WHAT TRANSITIONING WAS LIKE FOR ME

Let me share this with you, from the depths of my own journey—because if you’re here, reading this, maybe you’re feeling that same quiet storm inside, or perhaps you’re just curious about what it’s really like. I’ll open up, raw and real, about how I transformed mentally from living as a man to embracing my true self as a woman.

It’s not some abstract story; it’s mine, and I’ll walk you through it step by step, like we’re sitting across from each other, hearts bared under a soft light. This wasn’t easy—God, it tore me apart at times—but it saved me, reshaped me into someone I finally recognize in the mirror. If it resonates, hold onto that; if not, that’s okay too.

Here we go.

It started with this nagging whisper in my mind, you know? Like a distant echo that wouldn’t fade. I’d look at myself—strong build, the face I’d always known—and feel this disconnect, as if I was wearing someone else’s skin.

Picture me, late at night, staring into the bathroom mirror after a long day of pretending to be the “guy” everyone expected: tough, unflinching, emotions locked away. But inside, there was this ache, a pull toward something softer, more fluid. I’d catch myself admiring women not just with attraction, but with envy—the way their hair caught the light, the effortless grace in their movements, the clothes that seemed to whisper freedom. “Why can’t that be me?” I’d think, brushing it off as nonsense at first.

Stress, right? Or maybe a weird phase. But no, it grew, like roots cracking through concrete. Dysphoria, they call it—that soul-deep mismatch. It hit me in waves: during a casual conversation where I’d force a deeper laugh, or scrolling through photos where I felt like an imposter in my own life. I fought it, oh how I fought it, clinging to the masculinity I’d been taught: be strong, don’t show weakness. But those whispers turned to shouts: “This isn’t you. Let go.”

Then came the exploration, the part where I tiptoed into the unknown, heart pounding like a drum in my chest. I’d lock the door, dim the lights, and try things in secret—slipping on a skirt I’d hidden away, feeling the fabric brush my skin like a lover’s touch, sending shivers of rightness through me.

Makeup was next: the first time I traced eyeliner, my hands shook, but when I saw the reflection—eyes that finally sparkled with life—I cried. Not from sadness, but from this flood of “yes, this.” Online, I’d devour stories from others like me, forums lit up with shared pain and triumphs, each one mirroring my hidden truths.

Mentally, it was like dismantling a fortress brick by brick. The traits I’d worn like armor—the competitiveness, the emotional walls—started to feel heavy, suffocating. Instead, I craved the feminine: the empathy that let me connect deeper, the intuition that guided my thoughts like a gentle current. But doubt? It was my constant shadow. “What if I’m deluding myself? What will they say—family, friends?” I’d lie awake, mind racing through worst-case scenarios. Yet, every small step forward—a dream where I walked as her, confident and free—built this tentative bridge. My thoughts shifted from wishing to knowing: “I am her. I’ve always been.”

Acceptance… that’s when the real shift happened, like jumping off a cliff into cool, welcoming waters. I grieved, you see—the loss of the man I’d pretended to be, the shield that protected me from the world even as it imprisoned me.

Memories replayed in my head: childhood games where I felt alien among the boys, teenage years where crushes blurred into jealousy. I let it all pour out in solitude and silence, layer by layer, tears streaming as I unpacked the lies I’d told myself: “Men don’t feel this way.” Bullshit. I replaced them with truths: vulnerability is strength, emotions are my power. I started visualizing her—me—with long hair swaying, a dress hugging curves I’d one day nurture, laughter bubbling up without restraint.

Affirmations became my lifeline: “I am valid. I am whole.” They rewired me, synapse by synapse, until “woman” wasn’t a dream—it was my reality waiting to unfold. It hurt, God it hurt, but in that pain was liberation, like shedding a cocoon that’s too tight.

But not yet. A flower blooms in its own time. Patience. Sigh. More patience. She needed to to continue germinating, evolving deep inside me, waiting until the right moment to bloom. That time, for me, was 45 years later. She bloomed and was patient long enough.

Integrating it all was where the magic solidified, turning chaos into harmony. I chose a name that felt like mine—Gwen, simple yet elegant, evoking the grace I’d always carried inside. Patrone, because although I’m not much of a drinker, the tequila bottle just sang to me. Patron. It needed something else. Hmmm, I addded an “E” because I’m spicy!

Pronouns shifted: she/her rolled off tongues like music, each correct one a spark of joy in my brain.

I surrounded myself with people who saw me, really saw me—support groups, femme dinners, outings and gatherings where stories wove together like threads in a tapestry. Wendy, a friend said it best last night, “As a guy, you seemed more reserved, but as Gwen, you bloom. It’s such an obvious difference. You seem free.”

Daily life transformed: I’d paint my nails in vibrant reds, feeling empowered; journal my feelings without that old shame; nurture friendships with a tenderness I’d once suppressed. I love posting here. Maybe I can touch someone with my words.

Euphoria hit in bursts—a stranger calling me “ma’am” and meaning it, my reflection aligning more each day. Of course, I’d get get the snicker, giggle or nasty comment. It didn’t phase me, it emboldened me.

But imposter syndrome lurked, whispering, “You’re not real.” I’d push back: “I am. Look how far I’ve come.” My mind expanded, weaving in the rest of me—my culture, my loves, my scars—into this new feminine self. It was exhausting, exhilarating, like rebuilding a home after a fire, stronger and more beautiful.

And now? Emergence. I’m here, fully her, yet still evolving, and it’s like waking from a lifelong fog—colors brighter, connections deeper, peace settling in my bones. Challenges still come; the world’s not always kind, and transphobia can cut like a knife. But inside, I’m congruent, whole. Tough as nails from my conditioning in the USMC many decades ago.

I’ve let go of who I was—not erased him, but evolved beyond, blending that old resilience, mental toughness, with this new fluidity. I’m a unique unicorn, as they say, a blend of past and present, fierce and soft.

If you’re on this path, know this: it’s worth every tear, every doubt. You’re not alone—reach out, hold on. You’ve got this, beautiful soul. And if you’re just listening, thank you for witnessing my truth. It means more than you know.

Dr. Gwen Patrone

If you’re ready to stop hiding and start living, you can learn more about the program here: dysphoriahacks.com.