I knew the answer before I typed the words into the search bar. “How to know if you’re trans.” It was the kind of question you only ask yourself when you’re looking for confirmation—or opposition. When you can feel yourself emerging from the depths of denial.

I’d been using the term ‘nonbinary’ for a long time. I don’t know when it started exactly, but it felt right the first time I heard it, just like the word ‘pansexual’. I wasn’t quite a man or a woman, and I didn’t care if my romantic partner was either. Both gender and sexuality are fluid spectrums, and my place on both spectrums is broad.

Even using these terms, I still didn’t feel quite right. At 25 I was treated like a “grown woman,” despite wearing predominantly men’s clothes, having male haircuts, etc. I was asked if I had a husband and if I had or wanted kids—questions men are not typically asked unless the subject is brought up. But I was also treated nicely and swooned over by guys who wanted to date me or sleep with me (I’m never sure which). I was given extra courtesy for being a ‘lady.’ As much as I enjoyed it at times, I hated being seen as a woman.

Still, I didn’t believe I was trans. It simply wasn’t possible. After all, I didn’t feel this way as a child. Did I? When I’d heard trans people talk about their experiences, it usually involved them knowing they didn’t fit their assigned gender from a young age. I didn’t have those feelings; at least, not so strongly. I just knew something was off.

I couldn’t be trans, I thought, because when I was a kid, I didn’t insist on wearing ‘boys’ clothes or playing with ‘boys’ toys. I actively enjoyed wearing dresses and skirts and doing my hair and playing with Barbies and makeup playsets and listening to ‘girly’ music and swooning over boy-bands. Nobody had ever told me I couldn’t play with certain toys or wear certain clothes because ‘that’s for boys.’ Femininity was never something that was forced upon me. I was occasionally called a “Tomboy,” for things like enjoying video games, exploring the woods, playing in mud, building Legos, driving RC cars… but the term never meant anything to me—it wasn’t abnormal for a girl to be a “Tomboy.”

By the time I was in high school, I’d found a small group of friends who happened to also be outliers in the LGBTQ+ community. Most of us weren’t rigidly L’s, G’s, or T’s. We fell more into the B’s and Q’s—the ones who tended to get looked over and feel out of place in our own communities. Among my friends, I felt somewhat comfortable with my gender and sexuality, although in general, I didn’t feel comfortable in my own body. In  my early teens, I’d wear push-up bras stuffed with socks; the tightest jeans you can imagine; cute, flowing, short skirts with boat-neck tops; knee-high platform boots; lots, and lots, and lots of eyeliner; pantyhose, tights, fishnets, knee-socks—and while I enjoyed dressing this way and looking cute, a part of me felt as though I was cross-dressing when I wore feminine clothes; and another part of me hoped that the girlier I was, the more I’d come to accept my femininity.

As I got older, I started realizing I didn’t fit in with other young women. I couldn’t quite place what it was, but there was something about me that was off. For a long time I thought, Maybe I’m just not a girly-girl. But deep down, it felt like more than that. Something was fundamentally different about me.

I tapped the magnifying glass on the YouTube search bar and my phone presented hundreds of results. One video posed the “Button Question:” If you could press a button and instantly turn into the opposite sex, but you could never turn back, would you press it? I don’t know! Would I? I feared I would lose my “female privilege” as they say. Would I get weird looks in queer spaces? Would I scare dogs? What if I needed help; would strangers still offer sympathy?

Still, no matter what, I couldn’t shake the feeling. What would it feel like to be accepted as a man? I was envious of men with deep voices and facial hair. I stopped wearing cupped bras and switched to sports bras that turned my A’s into Nothing’s. I liked male haircuts and male formal wear. I felt offended when I wasn’t included in “just-the-guys” activities, and yet I felt strange when I was invited to “just-the-girls” activities. I hated circling the “F” on documents asking for my information.

I clicked on the next video. The speaker addressed some thoughts and feelings about being trans that one might ask themselves, and a knot formed in my stomach as I answered them in my head. Their next words hit me like a train I had seen coming for miles.

“Cis[gender] people don’t have these thoughts.”

Or, if they do, they don’t lose sleep over them.

Suddenly, everything stopped. My insides went cold. There was no more denying it. Deep in my soul, I was a man. I realized my true gender was ‘masc-presenting nonbinary,’ which finally felt truly right.

Yes, I am trans.

About a year later, I got my first testosterone injection.

No one close to me seemed surprised. Half of the people in my life responded with something to the effect of, “What else is new?” or “I was wondering when you’d figure that out.” The other half essentially said, “Oh, okay.”

It’s been five years since my first shot, and now, most people I meet assume I’m a cis man. My body has transformed into the boy I now realize I’ve always wished to be.

When you hear stories of my childhood, picture me as a little girl, not a boy; because that’s what I was. I don’t recall having strong feelings of wishing I could be a boy. However, I do remember wondering—what would it be like if I were a boy? I wondered what it would feel like to grow a mustache and speak with a lowered voice. I wanted to hang out with boys more so than girls. I would stare at my body in the mirror and wonder what I would look like as a boy. I wanted short hair. I remember wanting to play basketball, but wishing I’d be on the boys’ team. Most of all, I couldn’t understand why the girls my age seemed so much more comfortable in their bodies than I felt in mine.

When I was nine, I once daydreamed of being old and having grandchildren. In my daydream, I was an old man—not an old lady. At the time, this shocked me. Why did I imagine this? Now I know why, and I think that was the first time I “knew.” After that, I tried to suppress those feelings as deeply as I could bury them.

Now, although I “pass” as male, I still understand the world from a “female” perspective. I’ve experienced misogyny in all its forms—being harassed, followed, patronized, talked over… Presenting as male, I don’t encounter these much anymore. I’m typically welcomed into men’s spaces, and while I feel a sense of belonging, I also bear the knowledge of how toxic masculinity can be. As well, I see the complexities—good and bad—of femininity as well.

I have experienced first-hand how differently men and women are treated. I feel I am taken more seriously as male. Doctors tend to listen to my medical concerns more attentively, whereas before I felt I needed to exaggerate my symptoms in order to be believed. Mechanics don’t try to swindle me while assuming I have no knowledge of cars: an experience many of my female friends share. Nobody “tries to help” when I’m doing something I’m perfectly capable of doing; like the time a guy practically ripped a guitar amp I was carrying out of my arms after I told him I didn’t need help. I am still treated unfairly by people who “clock” me as trans, but that is something I simply have to live with.

The way I read the world, and the way the world reads me, have changed dramatically since I began my journey. Having lived on both sides of the fence, I view gender in a way cis people simply cannot. I see the injustices and prejudices more acutely than ever.

Regardless of how others see me, I’m content with who I see in the mirror. I’m not sure if I would say I wish I was born a boy, as other trans men might claim. I don’t know if I’d say I’m happy to be trans—sometimes I wish I wasn’t; sometimes I wish I could be comfortable in a female body. I can say, however, that I’m proud to be trans, and I can finally relax in my own skin. It’s not always easy, but I’m at peace with who I am.