NO MORE PRETENDING

This is a short story compiled from years of chats, interviews, online posts, and sprinkled in with personal experiences. It’s one story, but it may as well represent hundreds of thousands of girls like me.

And so it begins…

I remember the day I decided to change everything like it was yesterday. My name was Alex back then, and I was just… existing. I’d wake up every morning in my cramped Seattle apartment, stare at the mirror, and feel this disconnect, like I was wearing someone else’s skin.

Work was a grind—coding away at that tech firm, surrounded by guys who talked sports and beer, while I hid behind my screen, scrolling forums on my phone about transitions.

One night, after a brutal deadline left me exhausted and empty, I found this clinic online. They promised a full male-to-female transformation with cutting-edge hormones and gene therapy. It sounded too good to be true, but I was desperate. I drained my savings and signed up. “This is it,” I whispered to myself as I hit submit. “No more pretending.”

The changes started slow, but they hit me hard. At first, it was little things: my skin softening, like velvet under my fingers, and my hips aching as fat shifted around. I’d stand in the shower, feeling the water trace new curves, and think, “Is this really happening?”

My voice cracked during calls—embarrassing at first, but then it settled into this softer tone that finally felt like mine. Six months in, I looked in the mirror and saw Alexa staring back. I cried—happy tears, mixed with fear. I changed my name legally, got new IDs, and thought, “Okay, world, here I come.” But god, was I naive.

Telling my family was the first gut punch. I video-called my parents one Sunday afternoon. Mom picked up, her face lighting up like always. “Alex! How’s the big city treating you?” I took a deep breath, my heart pounding. “Mom, Dad… it’s Alexa now. I’ve transitioned. I’m a woman.” There was this long silence. Mom’s smile faded, and she started tearing up. “What? Alex, honey, no. You’re our son. This is a phase—come home, we’ll get you help.” Dad just grunted, his face turning red. “This ain’t right. We raised you better.”

I tried to explain, my voice shaking: “It’s not a phase. I’ve felt this way forever. I need you to see me for who I am.” But they wouldn’t. My brother jumped in later on a group call: “You’re killing Mom, you know that? She’s been crying non-stop. How could you be so selfish, ditching the family like this?” We argued for hours—me pleading, them demanding I “fix it.” Eventually, they gave an ultimatum: detransition or don’t come home. I chose me, but it hurt like hell.

Holidays alone now, scrolling through old photos, feeling that ache in my chest like a missing limb. I miss them, but forcing myself back? That’d kill me inside.

Work was a whole other nightmare. I took a short medical leave to adjust, then came back as Alexa. My boss, Mark, called me into his office that first day. “Alex—er, Alexa. Welcome back. Just… keep things professional, okay?” I nodded, trying to ignore the knot in my stomach.

But the office vibe shifted. People I’d joked with before now avoided eye contact. In a meeting, my coworker Dave kept saying “he” and “him,” smirking like it was funny. “Oops, slip of the tongue, man—uh, whatever.” I corrected him quietly at first: “It’s she, Dave.” But it kept happening. Whispers in the break room: “Did you see Alex? Freaky, right?”

Projects I owned got reassigned. Mark pulled me aside again: “Clients might not get it. Some are old-school. We’re just being cautious.” I fought back tears in the bathroom stall, staring at my reflection, thinking, “I worked so hard for this job. Why does being me make me a liability?”

I pushed through with killer code and reports, but the exclusion stung—skipped for team lunches, stared at in the elevator. It made me doubt everything: “Am I good enough, or is this all they’ll see?” I’m building a freelance gig now, but starting over feels terrifying, like jumping without a net.

And dating? That’s where the loneliness really bites. I crave real connection—someone to laugh with over coffee, share dreams, hold me when I’m down. But it’s so hard.

On apps, I was upfront: “Trans woman seeking genuine vibes.” Matches came quick, but dates? Disaster. Take Jake, this artist guy. We hit a bar; he was all charm. “You’re stunning, Alexa. Tell me about your journey.” I opened up, feeling hopeful. Later, in bed, he whispered, “I’ve always fantasized about being with someone like you—it’s so exotic.” My stomach dropped. “Is that all I am? A fantasy?” He mumbled something about not meaning it that way, but ghosted after.

Then Chris, the lawyer. We dated a few weeks; he was sweet in private. But when I suggested meeting his friends: “Babe, you’re amazing, but my family… they wouldn’t get it. Let’s keep this between us.” It felt like being a dirty secret. “Why hide me?” I asked, voice cracking. “I want more than stolen moments.” He bailed too.

Even with women, it’s tricky—some are kind, but hesitation creeps in. “I’ve never dated someone trans before,” one said over dinner. “It’s new.” We clicked at first, but talks always circled back to my past, not our future. I’d lie awake after, feeling exposed, thinking, “Will anyone see beyond the novelty? The body I’ve fought for?”

It’s exhausting, this cycle of hope and heartbreak. I just want someone who gets the real me—the coder who loves sci-fi, the girl who dances in the rain—not the “experience.”

Looking back, transitioning saved me, but it’s been a rollercoaster of raw emotions: the joy of finally feeling right in my skin, the pain of lost family, the frustration at work, the ache of unfulfilled love. I’ve found a few trans friends who get it—we vent over drinks, share wins. And that cousin who reached out? “I’m proud of you, Alexa. Screw the rest.” Small things like that keep me going. I’m stronger now, writing my own story, one step at a time.

If you’re out there feeling trapped, know this: it’s worth it, even when it hurts.

Dr. Gwen Patrone