It didn’t begin with hormones.

It began with a whisper, a quiet ache I could no longer ignore.

Before I ever swallowed my first estrogen pill or picked up a syringe, I spent six months with my soul wide open, asking the hard questions. Is this who I am? Am I ready? Can I really live as her, every day, in every room, no matter who’s watching?

I didn’t rush into transition. I studied myself. I watched how I lit up when I wore soft things. I cried the first time I put on lipstick and saw not a stranger, but a flicker of someone I recognized. I taught myself to contour, to walk with sway, to find beauty in lace and eyeliner and the sound of my own laughter in a bra that actually fit.

That first six months was me gathering courage. Trying on her. Becoming her, slowly, intentionally, reverently.

And then, when I was sure, I began HRT.

Estrogen came first, tiny pills that carried the weight of my truth.

But it didn’t end there. I took spironolactone to block testosterone, that unruly hormone that had always felt like an uninvited guest in my body. Later, I added progesterone, to round me out, to deepen the changes, to bring harmony to the internal song I was learning to sing.

The changes were gradual at first, but they were real.

My skin began to glow. My scent softened. My emotions cracked wide open like spring soil. My chest, once flat, ignored, slowly began to bud into an A cup I wore like a medal. My butt filled out, my face softened, and I stopped growing body hair almost entirely. My body wasn’t fighting me anymore. It was finally listening.

And then came year three, and with it, the needle.

I switched from pills to injectable estrogen, and everything accelerated.

The changes were not just visible, they were vibrant. My skin turned almost impossibly silky. My body softened in ways I didn’t think were possible. My thighs grew thicker. My arms rounder. My silhouette more feminine. And my emotional world? It deepened. I felt more. Loved harder. Laughed louder. Wept when I needed to. And never apologized for any of it.

With the changes came something unexpected: I gained 80 pounds.

And at first, I panicked. I grieved the old body I’d worked to reshape.

But then I listened.

This new body? It was still me. It was more of me. Softer. Rounder. Fiercer.

It was hips and thighs and stretch marks that looked like lightning bolts from God.

It was the woman I’d fought for. And I chose to love her.

I gave myself hyaluronic lip filler, not because I needed to “pass,” but because I wanted to play. To create beauty in my own image. A bit of Botox smoothed the lines carved by survival. I wasn’t chasing perfection. I was honoring transformation.

And then came Christopher.

Not a fantasy. Not a fetishist. Just a man who looked at me and didn’t look away.

He saw me in every size, every mood, every shade of real.

He made space for my softness. He never questioned my womanhood.

With him, I stopped trying to prove anything. I just existed. And that was enough.

Grindr? Oh, that was its own chapter.

When I first showed up as her, the attention flooded in.

More men than I’d ever known. More messages. More lust. More… confusion.

At first, I mistook it for validation.

But over time, I realized I was not just being seen,  I was being objectified.

So I drew lines. I said no. I said yes when I wanted to.

I learned what I deserved. And I stopped apologizing for taking up space.

Now, three years in, I am not a “before.”

I am not an “after.”

I am not a project.

I am a woman in motion.

A body in bloom.

A soul finally in sync with her skin.

No surgery. Just estrogen, blockers, love, fear, growth, softness, and steel.

This isn’t the end of my transition....it’s the becoming that never stops.

This is me.....becoming her. Every day. Every inch. E