Transition made no sense, but I was going to do it anyway because it was what I wanted to do.

Despite how it may seem from an outside perspective, transition doesn’t drastically change people. Generally we become more of ourselves, more open, more honest, happier and calmer. The idea of a radical personality change, one that turns a partner into a complete stranger, is essentially hyperbole. When we transition, we’re still the same person underneath; we just might shed or pick up some quirks on the way. Therefore, if you love your partner for who they are, chances are you’ll still love them when they transition.

Not only will HRT work at any age, but looking like you’re cis is certainly not the root of happiness and not the reason to transition. The reason to transition is to be yourself, to find happiness in the freedom to be open and honest. That can happen at any age, and it’s never too late.

But the knowledge that we were robbed of childhood never goes away.

It was hard to believe that a sense of secret shame and numb apathy had once been my everything. I now felt like I was turning into the person I’d always wanted to be, shedding the remains of the gloomy, pessimistic armour I had worn to protect myself. I didn’t need to carry that negativity anymore as I finally liked myself.

I have a deeper and more masculine-sounding voice than is traditional for a woman. I know of exercises to move my resting pitch and train myself to talk in a more traditionally feminine manner, but I decided early on that I didn’t have enough energy or inclination for such a routine.

Even if you see every second of your time as painfully precious, relaxing and letting yourself feel happily distracted is never a wasted investment, because your body and mind require that rest and recharging in order to get back to work later.

By staying silent I believed I was protecting myself from them, and them from me. I was preserving the status quo as best I could so that nobody had to be disappointed by the truth.

I had tentatively browsed self-described crossdressing websites but found them distastefully unappealing. Most had a sexual element to them and were populated by self-identified men in outlandishly absurd outfits. There was a spectacle and performance aspect to the examples I came across that I couldn’t remotely relate to.

I was notably emotional and sensitive but never enough for anyone to realise the truth. Instead, I internalised a lot of those failures and assumed that the problem had to be with me. Throughout my entire primary school life I longed to shake off that label of ‘too quiet’ so I could be seen as the person other people expected me to be.

When I underlined the fact that I had worn no dresses, skirts, or makeup when returning to visit them, and that wearing my old drab masculine clothing was enormously uncomfortable for me, I had expected my parents to say that they were sorry I had felt pressured to dress like this. Instead, my dad nodded and thanked me for protecting them both from seeing me with an overtly feminine presentation. I almost asked him to repeat himself because I was so flabbergasted by that response. More than anything else, that one gesture drove home the reality of the situation: my parents saw my transition as an ugly imposition; the fact that it was the path to my happiness was entirely irrelevant.

I felt great. Like the skirt earlier in the week, wearing these clothes made me feel calm and comfortable. Looking at my reflection especially gave me a sense of profound joy. The clothes changed my silhouette to something not quite as boxy. I couldn’t put my finger on why that felt so nice; it simply did. Unfortunately, I didn’t look like a girl but I did look different. Better. My gender dysphoria had just been thrown something substantial, enough to temporarily stop its relentless draining assault on my mental health.

I don’t think I have to point it out, but it’s a fairly horrible thing to do to tell any person that they have to hide themselves to preserve the ignorant bliss of their family. Even if we trans people were mind-shatteringly scandalous, it would hardly be fair to tell us to maintain a forced facade just in case we accidentally hurt someone by existing.

According to my mother, I wouldn’t have to wait for that eventuality very long, as she believed the news would be so shocking that my remaining living grandparents could drop dead with disbelief. I can fairly confidently say that this was ignorant melodrama – no trans person has ever murdered someone by simply being too outrageous for the human mind to comprehend.

I started to treat my desire to express myself as a dangerous addiction, a habit to be kicked.

Did I want to transition? No. That would be going too far, but I did want to look like a girl. I lived in baggy jeans and dark t-shirts, the boring uninspired wardrobe of someone who’s given up.

If you’re not openly queer yourself but you’re unknowingly talking to someone who’s wondering about their sexuality or gender identity, I can guarantee that every fast and flippant comment you make about queer people will be carefully catalogued and remembered. What can be meant as an innocent joke also acts as an important clue.

I was able to talk to them with honesty and without restraint for the first time in my life, forming a real connection with them. Afterwards, my dad took me aside and admitted that he was delighted by how upbeat I’d become. He explained that in previous years he’d been stressed and worried about why I was so frustrated and disinterested in everything, but now it was clear what I’d always needed to do.

The profound nature of how little I saw these attacks impact all the people in my day-to-day life at work, or in the street, struck me as bizarre and increasingly irritating. I saw the blissful happiness of my colleagues and cisgender friends as a luxury and privilege. I believed that they were only carefree through a deliberate blackout of the issues that didn’t affect them. I wasn’t cynical enough to think that they didn’t care at all about trans issues, but their detachment granted them the freedom to ignore anything that didn’t openly challenge them.

I would wait until the house emptied, get changed, then generally sit around watching TV, chomping on snacks or playing video games, enjoying how comfortable I felt with my gender dysphoria appeased. If I heard someone return, I would change clothes faster than Clark Kent in a telephone box.

Often the reactions of those around us carry immense importance, especially if we’re already riddled with guilt for shaking up our presentation or pronouns. It’s very easy to think that we don’t deserve this happiness, that maintaining current relationships is more important. As trans people it’s common to feel like a burden on those around us early on. We shouldn’t. I maintain that transition is not selfish but is in fact a beautiful process of self-love and exploration.