long for the day when two things have happened: we look in the mirror and see ourselves as the women we know we are. There is no doubt. The journey is at an end. Our souls and bodies have been conformed. (I say women because I am MTF; the experience is equally valid for my trans brothers and NB’s as well; just change the pronouns.) And we have gained the confidence, perhaps certainty is a better word, that the world sees us as female as well. We no longer fear being clocked or read. We are in fact the women we always knew ourselves to be.

Reaching that point is different for each of us and may or may not be tied up in satisfaction with our appearance and voice (I have great admiration for the courage and visibility of Rachel Levine), but the important thing is that we each feel authentic. On the way to that day we reach and pass our respective tipping points where the work ahead seems easier though there are many challenges yet to be overcome. For me, I would describe that as regaining my confidence. Plateauing after months of effort created doubts — doubt that I could ever become, doubt that I would ever be accepted, doubt that I could even accept myself. And that was depressing; it sapped my energy. I began to wonder if I had completely lost my mind. I think I may be close to reaching my tipping point, but am unsure when it will actually occur, not because I am unable to identify it or cannot relate to the metaphor of going over the top of a mountain which the image evokes, but because, at least for me, my tipping point is more like a wall, a barrier I have encountered on my journey that I have to break through to continue on. How do I do it? One chipping blow at a time. As I work away at my wall, I begin to break through in spots. Light starts to pour in from the other side, and if I peer through the cracks I can clearly see my goal. The picture becomes more complete as I chip away. So my tipping point is more like a process. I know it has begun; I have not completely reached the top, have not completely broken through my wall — but I will know when I do. The holes in my wall are the restoration of my hope and a vision of a future which is already becoming a reality, no longer merely imagined in my mind’s eye.

The HRT is working. My skin and features have softened, my pores are less noticeable, my fat has begun to be redistributed to create a more pleasing curvy shape. My blepharoplasty (done for medical, not cosmetic reasons) has reshaped my eyes and brow. A woman’s eyes now stare back at me. If the eyes are the window to the soul, my inner woman fills that mirror in all her feminine glory. My hair is growing and thickening, becoming fuller through the magic of my hairdresser (think sprinkle on hair fibers), vitamins to nourish my follicles and Rogaine to stimulate regrowth. My nails are perfect. My breasts continue to develop and be a source of pride. Their persistent sensitivity is a constant reminder that I am going through puberty. I have found the balance in dress and make-up which makes me feel confidently feminine in an understated, but acceptable way. My friends and acquaintances no longer give me a second glance. I am far less self-conscious. (But to be honest, I still long for the day when I can wear my little black dress in public with pride). The pitch of my voice is higher — I have to work at going back to my natural level — and I am learning a new cadence, how to control my timbre. But in spite of all the changes, most would still read me as male. There is work to be done, but I take joy in the little things; I will get there.

Perhaps the most important thing through it all has been the constancy of my world paradigm. Almost immediately upon accepting my female identity, my world view flipped totally upside down. My perceptions were as a woman, my values were female, my concerns were driven by a feminine need for validation as such. Much of male behavior seemed abhorrent. I became Gloria Steinem. Through the ups and downs of my evolution, that is the one thing I keep coming back to. Every time I question my sanity, every time I worry about not physically becoming the woman I want to be, every time I think it is just too much — too expensive, too time consuming, too hard, too pointless, too destructive to my relationships — I ask myself one simple question. Can I go back to the way I was and just forget the whole thing? The answer is always a resounding NO! I can no longer envision life as a male, because I never was one — not really, not at my core. I can’t put the genie back into the bottle. I have never wavered in that conviction. That has been the reliable compass in my journey of becoming, the instrument that keeps me chipping away at my wall, helping to give that one final push to get past my tipping point and over the top of the mountain. The story has not ended; there is more to experience; my journey continues.