The alarm goes off. I press stop and grab my phone. It’s 4 am. I remove my blanket and, with my eyes barely open, head to the bathroom. I’m blinded by the white overhead light. I am now awake. I grab a towel and drench it in hot water as I prepare my face for my morning routine. As the hot towel warms my face, I prepare my razor. I begin to shave. First with the grain. Then against the grain. I rinse. Double cleanse. Then moisturise. I make my way back to my room to pick out an outfit for the day. Every morning, I have the same thoughts. Do I look masculine in this? Are my shoulders too pronounced? Should I work from home? Eventually, I try to overcome the blaring dysphoria, and I move to apply my makeup. Hide the shadow. Conceal the blemishes and shape the face. I stop for a moment and look back at the reflection in the mirror. I take a deep breath and decide maybe I do look alright. With that, I leave my home and make my way to work. Another morning. Another routine done.

Waking up in the morning. Going to work. Going on a night out. Meeting friends for coffee. These are all regular things I do on a daily basis. However, for many trans people and me, they are met with hurtful and complicated thoughts. Dysphoria: the mental state of unease due to the clear mismatch between our ‘gender at birth’ and our real gender. Describing how dysphoria feels is not something I find easy. It is a personal and profound emotion that exists throughout my life and probably will until my final days. Does it get easier? Yes, it does. Does it still hurt? Yes, it does.

When you talk to a trans person about dysphoria, more often than not, they will have a particular event or thing that triggers these thoughts. For me, it is going to work. I have worked in multiple jobs, in two different countries, as myself over the past four years. But, for some reason, it never gets easier. I worry about what my colleagues may think or how I may be treated. I panic if I don’t look ‘feminine’ enough or act a certain way. When I use the restroom, I rush in, rush out and hope no one says anything or sees me. This is how my brain operates.

In reality, over the past several months, I have learned that these thoughts are unfounded and without any real basis. My colleagues respect me for me. I am not misgendered. I am not confronted. I am treated like every other woman there. These more positive experiences have begun a process of altering the way I think.

Now, it is important to stress that dysphoria is not logical. It is a horrible feeling of disgust, anxiety and sadness. It is, however, something I try very hard to overcome. It is the positive moments that help me to realise that these thoughts are indeed not based in reality. They are, instead, thoughts that I need to understand will pop up, but my reality and my experience trump whatever negative words or feelings that enter my head.

Four years after publicly coming out, I am still overcome with happiness when I am gendered correctly, called my name or complimented on my makeup or clothes. It is these moments that help alter the way I think about myself.

In my head, I know I am a girl, and I know that by transitioning, I saved my life. I know that my life is better every day I live as my authentic self. It is not the approval of others that quashes my dysphoria, but it is my own internal recognition that I am me that usurps my dysphoric thoughts. Sometimes, hearing my name said back to me is enough to change the course of my day for the better.

It is little things like this that are not talked about when the trans experience is discussed. Whether that be by trans people themselves or others. Dysphoria and the impact it has on trans people is often swept under the rug to avoid causing discomfort to others. Most people will never understand the realities of what it is like to live as a trans person. Most won’t know the second-guessing that takes place day in and day out or the internalised transphobia that takes years to dismantle.

Dysphoria is a challenge. It is a hurdle that trans people jump every day. Even with this, trans people don’t stop. We still come out. We still overcome the odds of survival. We still walk the streets, walk the office halls and live amongst our neighbours. We present as the truest version of ourselves and walk with our heads high as we do. Dysphoria is not something that controls us. It is a darkness that we shine a light on in order for ourselves to shine brighter every day.

That’s the message I sent my best friend on a cold December night in 2020. That text was a stepping stone in allowing myself to come out of my shell. For the first time, another human being other than myself was going to know my truth. I was no longer going to be alone. That night, I went to bed petrified of what was to come. Had I made a mistake? Am I strong enough to go through with this? These questions swirled around my head for hours as I attempted to get some sleep. As I started to drift off, I was left with one thought: this would be my final night of lying to myself.

The next morning, I woke up in a sort of daze. My chest felt like it was being crushed by an elephant. My mind was moving at a thousand miles an hour with questions, thoughts and worst-case scenarios. I grabbed my coat, put on my shoes, took a deep breath and left my house towards the bus. Was I scared? Absolutely. Did I know what was to come? Not at all. I sat in a daze, staring into the distance, thinking how this conversation, this moment, will be what kick starts the beginning of my life. The bus came to a sudden stop and opened its doors. I stepped off, and there she was. Waiting for me with an expression that was both of happiness and concern. I walked over, said hello, and immediately she said, ‘‘What’s up?’’

My voice caught in my throat. I couldn’t get the words out. I was terrified. All of a sudden, I said, ‘‘I’m trans… I’m… I’m a girl.’’ Her response was cool and collected. She said, ‘‘ok. Do you have a new name?’’ At this moment, the tears were ready to stream. But, after taking a deep breath, I said, ‘‘Its Caitlin.’’ Suddenly, my best friend jumped up with excitement. Filled with absolute joy, she explained how happy and proud she was. We talked for hours, going over all the changes I could no longer wait to make. It was then that the fear dripped away and was replaced by a clear sense of happiness. I went home that day and realised for the first time; I wasn’t alone.

To say I felt relief would be a gross understatement. For me, this was the start of my transition. A journey that was going to change my life forever. Days and weeks followed as I came out to more friends and slowly started telling family. Each time I told someone, I was ready to lose them. Not because they showed signs of bigotry or anything remotely transphobic. But, with a massive increase in transphobic rhetoric in the news, social media and in politics, I was convinced that everyone would turn away from me. In reality, those who genuinely cared for me have stood by my side, day in and day out.

Life after this changed, and it changed quick. Within a year, I was Caitlin at university and Caitlin at my job. However, there was one more thing I had to do before it was all final; I had to make the dreaded Facebook post that notified everyone else of this new me. A post on a social media platform that seemed like it may be better to just put an ad in a newspaper.

Coming out is not something that I, as a trans woman, took lightly. I knew the significance of telling people. The risks. The chance of rejection. Or even worse, blatant transphobia. With that, coming out to people one at a time is tiresome. You build yourself up, deal with hours of anxiety, tell the person, then come down. Each time this cycle repeats. Each time you hope you don’t have to do it again. The purpose of my post was to notify the rest of my friends, family and acquaintances that this change has happened and that from now on I am going to live my life authentically.

In my room at university, I sat around with my friends and drafted the post. ‘‘This is just a little update about me to my friends and family…’’ It’s important to note that there was nothing ‘little’ about what followed that sentence. As I finished writing, I read each word. Again. Again. And again. In the end, as my thumb nervously hovered over the post button, I took a breath and clicked ‘post’. I threw my phone onto my bed. I looked around at my friends and said, ‘it’s done’. My best friend hugged me and said, ‘‘I’m proud of you. You make me proud to be a woman’’. At that moment, I had a thought that if someone else is proud of me, why am I not proud of me?

The reality was that I was so caught up worrying about everyone else, I never stopped to think of how far I had come. In the span of a little more than a year, I went from crying alone in my bedroom to walking down the street as the girl I once dreamed about. I had accomplished what I once thought was impossible.

Today, four years later, I look back at these moments with a sense of relief. Little did that younger version of me know that coming out was the most positive thing she’d ever done. I now have confidence, joy and a desire to live. I go to work, walk down the street, and wake up as a woman. The girl who once tiptoed around the house, in dresses and wearing makeup, hoping no one would see, now leaves the house wearing dresses and makeup without a second thought.

Coming out unequivocally saved my life. If I didn’t take that first step and tell my friend, there is a world where I wouldn’t be here today. Reflecting on these moments is difficult. They are full of pain, hardship and anxiety. But I am glad I did it. I wouldn’t change my journey, my story, for the world.