I’m Visible Because Others Can’t Be : TDoV 2026

I spent most of my childhood at a local dance centre. I’d nagged my parents to join because I “idolised Michael Jackson” and, as I got older, I defended myself from gender-based teasing by pointing out the health and strength benefits. But privately, it was because I envied my little sister (and all the other girls there) and felt like, if I couldn’t actually be one of them, that proximity might make things hurt a little less.

And maybe it did, but I still spent my time there feeling like an outsider (and being neurodivergent didn’t make things any easier). Always hiding behind a mask and making excuses for wanting to join in. Desperately wanting to be one of the girls, but terrified of anyone even suspecting. So I played a role. Even when I was the only boy in the ballet lesson, I was still a boy. Laughing and joking with the other boys; playing up to gender roles and stereotypes, but always feeling fake.

Constantly paranoid that someone was going to see through the mask and realise “He wants to be a girl”.

There’s one incident that sticks in my mind; one I’ve never been able to let go of and which I regret not following through with over 30 years later.

As a bit of an exercise, the boys’ class were going to do a performance of “*My Name Is Tallulah”. Nothing public, just a little fun. I was “volunteered” to be Tallulah (I don’t know, maybe my mask wasn’t as good as I thought*) and, of course, I protested publicly and made all the right noises, all the while making sure they didn’t actually give the part to someone else.

Practice was difficult — a constant balancing act of trying not to be too girly, or show that I was enjoying it and excited by the chance. There was even a costume — something I’d dreamed of for so long.

But in the end I couldn’t go through with it, and pulled out just before we were due to perform because I was too scared. Not embarrassed about dressing up as a girl, or performing in front of people. Scared that they would work out that this wasn’t just an act.

And that was how my childhood (and most of my adult life, to be fair) went. Taking small opportunities to express myself while always making it a joke, or finding some excuse, or just going along with the crowd — always scared that someone would work out who I really was.

I grew up around boys and men comfortable in their sexuality and pushing gender norms — in both the performing arts world and as part of the turn-of-the-century emo scene. But this was always “I’m male and I’m secure enough to take part in these traditionally female-coded activities” — I had no actual trans role-models or contemporaries. Well, there was one trans woman in our town as I was growing up, but the way that others treated and spoke about her, and the struggles I knew she went through? As a child looking on, it just added to the fear.

It took me forty years to find the strength to break through those walls.

Last year for TDoV I spoke about how privileged I felt to be able to finally be open and visible. To have found enough support and acceptance to no longer need to hide.

This year, that privilege has become a responsibility. To others transitioning late in life. To the lonely trans children terrified of how the world would react to the real them. To all the past versions of me that just needed someone to say “There is another way”.

It feels like the world is becoming less tolerant day-by-day, but trans people aren’t going away. And if I help dispel some of that fear — even just a little bit — and show there is a path forward, then I have to do it. Being visible is the first step in that, because visibility stops trans people being some abstract “threat”.

It’s easy to use fear-mongering narratives to demonise a group of people when they (we) only exist as a concept; or a debate; or a sensationalised headline. It’s much harder to see someone as a threat when they’re a friend, coworker, or the person running late for the school run with you. When people see our day-to-day lives and personalities, and our genuine efforts to just exist peacefully, those caricatures start falling apart. Refusing to hide helps normalise our existence to those who might otherwise only see us through a lens of fear.

So this year, I’ve made a conscious effort to be visible — both in real life and online. I don’t (and likely never will) have the luxury of “passing” but, even if I did, I’m privileged enough (for now, at least) to be in a position where I don’t need to be stealth for safety.

And maybe I started going out publicly too soon? Looking back at pictures from then, I do feel kind of embarrassed and I’m sure I made others feel uncomfortable (and still do). But I spent too long as David and lost too much of my life playing that role to be able to keep doing it out of choice.

As awkward as it was at times, there were some wonderful moments. Like the first time I went out in public as Abi — with my dad to see a band that means a lot to both of us. Despite being paralysed by fear, he literally held my hand through the night — when I was too nervous to even leave the house, or was struggling to enter the venue. And, as weird as it was, being referred to by the singer as his “wife or girlfriend” to a room full of strangers was an amazing moment of validation.

But transition isn’t a magical switch. It’s a slow and messy process, physically; emotionally; and socially. There are going to be those uncomfortable moments and difficult periods. There are times where, despite your best efforts, all you see in the mirror is “him” but you still need to go out in public. When you have to make a choice between putting that mask back on, or accepting that it’s all part of the journey.

And through those moments, I realised:

• I don’t need to be proud of being trans to be proud of taking action and living authentically.
• I don’t need to celebrate a body that doesn’t represent who I am but, equally, I don’t need to accept that it defines who I am.
• I don’t need to revel in my gender identity, but I can find moments of joy in leaving “him” in the past.

That’s not to say it’s been easy. In fact, this last year has probably been the toughest of my entire life.

I’ve struggled with my mental health, questioning whether it’s worth carrying on (not just transitioning); and isolated myself from friends, family, and my support network. Ironically, my dysphoria has hit more intensely and in more areas than ever before because it’s not just background noise any more — it’s an intrinsic part of my day-to-day life.

My social anxiety has been amplified as I occupy space both as a woman and as a trans person.

My relationship with food has deteriorated more and more, exacerbated by a social media obsession trying to capture missed opportunities from the MySpace era.

I even fell into the trap of trying to play the “perfectly happy trans woman” on socials. I leaned in hard, posted selfies, chased validation, and tried to act like transition had fixed every dark corner of my brain. But performing that role felt just as fake as wearing the masc-mask did.

Real visibility isn’t just curated moments, and I’ve spent a lifetime putting on an act to survive — whether that’s trans-related or AuDHD.

Real visibility is showing the tough days as well as the joy

I’ve experienced the loss of male privilege in professional and personal capacities. I’ve experienced harassment and abuse in person and online. I’ve lost contact with close members of my family. I’ve even moved out of the family home, living alone for the first time in my life.

And the hostility I’ve experienced isn’t just an internet phenomenon or a series of isolated incidents; there’s a concerted effort to legislate us out of public life — and existence entirely. It’s terrifying to see how the landscape has shifted over the last decade. For example, in 2016 when North Carolina tried to introduce a bathroom ban, there was national outcry and the bill failed. Fast forward to 2026, and Kansas is nullifying trans people’s driving licences while Idaho threatens 5 years in jail for using the “wrong” bathroom and we get near silence from the public.

In the US, hundreds of bills have been introduced or passed aiming to restrict gender-affirming care, access to public facilities, and participation in sports. Here in the UK — and internationally — ongoing debates around healthcare, legal recognition, and the rollbacks of established rights have left many of us terrified about the future. And all this has devastating real-world consequences, with violence and harassment on the rise.

But this is why visibility matters. We can’t just shrink and hide to appease those who wish we didn’t exist — not just for us, but for the next target group. And the next one.

Existence is resistance.

Despite all that, there has been joy. Real, authentic joy that only comes from embracing your true self. I mean, sure, I’ve been “happy” at times in my life; I’ve been proud of my accomplishments, or had fun socialising, but actual joy? That comes from being completely un-made up, slouching around, and still catching Abi looking back from the mirror. Or being invited to a women-only event and being completely and unquestioningly accepted by everyone there. Or having strangers strike up conversations in the bus queue because you’re seen as someone safe to talk to.

Joy comes from accepting yourself and being accepted by others. And that doesn’t happen while you’re still hiding behind your old persona.

So if this last year has been about learning who I am, this year will be about using that to be a positive role model for my brothers and sisters who aren’t there yet.

And yes, I still live in a kind of “in between” state. I have a place of my own and a new job where I can be completely and unapologetically myself, but there are still people and places where I need to “tone it down”; where I’m still referred to by my old name and male pronouns.

But I’m done hiding or shrinking for the sake of the bigots in this world.

To the trans kids worried about their parents and friends’ reactions, and the late transitioners terrified of blowing up their lives, and any of you still playing the role: I see you. You are valid. You are loved. You don’t need to fit with anyone else’s idea of who you should be — and that includes anyone who tries to tell you you’re not trans enough. And when it’s safe and the time is right, we’re all here waiting to support you — the real you.

The world’s the world, and I’m a person in a tiny body. I vow to live, I won’t let fear be anything that stops me.