Embracing my trans identity let me conquer my biggest fear

The nurse’s needle sank into my skin without resistance. 

It hurt on entry, but I didn’t flinch.

The nurse followed up with another, then another, which my arm dutifully filled. By the fourth and final tube, the nurse was labelling everything, remarking that I was remarkably ‘chill’ about needles. I just laughed. 

It was easy to make light of it in that moment, but she couldn’t have known what a big deal it really was for me, how afraid I’d have been in the past.

I felt proud at how far I’d come, and how I’d got there. I’d been afraid of needles since I was a child. The thought of a sharp object piercing my skin had terrified me, and I had to be held down by dentists and nurses for injections on many occasions.

Looking back, I don’t begrudge that fear. It’s rational and understandable. But for a trans person, when a phobia of needles suddenly means that you might not be able to become the person you know you really are, it becomes something that you know you must overcome. 

My gender transition began in 2020. The pandemic had left me with too much time to reflect, and after a week of anxious pacing about the living room, I looked at my then-girlfriend, Cara* and blurted out, ‘I think I might be trans.’

That sentence arrived after two weeks of intense lockdown reflection. I never thought of gender dysphoria affecting me because my experiences weren’t as ‘obvious’ as my friends and online personalities I followed. 

I just lived my life thinking that some degree of discomfort with my gender was normal and acceptable because that’s all I knew.

It wasn’t until I immersed myself into support groups of people who were also questioning their identity that I realised that feeling discomfort over my gender presentation was actually unusual. 

When I thought back to my childhood experiences and adulthood dabbling in crossdressing, the fact was cemented for me. 

Cara was very open to my changing reality and was mostly concerned with supporting me through it. She was an ever-present pillar in my life and always wanted to know more. 

I was initially scatterbrained about the specifics. Things like my planned transition timeframe and whether I wanted surgical intervention weren’t fixed yet. Still, I was certain about pursuing it. 

At the time, I didn’t know that I would have to overcome one of my biggest fears – but I’m glad I did. 

My transition journey makes me feel quite fortunate – so many trans people are subjected to intolerable cruelty and judgment, simply for wanting to exist. It saddens me to think my positive experience is unusual. 

I talked to my doctor once I realised that I wouldn’t be able to allay the discomfort without prescription estrogen. 

She listened to my case and was very accommodating to my circumstances. After a year of supervised hormone replacement therapy (HRT) via oral estrogen, she noted that I might get better physiological results if I switched to weekly injections. 

I was unenthused, to put it lightly. We discussed alternatives and weighed out the potential benefits versus the very obvious cons and I only begrudgingly agreed to try injections. My interest in a smooth medical transition outweighed my dread of pointy objects. 

I delivered my first injection after receiving my doctor’s instructions and taking copious notes about each step. It was slightly terrifying. Cara excused herself from the room because she was anxious and didn’t want to make it harder for me – it was a sensible decision because I was terribly anxious and having more eyes on me wouldn’t have improved things.

That first jab was shaky. I was incredibly tense, which worsened the pain, but got it done in the end. I was proud of my modest success but apprehensive that this was going to be my foreseeable future.

The months that followed were difficult. Sometimes I felt too anxious and scared to complete my injections, leaving part of my dose in the syringe. 

Yet, I felt more free compared to when I was a child, I had the choice to stop when I wanted and could feel my courage developing. 

There were plenty of unpleasant firsts that I hadn’t seen coming. 

The first time I hit a nerve cluster (unspeakably painful). The first time I reached an unseen blood vessel and spent the next ten minutes dabbing away the droplet of blood that refused to clot. The first time I accidentally delivered an injection into the still-healing site of the previous week – ouch.

The process was undeniably challenging, but as time passed, all the moments of discomfort became a microcosm of my wider transition: unpleasant but memorable learning moments that contributed to my growth.

Delivering my own injections has given me a new appreciation for my body, which I’ve seen flourish with the benefit of estrogen. The changes I’ve observed in myself become palpably real when traced back to the discomfort of an injection site.

If this experience has taught me anything, it’s that longstanding difficulties can be addressed in unforeseen ways. 

The answers won’t always be easy, but if I approach them with an open mind, I will always discover new and wonderful things about myself and what I’m capable of.

*Names have been changed.

Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing jessica.aureli@metro.co.uk. 

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