Symptom #7 of Feminizing Hormones

For a t-girl, part of the process of transitioning to living openly as the girl that she is, as to her brain structure, is often that she brings her physique closer to the shape she’d have had, if she’d gone through puberty with hormones consistent with her brain-structure. That includes her boobs.

But, why stop with what might have happened? Maybe the girl might have grown to have a B-cup breast size and, t-girl or not, she wishes she had larger boobs.

Thanks to plastic surgery, no problem. Implants are medically viable.

As with most things in life, those who don’t choose carefully … end up rewarding the vendors and politicians who would not be nearly as popular had people done better homework. So it is with boob jobs. There are some truly horrible doctors out there, and no, I’m not saying the government should be preventing that. As a free-market girl, it’s occurred to me that many girls are lulled into a false sense of security because, hey, the doctor is government approved — when really some very critical due diligence would have been a much better approach.

To help potential plastic surgery patients learn from the bad experiences of others, some online communities have come into being, and in my experience, they work well. Not just do girls learn which doctors to avoid, but they also learn more so as to make better decisions.

One classic decision as to boob jobs is: what size to choose. Sometimes, oftentimes, the girl chooses too small or too large a size. How purely objective her self-criticism as such is, is a debatable point, since she might have a bad habit pattern of disliking her own look regardless, and the new boobs don’t change that but now get included in the package of what the girl doesn’t like when she looks in the mirror.

Even so, unhappy reasons aren’t the only reason for choosing too small or too large a size. It’s hard to optimize, up front. Discussions about bra cup size, implant volume and so on — these are helpful but only up to a point.  It’s not just about the final result, but also what the final result is like, to live with … in bed, in one’s favorite dress, when exercising, when working in confined spaces, in the social and sexual consequences.

For that reason, it’s a good idea to start with outplants (bra stuffers) instead of implants. That way, the girl can get to experience that particular size in everyday life, so as to make a more-informed decision.

For a t-girl, that might be a way to start looking more feminine, but I wouldn’t advise it. Looking, walking and moving like Rambo while having lovely boobs … is not likely to make for a happy transition journey.  To each her own, but I’d suggest the t-girl first attend to the non-physique aspects her transition.

I was living openly as a t-girl for more than two years before I decided to get a boob job. Not that I could afford one, but a good friend of mine sent me a $100 present with the explicit condition that the money had to go towards my boobs. So, I got a $100 boob job, from  I bought some fake silicon gel boobs that I stuff into my bra. I have worn them (or identical replacements) most days, ever since. Obviously, they’re no long-term substitute for implants. For example, I couldn’t wear revealing bikinis, and I had no cleavage, so … no plunging necklines, for me  (and, yes, my friend likes my creative interpretation of what his money funded.)

To see what extra large porn star boobs would look like on me, I later bought some way-larger fake boobs, wore them for a while in private and then, having experienced that and having decided it’s not for me, they are now back in the box and stored in my closet. Aside from that, almost every day for the past x years, I diligently wore the size that I figured was my optimal look, as shown below:

After getting my health in truly stellar condition, including exemplary blood cholesterol counts, I got the medical green light to start taking feminizing hormones, and … my own boobs started growing.

No, they’re not huge, but together with my outplants and a good sports bra, I now actually have cleavage …

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… but nowadays I think this is becoming too much of a good thing:

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Not just is the net effect ever-larger boobs, but my bra is more and more squishing my natural boobies flat:


That can’t be good for me, or for them. It’s starting to ache as such. And no, I don’t want a larger bra; I want smaller net-effect boobies.  So, it’s time to choose smaller outplants.

It’s a nice problem to have.

“The Danish Girl” Movie

Warning: this is my most emotionally intense article ever, in the multiple-year history of this blog.

I watched this movie last night. I have never felt so moved by any movie, ever — and I have seen a lot of movies.

The_Danish_Girl_(film)_posterThe Danish Girl” movie is mainly about two ladies, one of them a trans girl. I related to the trans girl so much that this factor alone made it a very hard movie for me to watch — hard but good.

Much of the anguish and difficulty that the trans girl experienced … those are well-known to me albeit to a far lesser degree and a less-difficult context. I’ve been there, done that, and I survived. Even so, the movie was a replay of the essence of the entire sequence of events, with its stratospheric highs and deep lows. My coming-out years were so intense that I could barely stand it at its normal pace and dosage. Plus, whatever I experienced was the mild version of what the trans girl in the movie experienced. Plus, her experiences were condensed into two hours … total emotional overload for me.

* * *

As to other main lady in the movie: bear with me, because I’ve been up all night trying to explain this in fewer words and I can’t. I wrote this article essentially nonstop over a period of approximately five or six hours – maybe longer since the sun is already up but I’m still not done writing yet. (And yes, I added this paragraph later, five or six hours into the project.)

Those who know me tend to consider me a strong girl whereas my romantic partners (all ladies, because that’s how my preference is hard-wired) saw the three-dimensional version of me, which has bad days, bad habits, bad weaknesses, bad traits, and bad judgment much more often than they or I would have preferred. I’m certainly a work in progress.

Nevertheless, I strive to be strong and principled, with good and consistent principles. If I can maintain my general trend for another few thousand years I might actually end up being a downright impressive human being. Even now I’m fairly hard-assed as a general level of functioning. I fall apart relatively rarely. My point is that if a movie makes me fall apart, it’s a rare event. In fact, as of last night, it’s a once-in-a-lifetime event.

I’ve seen movies that came close. “Saving Private Ryan” was one of them though in a different way. But this movie, “Danish The Girl,” is in a class of its own — for me.

I’m overly endowed with empathy and even when I hurt someone for whom I care to any extent, it’s rarely without (in anticipation, at the time or subsequently) feeling much empathy for their plight … while I might nevertheless still not have chosen a different path; I’d wish that my choices didn’t have as painful a consequence for those affected and whom I care about. Unless you’re my enemy or have thoroughly burned me out, the phrase “I don’t care” would rarely be heard from my lips when the context is such that the phrase implies a lack of empathy.

During the time that I transitioned from trying to live (miserably) in a male role culturally to where I’m now (cheerfully) living as a girl openly 24×7, there was a period of several years during which three strong and brilliant ladies were my mentors.

Even mentioning them in the same article, much less the same sentence or phrase, seems to do them an injustice — because in a great many ways, it’s hard to imagine three more diverse ladies. All that they have in common is being lovely, being brilliant, being wonderful, being strong and having chosen me as a romantic partner.

And yes, sometimes concurrently. I’m polyamorous. That means that my brain is like the Windows NT core operating system in that I can and do compartmentalize whatever’s going on. As far as I can tell, and feedback tells me, I can and do love multiple people as deeply or more as many people do in a monogamous relationship. And no, it doesn’t mean cheating. I’m open about it. And no, it also doesn’t mean wild orgies involving multiple participants. It means time-slicing, a laser beam pointing in a particular direction at a particular instant while simultaneously melting two or more thick different pieces of steel at opposite ends of the room. It’s not for everyone. And it’s certainly not consistent with conservative culture (but then again, by my choice, hardly any part of my life reconciles to conservative culture).

None of these ladies was Mother Teresa in the sense of having chosen me out of altruism. Each of them chose me for value, not lack of value. Each of them lives according to the principles of rational long-term self-interest. Each of them chose me so as to choose joy, not misery. Unfortunately, each of them got both – and not in equal portions.

Each of them chose me for whatever strengths and virtues I had at the time — and saw much of that wear thin or unravel, at close range.

Two have understandably checked out though they continue to have my deep benevolence. One remains involved in my life to fill my every day with delight.

From generally seeming to having good answers, I dissolved into someone who was seriously struggling to connect the dots … ANY dots. The hope, help, guidance, support and inspiration that each of these three ladies gave me could fill a book.

There’s a point to all this, I promise. Remember how I mentioned that the movie is about two ladies?

The other lady (not the trans girl) was so close a match to each of my three wonderful benefactors that this aspect all by itself also made it a very hard movie for me to watch.

The hardest for me to see was the anguish the other lady experienced even as she poured her benevolence and support into the life of the struggling trans girl whom she loved so much while seeing their lives and futures move in a bewilderingly strange — and sometimes utterly miserable — direction.

I watched the movie alone. I will probably always watch it alone. During the movie, I noticed my face was aching due to how distorted it was in sheer empathy with both of the main characters. It’s the first time a movie has ever had so intense an effect on me — and then it became more intense yet.

The story line is so fast paced that it doesn’t allow any space in which to fall apart. It’s far too suspenseful. But the very last few seconds of the movie might just as well have been subtitled “Okay, now here’s finally the opportunity to fall apart without missing anything.” I cried like I’d never cried in my entire life.

I barely managed to read the words that showed on the screen after the last scene had faded to black. Even before reading that, I was crying more than I’d ever had in my life. Then the words appeared – and they pretty much doubled the emotional clout of the entire movie, for me.

I cried and cried. I cried so much that I howled. The place where I live is such that I could loudly howl, for a long time, like a banshee at 3 a.m. and not have a neighbor  complain or the cops show up. How do I know? I proved it last night.

* * *

As to mental overload:

I have a weirdly analytical safeguard mental mode that’s almost always dormant or hidden. Before last night, it activated only during life-or-death situations.

Example 1 was when I seemed about to be in a serious automobile accident and this mode kicked in. My car was moving rapidly at the time, but I managed the events in ultra-slow motion, inch by inch: watching, controlling, correcting the path of my vehicle until the danger was past, the accident averted, and life became normal again. My passenger at the time said “wow” in an “I’m impressed” sort of way. I deserved it.

Example 2 is a much longer story. It happened while I was whitewater kayaking. I went in a group of friends that include a gentleman who was at the time a formally trained active fighter pilot in the physical prime of his life, as hard-core as they come and highly coordinated, calm and athletic.

We were about to run a river with class 3 rapids, which to experienced kayakers is a no-brainer. However, to him and me, both being relatively green, it was very difficult. And even a class 3 rapid can easily kill a kayaker.

Whitewater kayaking is a peculiar sport. Essentially, a kayak is stable in two positions: right side up, and right side down. The kayaker is held in place by a rubber skirt with strong elastic around it to keep water out.  Getting out is difficult.  Getting out the way that humans are accustomed to getting up and out is impossible. If you bend your knees, you wedge yourself in, and you simply won’t get out – ever – until and unless you remember to keep your legs straight, pop the rubber skirt and shuck yourself out. Even if your corpse is removed from the kayak, it had better have straight legs or they’ll have to saw the kayak open to get your corpse out. (It seems more appropriate to me to then bury or cremate you, kayak and all).

Remembering to get out the straight-leg way is difficult even if the kayak is balanced on dry land. In the water, it’s much more difficult. Upside down in ice cold water, more difficult yet. How cold? Well, the most intense form of whitewater kayaking is “river running” — typically done on snowmelt rivers, hence in water so cold that contact with it has a shocking effect.

When a kayak flips, the kayaker’s head and upper body are immersed in (typically) very cold water. Being upside down also means that the kayaker’s head is suddenly in the general area where the rocky riverbeds of snowmelt rivers have underwater dead trees, pebbles, gravel and (of course) big, hard, sharp-edged rocks. The worst part is that the kayak with kayaker would still be moving very rapidly downstream, hence hitting a sharp underwater tree or rock with one’s head is a matter of probability, and every half-second upside down increases that probability.

There’s a technique called an “Eskimo roll” for reasons I don’t have to explain. It’s a hip-snap and paddle sweep while upside down, and if done correctly it rights the kayak and all is well. If done incorrectly it wastes time and energy while you run out of breath even more rapidly due to having exerted yourself.

Once upside down in those circumstances, it’s hard to keep calm. After a failed Eskimo roll, it’s much harder. And I happen to know exactly how hard that is. Unless you can breathe underwater, the penalty for failure is, quite likely and simply, death. Death is not a certainty, because maybe a fellow kayaker can come to the rescue in a timely fashion. Or maybe CPR can help long after they got you in a position able to get CPR. Maybe – the sort of “maybe” as in, “maybe you’ll win the lottery.”

So, there I was, after a failed Eskimo roll. Slow-motion safeguard mindset mode kicked in. As I always do, I ran an analysis of the situation and of what to do, calmly as if my voice were saying it. I still remember the exact words, many years later.

The second Eskimo roll, I did in that mode. This meant that I did it calmly and very well. Suddenly I was upright again, and I lived to kayak on and enjoy the day, and other kayaking trips after that.

The fighter pilot gentleman experienced a similar predicament but barely survived it. Badly shaken, he left the whitewater area as soon as he could. To my knowledge, he never kayaked again. A fast-running river can break even some very tough, good kayakers.  It would have easily broken me had I not had my weird safeguard-mindset mode.

Why these two examples?

Because the third time I felt this weird safeguard mindset mode was right after watching that movie. I cried far beyond where I’d normally have stopped. Then I discover to my surprise that I was unable to stop crying, as in: wailing, howling. I simply could not stop.

My weird safeguard-mindset mode kicked in dispassionately in parallel with the part of me that was falling apart. “I’m hysterical. I’ve never been hysterical. But that’s what this is. So, okay, I’m hysterical. I’ll be hysterical for a while longer and then it has to eventually somehow stop by itself. So, fine, I’ll  be hysterical.” — or words to that effect. It was like my own voice was saying the words slowly to myself. And then the weird safeguard-mindset mode vanished again and all that remained active in my mind was me wailing and howling — for a little while longer.

* * *

Do I recommend this movie? Yes, even if it puts you through the wringer.

Do I recommend coming out as t-girl when the journey is so excruciatingly hard? Yes, because the only thing more excruciating is … not coming out. I’ve tried both.

If you are in a romance with someone who’s about to come out as a t-girl, do I recommend you stay checked in? I actually do. Of the two ladies who checked out, my impression is that neither checked out purely because being in a relationship with a transitioning trans girl was too miserable. They checked out for very understandable other reasons, specifically because being with this particular trans girl (me) was too miserable to be worth it.

The third lady remains checked in, yay! When I had a bad day recently I got an impassioned speech from her, to the effect that by her standards for a relationship and for a romantic partner in general, I was in many ways preferable to her than a genetically integrated girl (and no, mechanically sexual aspects were not any part of that speech). At the end of it, I felt a lot better about the world, about myself, about her and about the odds that she is likely to stay checked in for the foreseeable future.

Depending on your own priorities and mental wiring, you will either love or hate being in a relationship with a just-coming-out trans girl. To love it, your priorities would need to be an unshakable match with the few traits that the trans girl will retain, or where fading traits will have compensating new traits. The sexuality of the trans girl will change as much as it’s possible for a human to experience, from being an intensely sexual person in a testosterone-fueled way to being the exact opposite in every way – still a sexual being but about as similar to her previous mode as a butterfly is to the worm-like larvae that it once was.

* * *

If you would take pride in enabling butterflies to come into existence, stay checked in, while keeping in mind that essentially a new person is being born, and that birth is a painful, messy experience that changes those involved permanently – mentally, emotionally, physically. And not everyone survives that – sometimes, literally.

… and now you, dear reader, also understand why I like mentoring just-coming-out trans girls. I think the world needs more butterflies. I’m simply enabling that.

Being Disliked for One’s Looks

One of the common problems of being a t-girl is that she feels, understandably, inferior in her newly-embraced life as a girl. This covers many aspects, including her physique, and especially the aspects where a girl and a guy typically look fundamentally different. Boobs are one aspect of that.


By Chelsea_Charms.jpg: J C derivative work: Tabercil (Chelsea_Charms.jpg) [CC-BY-SA-2.0 (, via Wikimedia Commons

Without moderation, our fantasies might be about strongly overcompensating. The picture below, of a lady named Chelsea Charms, is not of a t-girl. Even so, but this sort of “boobs so large I can hardly get out of bed” look used to be a fond fantasy for me — not that Chelsea seems to have any problems getting out of bed; from what I’ve read, she seems to enjoy a normal life, apart from all the attention,  back exercises and wardrobe issues.

With boobs that large, the girl often gets objectified, and people no longer treat her as a human with feelings, personality and character. I’ve communicated enough with Chelsea and read enough about her that I’ve concluded she’s a nice person and would be a good friend to have — not that she IS my friend, but she seems nice.

However, few people can look beyond her huge boobs and consider the person. I belong to an online community of girls who have gone through, or are contemplating, plastic surgery — and the derision with which most girls instantly react to Chelsea is stark, with one of the moderators joining in, writing a yellow-journalism smear piece. I wrote a “hey now” commentary trying to remind people to at least be civil on the subject.

It’s not like Chelsea is hurting or harming anyone.She’s not beating up her spouse, lying, stealing or cheating. As citizens go, she’s as harmless an example as if she’d taken up growing ferns instead of her boobs. That’s more than one can say about a great many people in the country and on the planet. If everyone were like Chelsea, we wouldn’t be killing each other off or beating each other up.

Chelsea just looks unusual. Is that reason enough to justify instantly disliking her?

In college, I formally attended statistics class, and learned about averages and standard deviations from the norm. In middle school, the kids didn’t need any formal training. they had an intuitive sense of statistics and if another kid had any large-enough deviation from the norm, whether as to height, shape, weight, hair color, behavior, family, clothing etc. then unless this trait happened to be in the “cool” category, the mean kids would instantly pick on the kid with that trait. An airport body scanner is a crude and mediocre mechanism compared to the sharp eye of a mean kid, as far as identifying anything unusual.

I used to think that, as people grow up and grow older, they lose this behavior. However, some don’t. They just widen the range of what’s “normal” but if someone has traits outside those norms, such as having huge boobs or being very overweight, or very thin, then it’s like the observer is 13 years old again, with instant dislike and mean behavior coming on. Empathy doesn’t get allocated. Does Chelsea have feelings? Might they be hurt by this sort of thing? Who knows, and who cares, is the reaction of that mindset.

For such people, Chelsea’s boobs are huge enough to trigger the mean-kid behavior. with instant dislike and mean behavior coming on.

Ironically, she has her share of adulating male fans who make the same mistake, just in the opposite direction: they adore her automatically.

Really, a person’s boob size should have nothing to do with them being basically more or less likable, objectively.

Would I want boobs like that? No. But I also wouldn’t want to work with homeless people, defuse live bombs, be married to an drunk, rescue abandoned cats, read the supermarket check stand tabloids, eat spicy food and so on. That doesn’t mean I should instantly resent someone who chooses to do so.

So why on earth would a t-girl (me, for example) fantasize about having such huge boobs?

  • It compensates for feeling self-conscious about being flat-chested or having too small boobs
  • It would be nicer and safer to have superficial, testosterone-blinded males instantly adoring me vs. instantly resenting me
  • … and besides, a t-girl is used to the mean treatment Chelsea gets, anyway.

That’s the key point here. Every essential thing I said about how people react to Chelsea, I can apply to how they react to a t-girl who looks awkward as such. And, it really, really sucks.

Of course, some commendable people look beyond the superficial even if it takes effort. I have a very conservative friend who, when he first saw me, instantly thought mean things about me but he still took the time and effort to also listen to what I was saying in conversations, and he and I started having deep conversations. We slowly grew to be friends — but he confessed to me later that when he first saw me, he felt an initial “eww, gawd, what do we have here” sort of reaction.

I’m not choosing to have such huge boobs. But why would any t-girl choose that? For many of us, being instantly resented is what we’re used to anyway. Being the brunt of such mean treatment is our comfort zone. We are accustomed to being treated like that anyway. It’s what we know, and know what how to cope with it. It’s in some ways the same mindset as an abused spouse.

Even if we’ve only recently come out publicly as a t-girl, our parents are probably aware of our preference for feminine things. Many of us know only too well what it’s like to observe the acrid disgust that our true nature triggers in someone else.

By that line of reasoning, we might as well get something we want out of it, which is to finally have large enough boobs. That way, we don’t have the often-dashed hope that someone might be able to look beyond our looks, and focus on the actual person with her set of ideas, principles, personality and character.

Below is a picture of my friend Candy (and yes, I have her explicit permission to use her pictures for this sort of thing.)  Candy is a t-girl, like me. She and I became friends early on in her transition, and it was interesting to be able to mentor and observe her journey.  She came out to her dad, who was a military guy, when she was 14. His reaction was to repeatedly beat her up. No doubt that sort of thing shaped how she’s used to being treated.


I’m not playing amateur psychologist and saying that every girl with large boobs has a sad reason as part of her motivation. But, in Candy’s case, that might well be so. So nowadays her looks triggers an automatic reaction in most people she meets. I don’t know if that’s part of why she chose such large boobs. But, if so, I wouldn’t be surprised — such behavior is what she knows how to cope with. As a person, she’s highly intelligent, intense, brave and insightful. One of her favorite activities is to read books. But, most people don’t know or care.

Should we instantly dislike someone just for their looks? No, but if you’re the sort of person who reads my blog, you already know that. Even so, you might have some family members who do think like that. If this article gives you some intellectual ammunition for your next dinner-table argument, I’ll have accomplished my mission.






Hair on my Upper Lip

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Today, I was in a VERY windy location, and a strand of my long blonde hair blew across my face right when this picture was taken.

I was born with a mix of gender parts; male plumbing and female brain structure.

This means that I went through puberty with the wrong type of hormones relative to my brain structure. Facial hair was one of the many unwelcome side effects. I solved the problem by diligently ripping the hair off my face every few days using hair removal wax.

By now, the follicles have basically given up or died, and I’m a happier blonde for it — with nice, smooth facial skin.

These events make for an interesting story to fit this picture, don’t they?

Success Story #4 in Intense Mentoring: Motivation, Drive, Go

ggg2016-02-26 17.08.34The t-girl lady whom I mentored as my live-in roommate, for 5 months or so, experienced a huge change in how motivated she was to live her life energetically and enthusiastically, every day.

She’d told me that before she came here, she was living in a basement, and her energy mostly went into playing online video games and writing informal, personal-use software. Her physique, feminization, career … none of those had much focus.

By contrast, when she was with me, she was highly motivated. She did amazing, creative things and added a vast amount of value, including helping me with moving one of my businesses from one location to another, helping me rebuild a complex electronic automatic transmission, and hundreds of other tasks, many of them either complex or simple problems that she solved in a brilliant way.  It was like having a super-intelligent t-girl genie.

In the process, she seemed to become ever more energized and happy. One day, she and I had messed with an automatic transmission for close to eight hours already that day, and it was midnight, and certainly time to go home, have dinner and go to bed.  So, we went home and I made dinner. However, after dinner, we were so enthused to go play with the transmission some more that we ended up back at the shop for several more hours.  There was no official bedtime or wake-up time. At most I tried to coordinate things so that her schedule and mine would fit, and that supply stores were still open when we needed things.  Often times, she would be up at 1 p.m. and start helping me at around 2 p.m.

She liked choosing when to start her day, and when she got going, she seemed to have boundless energy. It was often necessary for me to say “I appreciate how much you’re helping me but whoa, let’s call it a day.”

She also did a lot of travelling, which isn’t something she used to embrace before she came to live with me.  Aside from her time in the Military, she hadn’t done much traveling away from where she lived. But she was so motivated to come here, that she drove 3,000 miles. She and I also made multiple trips all over the place: Reno, Carson City, Sacramento, SF Bay Area, Las Vegas. She seemed to enjoy this a lot.

When she wasn’t helping me, she still enjoyed playing her online video games and making cool software, too. But these had become minor parts of her rich and complex life, not the main focus.

By the time she left, she had learned and done so much, that the combined effect of all her productive days had added up to an impressive sum as to insight, confidence and experience. She would be a great hire for a transmission shop looking for a skilled transmission rebuilder.  She would also be a good hire for a junior automotive mechanic. Or a fetish model. Or a software developer. Or a network sysadmin. Or a systems security specialist.

As to the energy she put into every day, as to her looks and feminization: before she came here, she did hardly anything on a day-to-day basis. On rare days when she chose to go out as who she is, she would spend hours on end, getting ready.  By contrast, when she lived with me, she lived every day openly as the girl she is, including going shopping with me, meeting my friends and family, and so on.

The amount of daily energy that she put into looking good and feminine was well-balanced, and made for an efficient day, and a happy t-girl.

I must emphasize that the magical ingredient wasn’t living with me; it was living with integrity, as to being a girl (albeit a t-girl) and living openly as a girl, 24×7. Living with me just encouraged and helped that mode along.

Revised Principles: T-Girls Coming out to Parents

gg2015-09-19 03.06.38I’ve now been out as a t-girl for maybe 5 years, more than 3 of them full-time.

Having gone through the process of coming out and having experienced every variety of reaction short of violence, including both parents initially reacting very negatively, I have an unusual opportunity to advise t-girls who are about to come out openly as such.

I’m no guru, but by now I also have mentored several t-girls and I’m friends with many. I’ve seen various approaches and the effects that they typically have.

Before and after a t-girl is an adult, I think it’s a grave (and sometimes fatal) mistake for her parents to oppose her in her expression of self-identity. That deserves many articles in their own right, but this is not the subject of today’s article.

A t-girl has every right to come out and live openly as who she is. She doesn’t require anyone’s permission. She doesn’t have to convince anyone. She doesn’t have to announce it to anyone (and frankly I don’t see how the rules are any different before adulthood). And yet, I have seen enough journeys succeed, or falter and proceed crippled, or falter and fail, to have an opinion on the matter.

She could just vanish, cut her ties and start living a new life, consistent with who she is. The problem I see with this sort of thing is that people vastly underestimate how tightly integrated the people in their past lives are, and how non-viable it might be to cut ties and keep them cut for long enough that she’s accomplished whatever she’s set out to accomplish.

Short of joining a Federal Witness Protection program and sometimes not even then, I don’t think anyone can vanish indefinitely. At best someone can hope to vanish for a while, get strong enough to deal with re-appearing, and then re-appear. Perhaps a fond fantasy is to, by then, have transitioned so successfully that it’s all water under the bridge and it’s all past the point of debate anyway. There’s also the valid point that if all the parents want is a happy offspring and post-transition the t-girl is thriving then maybe that might help as to their acceptance. I have some concerns with that line of reasoning but I do know it exists.

If you keep someone else in the dark so as to avoid them initiating violence against you, you are morally as pure as the driven snow and if the issue later comes to light, you have a perfectly defensible position.

If you are openly and brazenly cutting ties with your family, friends and parents forever, and their past behavior suggests this is the fair and reasonable thing to do, and if you’re an adult (and arguably even if you’re not), then your sexuality and your gender are your issues and none of anyone else’s business.

I have no problem with the principle, but I have in the past disowned both of my parents individually, in utter disgust, including throwing into the dumpster everything I’d ever gotten from them (myself excluded). Strong as I nevertheless generally am, I still later caved in and gave them each another opportunity. And then the entire cycle repeated itself multiple times. Being outed as a t-girl and then having to deal with that … it requires only one such lapse.

I would suggest you not cut the ties so absolutely, if wanting to live openly as a t-girl is much of the motivation. Besides, being a just-out t-girl can be hard and lonely life. To burn bridges tends to be imprudent. To move into a difficult future while totally excluding everyone from your past … that’s a bigger and more difficult step than most people are capable of taking sustainably.

Besides, you’d be depriving yourself and them of the possibility that they might actually behave reasonably. For example, many of my pre-transition guy friends are quite macho and yet a great many of them accept me just fine, plus many of them go beyond that and also chose to learn and understand the issues. Also, one very macho-seeming friend of mine, who was always going to strip clubs, ran a business in a male-dominated industry etc. reacted to my coming-out with something like “I’m a t-girl too, I’ve just been hiding it” and proceeded to elaborate at length.

You might in a subtle way be ceding to others the moral high ground if you keep them in the dark just to avoid the issue. It’s sort of like a cheating husband. When his wife find out then it’s a double whammy: she’s not happy with the news and she’s also not happy with having been kept in the dark.

I understand that living as a t-girl begins with part-time sessions of trying it out to see how it works for you. If you’re not ready to announce who you are until you’re ready and able to move out, and live as who you are openly 24×7, I have no issue with that.

The main concern I have is if someone decides to move away and live as a t-girl 24×7 while (without threat of violence or cutting ties with everyone in her old life) keeping her family, friends and parents in the dark. I’d generally suggest she come out to them no later than the day when she starts to live 24×7.

For this event, I suggest having minimal expectations.

I am living proof that there’s just no convincing some people. Conservative Christians especially tend to be generally impossible to win over. For any coming-out process, if your coming-out hinges on others understanding and accepting you, you have a difficult task ahead of you — maybe impossibly difficult.

If being understood is the “gold medal” then being accepted seems to be the “silver medal.”  My adopted dad, so to speak, had that reaction. I explained the issues to him until I was just about blue in the face. He kept saying he’s hearing what I’m saying and he can’t fault any of my logic — but it still doesn’t make sense to him in some important way that he couldn’t explain. But whatever it was, it was beyond discussion.

Really I could have, and should have, spared myself the hassle of trying to convince him. He said he’d accept my decision, however. Life appeared to go on, and we’d go out to lunch together but he seemed very uncomfortable, and soon confessed that it’s excruciatingly unpleasant for him to be seen in public with me.  So “acceptance” is a pretty hollow victory especially if the person keeps using the wrong name or wrong-gender pronouns when referring to the t-girl.

There’s a tragic example in the case of a teenage t-girl whose story is told in the non-fiction movie Trans. She hid who she is for a long time, then came out including writing a letter to her dad. She then moved away and struggled to get traction, living as who she is. One day it all became too much for her and she ended her life by her own hand. In the movie, the dad tells how he feels about all this and it’s so tragically clear that even after all this, and even while blinking back tears, the dad neither understood nor accepted her being a t-girl; he kept referring to the deceased by her male name and referring to her using male pronouns.

I suggest you plan for the worst. As a just-out t-girl, I’ve been close to homeless and I’ve lived a hard life and seen much. Believe me, the lower social and financial echelons are a difficult and very dangerous environment, especially for a recently-out t-girl with meager resources.

However, unless you have VERY rational parents, you might be wise to anticipate financial pressure such as “not under my roof” and “I’m not funding your college tuition until you are willing to abandon this silly notion.” If you’re ready to live as a t-girl 24×7 then also be ready to leave that same day, and make it on your own.

If your parents surprise you by being cool, then — great, but don’t bet your future on it.

Dressing Elegantly and Enjoying it

gIMAG1201Before I came out as a t-girl, I didn’t much care what I wore. I liked buying pretty clothes for other people, but not for myself. The latter seemed like a waste of money.

At some point I was in a relationship with a nice and fashion-conscious lady who practically begged me to wear slightly nicer clothes, and it was an uninspired person who complied. The result reflected the lack of enthusiasm.

I’d thrown on jeans, a t-shirt and sandals, and focused on work. If the shirts had holes, oh well. On days when I wore shoes, I wore a pair of work boots that were about 10 years old and looked the part.

Now and then I’d make an effort, thinking how nice it’d be to look pretty, but it never lasted long.

Now that I’m out as a t-girl, wow, what a difference. I make a point of dressing nicely. I can’t afford new boots so I buy them used but they look new and elegant. My clothes and jewelry are almost comically inexpensive but I combine them so they look good. Wherever I go, I get explicit compliments from other girls, and implicit comments from guys who hit on me.

I enjoy matching and pairing the colors, textures and fabrics on what I wear. For example, I was in northern California recently for a personal appointment with my dentist.  It’s an event for which some people might dress informally, but I enjoyed wearing something nice.

I’d just had my hair done, and I wore a pretty purple top, an elegant long skirt,  black leggings with black socks that were barely visible under the skirt, and elegant 3″ boots. I got a compliment even before leaving the hotel.

I couldn’t afford a hotel near my dentists so I found a nice and affordable one in the boonies. To get back to the hotel, I could take the freeway or the scenic route. I chose the latter. The street ran past the Blackhawk Auto Museum, which is a VERY elegant place with VERY expensive cars on display.

It normally costs $15 to go in and it was already 4:30 p.m. and they normally close at 5 p.m. but I asked the cashier if “we close at 5” means “everyone out” or “no more people come in, but if you’re here, stay as long as you like.”

She explained that there was a Toyota sales event going on and so admission was free today, and the entire museum was open until 7 p.m. and they were serving complimentary refreshments — VERY elegant snacks and good coffee, as it turned out.

Based on what I can appreciate, not what I can currently afford, I do belong there, and although I hadn’t planned to stop by there, it felt nice to look in a way that’s consistent with an elegant setting.

Everyone there was super-nice to me and I learned some interesting things about the new Toyotas as well. I suspect that a less elegant dress code might have had the opposite effect.

Being Out as a T-Girl in the Vanilla Medical World, Part 4

I’m a trans girl and I look the part, including androgynous facial structure, and boobs that are growing but not naturally huge.

Today, I underwent a diagnostic procedure called a colonoscopy, in which a doctor not-so-gently pushes a lubed tube up my butt and inflates my colon with air, and proceeds to analyze my insides to make sure I’m healthy.  It’s something that folks are supposed to do when … how do I say this nicely … they can no longer be mistaken for teenagers.

The process might have been intimidating and embarrassing already but there were some additional factors too. The doctor is generally considered Mr. Handsome, and I can see why. Plus, he had a male student doctor along.  Plus, they were discussing whatever they were seeing   Plus, there were two other male medical people in the room too. Plus, I’d opted to not use anesthesia so I was well aware of everything. It’s probably good that I don’t embarrass easily — nowadays.

Somehow I took comfort in knowing that I’m in shape and that my body hair is long gone except for some very fine, blonde, sparse hairs on my legs and arms.  Had that not been the case, I might have been less stalwart about everything.

After the procedure was complete, the doctor and female nurse informed me that I was, essentially, a model patient, and the diagnosis is: I’m healthy. Yay!

I used to be excruciatingly embarrassed about sneaking a peek at blonde hair-dye products in an otherwise-empty grocery store aisle — and today I was fine with having long blonde hair, boobs, and being in a room with several guys, with my naked butt being on camera.

I’ve come a long way in being happy with who I am, and today was a stark reminder.

Being Out as a T-Girl in the Vanilla Medical World, Part 3

I will soon be undergoing a medical check-up that girls my age are supposed to have now and then, and that involves me being butt naked while the doctor does his thing.

I presume that a blind person can see I’m a trans girl, but sometimes I’m pleasantly surprised that people don’t notice. But then, even though I’m a trans girl, what kind of plumbing do I currently have?

Normally, that’s my business and I share such info only with whoever might end up in bed with me. [Although, since I write about it openly, I also share it with my readers.]

It occurred to me that maybe the doctor might wanna know too so he’s not surprised, in case he would otherwise have been surprised. So, I decided to write him a nice letter. I obscured his name and a few details:

Dear Dr. X,

I think we’re all set for the procedure on Xxxday. I’ve gone to the clinic, did the pre-procedure check-in, paid them the clinic fee, got my vitals checked (all good) and discussed my medications. I feel I’m in good hands and everyone is being professional and nice.

At the risk of potentially overstating the obvious, I’d like to say one more thing just because people hate surprises unless they’re very pleasant, and if this one is a surprise it wouldn’t be pleasant. I’m a transgender girl, a weird mix of male and female parts. As it’s been explained to me, some people are born with a female brain structure and male plumbing, and I’m just one more example of that, and life goes on.

However much my brain works like any other girl, fundamentally — I still have male-shaped plumbing.  Maybe a few years from now, that won’t be the case anymore, but for now it is. Meanwhile, I don’t want you to be surprised on Xxxday, hence this letter.

I hope this was a good way to handle the situation, and if not then please be candid. I’m figuring this out as I’m going along. I’m sorry if this is awkward for you.

Thank you again.


Being Out as a T-Girl in the Vanilla Medical World, Part 2

I’m getting a preventative medical check-up soon, and so I went to the clinic to pay their fee up front, to get my vitals checked, to get told how to get ready, and so on.

It was a very positive experience. Everyone was professional and nice.


  • My pulse is fine at 89; a little high but not bad.
  • The amount of oxygen my body is sending to my finger (and probably everywhere else it needs to go) is 96 or 97; the point of concern would be 93. So, all good there.
  • Blood pressure is 127/80. Good!
  • EKG: normal.

Me being a trans girl was just a normal part of the conversation. I volunteered it as a conversational point, and it fitted nicely. Then later, for the EKG (because I supplement my natural boobs with extra volume that I stuff into my bra) I told the nurse: “I’m wearing fake boobs. Should I take them out?” She replied as if that’s the most normal and natural thing in the world: “No, I’ll work around that. Just lift your [top] up for me.” I love this sort of dynamic.

The EKG was not absolutely needed but I asked for it and got it, and somehow I got the vibe that this was one more in the category of “girls helping girls.” The nurse could have said “yes” or “no” but in my case she said “yes” and I got an EKG included in the price, yay!

One of the many wonderful benefits of living openly as the girl I am is that I get to experience a type of wonderful benevolence that I’d never known to exist when I was trying to come across as a guy. Neither guys nor girls were ever that nice to me.

But now that I live openly as a girl, it’s wonderful to bask in the warm glow of inter-female benevolence. The way it’s been explained to me is that most guys tend to be mean to girls, so the only chance us girls have, is if we stick together. Amen to that.

It reminds me of when I ordered two tacos at a drive-through, and the lady was clear that I’m a girl. The tacos showed up lightning-quick and when I complimented the drive-through lady on that and thanked her, she said “oh, I took them from someone else’s order. They can wait a little longer.” This sort of thing happens to me all the time, nowadays. It’s a wonderful and unexpected benefit.

A key requirement for getting such benevolence is to not ask for it. A few days ago it was bitterly cold and a nice lady (not destitute and hence not a charity case waiting to happen) asked me how much farther she’d have to walk to get to an income tax place, down the road. It was light out and would be for another hour or so, but it was still darn cold and the icy breeze made it worse. For her to walk another couple of miles in that weather was something she was fine with, but even so, after I gave her the info she’d asked for and I’d complimented her on her hair, I rapidly walked to my car to start it, turn it around and go give her a ride. Ironically, it was so cold that the battery in my car had died, and … another girl helped me with that. I love my life.