Rever Reid - 29 December 2024
AsI approach 30, I see life through a different lens compared to the confused little boy who first stepped foot into the controversial Tavistock Clinic at the tender age of 8. Contrast to the early 2000’s when I first began my journey, gender identity issues are now central in public discourse, often leading to polarised views. I feel compelled to share my story, not to condemn or criticise, but to offer a perspective usually missing from the conversation. As someone who began medical transition from ‘male to female’ as a child, I think it’s crucial to discuss the long-term consequences of early intervention and the complexities that aren’t frequently addressed in mainstream discussions. My journey has shown me the profound impact of making life-altering decisions at an age when our understanding of ourselves is still forming.
My journey with transition began remarkably early under the care of Dr. Polly Carmichael and Dr. Sarah Davidson at the Tavistock Clinic. The appointments were deeply traumatic for me. I was asked highly personal questions about my body and private parts, questions no child should have to face. I often hid my face behind a pillow out of embarrassment or cried in silence. The shame and discomfort I felt during these sessions have left lasting emotional scars.
Looking back, I see how inappropriate it was to expose a child to such intimate questioning. While the medical professionals might have believed they were helping, they were pushing a vulnerable child into territory they weren’t equipped to handle emotionally. After years of travelling to London for these ‘talking’ appointments, I started hormone blockers at 16, the legal age at the time. I began taking female hormones shortly after. While the Tavistock team continued to move forward with my treatment, other healthcare professionals raised valid concerns that went unaddressed.
The effects of early medical intervention have been profound and permanent. The puberty blockers effectively halted my sexual development, leaving me with neither function nor form. To put it bluntly, I have no sexual function and minimal sexual feelings, it’s as if the blockers castrated me. The estrogen caused breast development, which will likely remain, even if I were to stop taking hormones. These changes weren’t just physical; they fundamentally altered my capacity for intimacy and normal sexual development.
My body now exists in an uncomfortable in-between state, making me anxious about future medical care. I dread the thought of being in a care home or hospital, knowing I’ll have to explain my situation over and over. Ageing in this altered body presents unique challenges I never considered when I was younger. These physical changes aren’t superficial; they will irreversibly alter the course of my life in ways I could never have fully comprehended as a child.
Multiple psychiatrists and medical professionals outside of the Tavistock raised concerns that I might be autistic, suggesting that my fixation on transition could be a “fix” for other underlying issues. These professionals took a more holistic approach, seeking to understand my mental health, history, and development. They explored potential connections between my struggles and gender dysphoria, rather than solely focusing on gender identity.
Unfortunately, these concerns were largely dismissed by the Tavistock team, who seemed uninterested in alternative explanations for my distress. Their single-minded focus on gender transition prevented them from exploring other possible contributing factors. A particularly revealing moment occurred when the Tavistock doctors visited my school. I was 15 at the time, my uniform revealing, a lime green bra visible under a white shirt and an extremely short skirt. This drew negative attention from classmates and teachers. Rather than seeing this as a potential issue, the doctors fully supported me. They were the ones who pushed the reluctant school to allow me to wear the girls’ uniform.
The culmination of my transition was supposed to be gender reassignment surgery at 21, but I ran away from the hospital in the middle of the night. The immediate trigger was the fear of the pre-surgical procedures and the daunting aftercare process. The thought of undergoing the required enema, combined with the brutal reality of post-operative care, overwhelmed me.
Looking back, I believe my hesitation was my subconscious trying to protect me from an irreversible decision. Like many other “cosmetic” surgeries, there’s a high chance that I would have still felt unhappy afterwards. I know I would have felt even more confused. This moment became a pivotal turning point in my journey, though not in the way anyone might have expected.
I haven’t de-transitioned, because this is the only adult life I’ve known. I haven’t used a men’s bathroom since I was 11 or 12, and I have no experience navigating the world as an adult male. Yet, I feel like a hypocrite when I express concerns about biological males in women’s spaces, knowing my situation. This internal conflict creates a constant cognitive dissonance that I struggle to come to terms with.
One of the cruellest aspects of my situation is the impact the testosterone blockers and estrogen have had on my fertility. I remember crying at videos of babies when I first started taking hormones. Now that I’m older, I find myself fantasising about having children of my own, knowing the possibility is doubtful even with further medical intervention. The reality that I voluntarily damaged my healthy reproductive system haunts me. It’s a particular kind of grief that grows heavier with age, mourning the loss of something I didn’t fully understand the value of when I made these decisions.
Every social interaction involves self-consciousness about how I look, sound, and behave. When someone perceives me as female, I feel like I’m living a lie, making it difficult to form genuine connections. The “transgender” label feels increasingly juvenile as I age, yet it has been my reality for most of my life. This constant self-consciousness is exhausting, affecting everything from casual conversations to deeper relationships.
The bullying I experienced at school became so severe that I left at 15, cutting short my education and limiting my future opportunities. After running away from surgery, I was hospitalised multiple times after taking overdoses. These experiences underscore the deep emotional trauma that can accompany early transition and the difficulty of finding one’s place in the world. The aftermath of these decisions has wreaked havoc on every aspect of my life, impacting my education, career, and personal relationships.
My wariness of men stems from witnessing violence and seeing women as the stronger sex. I’ve always wanted to be on the “girls’ team,” but I wish those feelings could have been addressed differently. Like many, I never had positive male role-models as permanent fixtures in my life.
The truth is, while I tried to escape being male, I’ve never fully felt female either. I exist in a space between genders, belonging to neither, and this liminal existence becomes more difficult as I age. As I’ve grown older and developed more conservative values, I’ve begun to see the world more clearly, beyond the ideal I was encouraged to believe in. I realise now that I was sold a fantasy — that surgery would be the finish line, and everything would feel right afterwards. My shift in thinking wasn’t triggered by any singular event, but by the gradual awakening that comes with maturity and life experience.
I disagree with gender recognition certificates and to this day choose not to obtain one. While I legally changed my name at 18, I think it’s unacceptable to be issued a new birth certificate with the gender of your choice. While these policies are well-intentioned, they may oversimplify the complexities of gender identity and create a false sense of resolution for deeply personal struggles.
To parents who are labelled “cruel” for questioning their children’s desire to transition: your caution is not cruelty. You’re right to be concerned about the social issues and irreversible medical decisions made before full brain development. I believe 18 is too young to make these decisions, 25 should be the minimum age, allowing for full brain development and more life experience. Your instinct to protect your child from permanent changes they may later regret is not transphobic — it’s responsible parenting.
To anyone struggling with gender dysphoria: please take time to consider the permanent consequences. Surgery and hormones can’t fix every aspect of dysphoria, and the physical and emotional costs are substantial. Gender dysphoria is real, I still experience it, but rushing into permanent solutions may not be the answer. Consider exploring all available options and take the time to understand yourself fully before making irreversible decisions.
These are difficult conversations, but they are necessary. We need to find better ways to support individuals with gender dysphoria while recognising the complexity of identity and the permanent nature of medical transition. I believe the regret rate is higher than reported, but many are scared to come forward, fearing backlash or dismissal of their experiences.
While I can’t change my past, I hope sharing my story will help others think carefully about their choices and encourage a more nuanced conversation about how we approach gender dysphoria in young people. The decisions made in youth can have lifelong consequences that no child can fully comprehend. We owe it to future generations to have honest, open discussions about the reality of transition, including the possibilities and the permanent consequences it entails.
The path forward isn’t about denying the existence of gender dysphoria or the potential benefits of transition for some individuals. It’s about creating space for careful consideration, thorough mental health evaluation, and acknowledging that sometimes the best treatment may not be the most obvious or immediate solution. My story is just one perspective, but it’s one I wish I’d heard when I was younger, sitting in those early appointments at the Tavistock, facing decisions no child should have to make.
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