- Today, I want to talk about who I am — or perhaps more accurately, how I came to understand myself.
- I’m a trans person, but not in the way many people assume. Some think I was born male and later transitioned into a woman. That’s not my story.
- Before I was born, my mother struggled with severe night terrors. Her doctor prescribed her a medication — one she has never named — but she later learned it could affect the development of an unborn child. That was the only detail she ever shared.
- When I was born, everyone believed I was a boy. Over time, it became clear that things weren’t quite that simple. I was born with an intersex condition, though it has never been formally diagnosed. I had a penis and testes, but around the age of 13 — before male puberty — my body began developing small mammary glands.
- This wasn’t gynecomastia, which is usually just excess fatty tissue. This was actual breast glands and not fatty tissue, and my nipples began to take on a more typically feminine shape.
- I discovered this in the most uncomfortable way. One warm Saturday evening, I was watching a film with my family, shirtless as boys often are. Suddenly, my older brother announced that I had breasts. My dad added that my nipples looked like my mother’s. Their disgust was obvious, and I was told to put my top back on. A year later, a friend at school made a similar comment. After that, I learned to cover my chest — the same way girls do — because it felt safer.
- But to understand how this shaped me, you have to go back further.
- Even though I was assumed to be a boy, from my earliest memories people called me a girl. My older brothers even used a female name for me as a form of bullying. At school, children — and sometimes teachers — joined in, calling me feminine or using “gay” as an insult. This followed me throughout my childhood, long before my body began to change.
- Whenever I mention that my breasts started developing at 13, people often ask what age I began hormone treatment. The answer is 29. My early breast development wasn’t caused by treatment — it was simply part of the intersex traits I was born with.
- To give you a sense of how others saw me, here’s a memory many people can relate to. At the end of the school day, the teacher would say, “Everyone, stand behind your chairs and put them on your desks.” Once the chairs were up, they’d call out, “Girls dismissed!” The girls would leave first, and the boys would wait. But almost every time, someone would turn to me and say, “R, the girls have been dismissed.” I must have heard that line a thousand times.
- For years, I didn’t understand why. Eventually someone explained it: I had softer features, a gentler nature, and people saw me as too feminine for a boy. Mocking me made them feel more secure in themselves.
- Why do I describe myself as intersex? I’ve already mentioned my early breast development, but that wasn’t the only sign. I’ve always had far less body hair than most women I know, and I’ve never needed facial hair removal — I simply never developed a beard or moustache. My body has always sat somewhere outside the typical expectations for “male.”
- There’s also a broader scientific context that helped me make sense of myself. Starting in the mid‑1990s, researchers began studying the brains of trans women. Across multiple studies over many years, they found that a certain brain structure in trans women more closely resembled patterns usually seen in women rather than in men. Importantly, these differences appear before individuals formed any conscious understanding of being transgender — in people as young as four and as old as seventy.
- For me, learning about this research didn’t define who I am, but it did help me understand that my experience wasn’t random or imagined. My body and my identity have always followed their own path, and “intersex” is the word that best captures that reality.
- On top of everything else, my mother once told me — when I was about twenty‑five — that she had taken a medication during pregnancy that was later found to affect the development of the unborn child. It was something she admitted only once. But years later, when I made the decision to transition, she grew regretful and didn’t want to talk about it anymore.
- Because I was born with testes, when I reached puberty, as stated firstly I began to grow breasts, then later male puberty hit, and something strange occurred. We now know that part of the brain of a transgender person is feminised before birth, (as already discussed,); for me, that meant that part of my brain was structure to run on progesterone, but instead was being fed testosterone, this caused me horrific neurobiological behaviours, which only ended after I was prescribed oestrogen and progesterone by a gender psychiatrist.
- Through my own research, I discovered that the medication that was given to my mother when she was pregnant with me was diethylstilbestrol. There used to be a lot of legitimate research on this drug, and its relationship to transgender women; however the recent political drives by the UK and USA government have forced such research to be removed from the internet, and instead in places, replaced with unfounded statements debunking the notion that the drug was related to the birth of transgender babies.
- It is widespread knowledge that the UK and USA governments have removed a multitude of scientific research relating to trans gender people as part of a campaign to demonise them.
- My sexuality doesn’t resemble that of a gay man, even though I’m attracted to men. His desire often grows from shared masculinity — an exchange between two male identities. Mine comes from a different place entirely: from femininity, from softness, and from the way my brain has always understood intimacy. I was born with a feminised part of my brain, and that shapes how I relate to desire, closeness, and emotional connection. Yet I also have a working penis, and that combination places me in a unique space — one where my physical anatomy and my inner identity don’t always mirror each other, but still coexist in a way that feels authentically mine.
- I don’t seek to penetrate a man; that act doesn’t express anything that feels natural to me. My inclinations with men are receptive, nurturing, and emotionally driven. And while I have a complex relationship with being penetrated myself — sometimes finding it meaningful, sometimes finding it difficult — it isn’t the centre of my sexuality. When I allow it, it’s usually because I care about my partner’s sense of closeness and satisfaction, not because it defines my own pleasure.
- What feels most natural to me is intimacy expressed through tenderness and emotional presence. I enjoy giving oral pleasure — not as a performance, but as a way of expressing devotion and connection. It aligns with my femininity and allows me to communicate affection in a way that feels genuine. By contrast, I rarely enjoy receiving oral pleasure myself. It doesn’t resonate with my sense of intimacy or with how I experience my body. My sexuality is shaped far more by what I give than by what I receive.
- My sexuality isn’t limited to men. I’m also drawn to dominant women — not because I want to mirror masculinity, but because their confidence and strength resonate with my femininity. Their dominance doesn’t overshadow me; it affirms me. It allows me to feel soft, expressive, and seen. And with women, my sexuality expresses itself differently. I can sometimes enjoy being the one who penetrates, not from a place of masculinity, but from a place of connection — a way of sharing closeness that feels emotionally meaningful.
- So while a gay man’s sexuality may be shaped by shared male identity, mine is shaped by the woman I know myself to be. It’s defined not by specific acts, but by intention: gentleness, emotional depth, and a desire to love in ways that reflect my femininity, my neurological reality, and the full complexity of who I’m attracted to.
🌈 1. What Scientists Study
- Researchers use brain imaging (like MRI and PET scans) to look at structure (the size and shape of regions) and function (how those regions activate). They compare groups such as cisgender men and women, transgender people, and gay or straight individuals to see patterns linked to gender identity and sexual orientation.
🧬 2. Transgender Brain Patterns
- Studies of transgender women (people assigned male at birth who identify as female) often show that certain brain regions — especially those involved in body perception, self‑awareness, and gender processing — resemble the typical patterns seen in cisgender women more than cisgender men.
- For example, the insula and putamen, which help integrate body sensations and identity, may show activity closer to cisgender women.
- These findings suggest that gender identity has a biological component, not just psychological or social.
💞 3. Gay Male Brain Patterns
- Research on gay men shows differences mainly in areas related to sexual attraction and response, not gender identity.
- The hypothalamus, which regulates sexual behaviour, often responds to pheromones in a way similar to heterosexual women rather than heterosexual men.
- Structural studies sometimes find subtle variations in the corpus callosum (which connects the brain’s hemispheres) and amygdala (involved in emotion and attraction).
🔍 4. Key Distinction
- Transgender identity relates to how the brain maps one’s sense of self and body — “who I am.”
- Sexual orientation relates to attraction — “who I’m drawn to.”
- So, while both involve the brain, they engage different networks. Trans women’s brain patterns often align with their gender identity, whereas gay men’s patterns align with their sexual orientation.
🧩 5. What This Means
- These findings don’t imply that brains are strictly “male” or “female.” The brain is a mosaic — a blend of traits influenced by hormones, genetics, and experience.
- Science increasingly supports that gender identity and sexual orientation are distinct, deeply rooted aspects of human diversity, not choices or phases.