"The lows pale in comparison": Growing up as a trans person in Notts

In the summer of 2017, I came out to my mum as trans with a hastily-written letter on paper ripped out of a notepad I had used earlier that year to study for my GCSEs. When I opened the door and saw her sitting on the sofa reading the last few pages of her book before the inevitable crawl to bed, I knew I had passed the point of no return. I had to commit, and I could not turn back.

And what a wonderful thing it was to commit. Seven years later – after several reassurances that it would be okay to de-transition if I were to ‘change my mind’, and several more instances of my heels being dug deeper into the ground that no, actually, this is who I am – I sit on the bus on my way to work and reflect on these past seven years. The lows are certainly there but compared to the wonderful community I get to be a part of, the feelings of euphoria when a T-shirt fits just right, and seeing the best of people come out when the worst almost comes out in others… The lows pale in comparison. A few bumps in the road wouldn’t stop a car continuing its journey.

It is far from controversial to say that without pain, we wouldn’t know true happiness. While minding my own business, just walking home along Sherwood Rise after having missed the bus after work, a man drove past me, called me a slur, and threw water (at least, I hope it was water) out of his car and drenched me while I still had another mile before I could change clothes. He was long-gone by the time I had processed what had actually happened, and I think even if he’d been right in front of me, I would have had to concede and just allow him to get away with it. It’s an unfortunate fact of life when you’re a minority that any act of aggression – even actions made in self-defence – will be used against you and your entire community. Indeed, had I yelled at him, had I sworn at him, or made any impolite gestures, all trans people would be painted as violent and reactionary. This is far from the worst thing to have ever happened to a trans person. Every day, I feel a sense of survivor’s guilt for that incident being the most physical hate crime I have ever had to endure.

Microaggressions and verbal assaults happen far more frequently. But my favourite example is a true testament to how we truly don’t know happiness until we know pain – and to extend, we don’t know safety until we know fear. I was using the men’s toilet in a club after having mistakenly broken the seal and, through all the rowdiness that usually accompanies drunk men in a nightclub, I overheard some men talking about how much they hate trans people, having to share bathrooms with them, having to share a gender with them. I left the stall with my head down, feeling like I had a target on my back. In a panic, I looked through the crowd to find my friend (who is not trans) and when he found me, such a sense of relief overcame me that I just had to hug him. Without a question, but clearly with a knowledge that something had shaken me, we stood in the middle of the crowd just hugging. When words can describe the sense of relief and genuine, real safety I felt in that moment, then I will write them. Until then, we must only imagine.

One of my favourite experiences as a trans person was while I was working as a waiter in the city centre. An older gay couple – two men – and their two women friends came into the restaurant for a late lunch. The four of them were some of the loveliest, friendliest, sociable people I’d ever served and it was a quiet day, so I enjoyed the moments of chat between us. At this time, I was wearing a pin badge of the iconic trans pride flag on my uniform along with a badge that simply said ‘he/him’ – my pronouns. When they noticed it, the two men immediately informed me that they were a couple as an act of solidarity and, truth be told, I had never felt more seen; being just twenty years old and straight out of the pandemic, I had never really met older queer people so for these men to do what they could to relate to me just meant the world. They complimented my hair (thanks to my mum who had so kindly cut it for me at home) and told me that I have ‘such a lovely voice’. They also tipped me £20 on top of their £10 service charge and to this day I’m convinced it was because – at least in part – I’m part of their community. 

In the summer of 2017, I came out to my mum as trans with a hastily-written letter. I was only fifteen and had so much fear, so many questions, and had no knowledge of what was going to happen to me. Back then, I was armed with nothing but shirts two sizes too big and a dream. In the summer of 2024, I look back on all the experiences I’ve had since then and am so lucky to be able to smile. I wish we lived in a world where every trans person’s worst experience could be having a bit of water thrown at them but we are not so lucky. But, we are so lucky to live in a world where even people who aren’t trans will show up to protests and protect us from the worst of things. I am lucky to have friends who can just see that I need some comfort and will not hesitate to provide it. I am lucky to live in a city where I am not lost in a crowd, where I am seen and – for the most part – I am loved. I truly, truly wish that all trans people can live in peace, friendship, and genuine love.