From “Nobody Will Love Me” to “Some Great Piece of Ass”

When I first began my transition, I sat down in front of a camera night after night, trying to make sense of what was happening inside me. I spoke furiously into the lens, desperately searching for clarity.

One evening, I looked at myself with a strange mix of seriousness and resignation. I said:

“If I transition, nobody will probably ever love me again for the rest of my life. I’ll die alone. But I will love me. For the first time in my life, I will love me.”

At the time, I meant it. Those words echoed inside me as both prophecy and survival strategy. I couldn’t imagine anyone else wanting me, I would exist on the fringe of society, so I resolved that at least I would finally want myself.

What I didn’t realise then was how wrong I was.

As the months have gone by, something has happened I couldn’t have predicted: my confidence has exploded. My style has sharpened, my presentation improved, and the way I carry myself in the world has changed completely.

Last night I walked through Oxford Circus, the busiest place in Britain, in a tiny black dress, tights and boots. And honestly? I couldn’t give a monkey’s shit. If someone looked at me, fine. If they didn’t, fine. I wasn’t seeking approval. I was living my life.

And here’s the secret: nobody really stares. Sure, some probably notice I’m transgender, but I couldn’t care less. Because what people do notice is confidence, and happiness. And when you radiate that, people are drawn to it.

In Toronto, only a few days earlier, two other trans women had pulled me aside and said: You’re unbelievable. Your confidence and self-belief are unshakable. You inspire me. Hearing that floored me. Me, an inspiration?

On the Saturday night in Toronto, I found myself in a well known LGBT nightclub. Within minutes, old instincts kicked in, I climbed onto the stage, just as I used to in the 1990s, and danced like my life depended on it.

After two hours of rocking my arse off, a girl came over and started teasing me with an Irish accent. She told me she was a lesbian. Ten minutes later, she grabbed my hand, spun me around, and locked eyes on me like I was the only person in the room. She loved my skinny little body. And then, suddenly, she kissed me slowly for what seemed like minutes..

It was electrifying.

I didn’t take it further, but the confidence it gave me was astronomical. You see, my whole life I’d carried one dream: to be a girl, dancing in a club. That vision had lived inside me for decades, and in that moment it came true. Not only was I that girl dancing, but someone found me beautiful enough to kiss.

Only three days later, back in London for a medical appointment, I wandered into Soho and found myself in a bar. I met two women. Quickly, I realised they were lesbians, and just as quickly, one of them made it very clear she wanted me.

We danced, we held hands, we drank shots together. Before long, she was pulling me toward the door, laughing, and I went with her. We ended up in her hotel room. Let’s just say I walked out later with my tights torn off.

It was wild, it was unexpected, and it was undeniable proof that I’m desirable.

On the way back from her hotel, a man walked alongside us. I caught my reflection in a shop window, tiny dress, narrow waist, a silhouette I could hardly believe was me. The man looked at me and said: “You are some fucking great piece of ass.”

Crude? Sure. But in its own way, it was another confirmation: the world now sees me as a woman. And sometimes, as an attractive one.

If you’d told the person staring into that lens months ago that she’d soon be kissed in a Toronto nightclub, or leaving a London hotel with her tights ripped, she would have laughed bitterly. She believed transition meant solitude, that self-love would be her only companion.

But here’s the truth I see now: self-love didn’t mean dying alone. It meant creating the conditions for others to love me, too.

I think I’m actually better with women as a woman than I ever was as a man. As a man, I never quite worked. As a woman, something about me clicks into place. It radiates. People pick up on it. And some people, as I’ve discovered, are drawn to it.

So maybe I won’t die alone after all. Maybe, in choosing to love myself, I’ve finally opened the door to being loved by others.