I suppose the best place to start is with who I am.
My name is Lisa, but all my friends call me Lissy—though I’ve always wondered why, given it’s actually longer to say! (Typical, right?) I’ve recently hit my very late 30s, and I guess you’d call me a transvestite.
To be honest, I hate the endless gender identity labels thrown around these days. They feel so limiting, like a box that ties a soul down instead of letting it open up to all the possibilities life has to offer.
If you really want to know, I don’t think of myself as straight, gay, trans, male, or female—I’m just me. And trust me, I am unapologetically me.
But the world loves a label, doesn’t it? So if you need one, we’ll stick with trans for now.
To quote Albus Dumbledore (because why wouldn’t I?), "I have always prized myself on my ability to turn a phrase."
And so here I am, ready to lay myself bare in front of you—in some cases, quite literally.
I’m not "out."
I’ve been living as me—as "trans"— ish for the better part of two decades, but I’ve never truly revealed this side of myself to my family or most of my friends.
It’s a strange kind of duality, isn’t it?
Living unapologetically as Lissy in some spaces, while keeping her hidden in others.
So why is this?
Honestly, I’ve always felt this dichotomy within me.
There’s a huge part of me that would love to live full-time as Lissy—and in private, I more or less do. But then there’s Chris (fake name, of course).
Chris has a lot of positives. I’m a good athlete, for one, and I’d have to give that up if I started hormones, or at least expect to not compete at the level I compete at.
That’s a personal choice I’ve made, as sports and staying active are such a big part of my life. I also have complex feelings about trans people in women’s sports (more on that later), which plays into my decision.
More than anything, though, I’ve never wanted to put my friends and family in a position where they’d have to completely reframe their perception of me.
For me, being true to myself also means being mindful of the relationships I care about.
I firmly believe in the freedom to express yourself however feels right for you—that’s a cornerstone of who I am.
At the same time, I also recognize that not everyone has to engage with or fully understand someone else’s expression, and I try to approach that reality with respect and sensitivity.
I suspect that some of my family might suspect, but it’s never been brought up in conversation.
It’s one of those unspoken things that hovers quietly in the background, never quite stepping into the light.
As for my friends, I know a few of them are aware.
Years ago, an ex-girlfriend who discovered my truth decided to share it with four of them.
I only found out because I stumbled across their messages.
In a testament to the wonderful humans they are, they’ve never once let on that they know. Not a word, not a hint. They’ve kept that knowledge to themselves, respecting my boundaries in a way I’ll always be grateful for.
I have a wonderful group of friends as Lissy—people I truly adore. They’ve never met Chris, and sometimes I wonder if they’d even recognize me if they did.
I know, I know—I probably sound like a bit of a weirdo right now. Writing has a way of pulling out all the thoughts and contradictions you usually keep tucked away.
Maybe I should just embrace all of myself, every piece of who I am.
But if I’m being honest, on some level, I think I’m still that terrified teenager, trying to come to terms with being different.
It’s a process, isn’t it? The journey to fully loving and accepting yourself takes time, and I suppose I’m still walking that path.
Speaking of being a terrified teenager, let’s take a meander back in time—specifically, to the late ’90s and a 15-year-old me.
Picture it: a small bedroom cluttered with posters of pop stars and 90s icons, the unmistakable hum of a dial-up modem struggling to connect, and me, a nervous teenager, staring at my reflection in the mirror.
I think, deep down, I always knew there was something innately different about me. Even now, I can’t quite put my finger on it.
Let’s call it a certain softness—a quiet thread woven into my being that set me apart.
At school, I could put on a convincing front of being "one of the lads." In fact, I was a very good athlete (though I’m purposely avoiding specifics here—I’d hate to give myself away). But even with all that, I always felt like a pretender. Like I didn’t really fit.
As bodies began to develop and feelings around sexuality started to form, I found myself feeling a little… lost.
I think I was lucky—or maybe it was a subconscious choice, you decide—to be involved in a sport that required smooth skin. It gave me a built-in excuse to shave my legs, arms, chest, and anything else as body hair started to appear. While my teammates may have seen it as a necessity, for me, it was something more. It felt right in a way I couldn’t explain at the time.
Let’s return to the present...
There’s a lot of talk these days—particularly on social media, which always seems to amplify issues—about how the trans community, and trans women in particular, are caricaturing womanhood or making a mockery of what it means to be a woman.
This might be controversial—and, to be honest, I can be a little controversial—but I actually agree with this sentiment to a degree.
I’ve definitely noticed a shift in that direction, particularly from social media "influencers" and the like, and I can’t say it’s been a positive one.
It’s a tricky line to walk, but I feel that some of what I see does lean toward caricature rather than authenticity.
My own journey is rooted in a celebration of the femininity that is an integral part of who I am as a human being.
That’s my truth.
But I’m not, and never will be, a woman. I don’t claim to understand the full spectrum of joys, challenges, fears, and nuances that come with being a woman. That experience isn’t mine to own, or imitate.
So as I step into the next section, know that I’m speaking solely from my own experience—not from any place of impressionism or misrepresentation.
So, going back to the past again...
As a teenager, I discovered something that still delights me to this very day: the sheer, luxurious sensation of freshly shaven legs against soft bedsheets.
It was a revelation back then, and even now, it’s a pleasure I never tire of. These days, most of my body is waxed regularly (I’m a creature of habit), but I always leave my legs for something special.
Twice a week, I indulge in a little ritual: a candlelit bath infused with lavender-scented oils, where I carefully shave my legs, enjoying the process as much as the result.
Then it’s time to slip into a silk pyjama short set—always something beautiful—and slide between my Egyptian cotton sheets.
That moment, where smooth skin meets impossibly crisp, soft fabric, is pure heaven.
It’s one of the benefits of growing up—having a little extra cash for the finer things in life!
Anyway, as my journey of discovery continued—and something I’ve since realized was possibly another conscious choice rather than a journey of fate—I started experimenting with painting my nails (usually black, white, or a mix of both) and wearing makeup.
I know what you’re thinking: How did this kid’s parents not notice? Trust me, I’ve wondered the same thing.
But bear with me.
You see, I was massively into the nu-metal scene of the ’90s, we are talking Korn, Slipknot, even drifting towards The Misfits. I wasn’t quite a goth, but there was definitely a crossover between those worlds.
And one thing I don’t mind sharing publicly? I used to absolutely shred on my BMX, the BMX and Skate scene were a massive part of my life.
These alternative scenes weren’t exactly averse to makeup, painted nails, or pushing the boundaries of what was "normal." It gave me the perfect cover. Even though I was the only one of my friends that fully embraced that level of the scene, it let me express myself in ways I couldn’t otherwise.
Anyone who used to hang around the St. Anne’s Cathedral area in Belfast will know exactly what I mean.
Now, the next section of this story is something I’ve agonized over sharing for quite a while.
Even as I write this, I’m not entirely sure it’s something you, as the reader, need to know. But then again, we’ve already established that I’m not particularly "normal," haven’t we? So maybe that’s beside the point.
I could feel the femininity building in me. Sure, we hung around with girls—one of the perks of being on a sports team at school—but it was different for me. I always felt more at ease in their presence. It was a comfort I couldn’t quite explain, especially coming from an all-boys school.
Around that same time, we were at that age—when discovering porn became a thing (of course it did). But for me, it wasn’t just lust, though that was definitely there. It was something deeper.
I felt envy.
The beauty of the female form captivated me—not just in a sexual way, but in a way that stirred something inside. The delicate prettiness of lace underwear against skin, the effortless grace in how a woman moved, and the sheer power that could radiate from a single, sultry glance. It was intoxicating.
I had the urge to feel that beauty. To know that power. To be that captivating, alluring creature that could turn heads and command a room without a single word.
It wasn’t just about wanting to look a certain way—it was about embodying that magnetic energy, that delicate strength. I didn’t fully understand it at the time, but the yearning was undeniable. It wasn’t simply about admiration—it was about identification.
Then came the day I will always see as the moment everything changed. (This is the scary bit, so please don’t judge me too harshly.)
I was at home alone, which wasn’t unusual. And I found myself furtively entering my parents' bedroom, heart racing, as I timidly opened my mum’s underwear drawer. My fingers hesitated for a moment before I removed a lacy pair of pants and retreated to my room.
I sat there for a moment, staring at them, my mind swimming with doubt. Did this make me a pervert? Was I a weirdo? Even now, I can still picture that scene so vividly.
Slowly, I slid myself into the pants, taking in the way my shaven legs matched their delicate nature. It was something I immediately noticed and filed away in my mind.
Then came the bra.
I clipped it on and stood there, stunned. I didn’t really know what I’d expected—maybe to feel aroused.
But I wasn’t.
Instead, I felt something entirely different: I felt right. Like I belonged. For the first time, I felt totally comfortable, completely at ease with myself.
It was a feeling unlike any I’d experienced before.
I stayed like that for what felt like an hour, catching glimpses of myself in the mirror. Each reflection brought a jolt—not of arousal, but of excitement. A deep, quiet excitement.
I actually left it at that for a long time.
I think I was confused about how I felt. There was a part of me that wanted to revisit that moment, to explore it further, but something held me back.
Maybe it was shame. Maybe I was ashamed. I’m still not entirely sure.
What I do know is that the feelings stayed with me. They lingered quietly in the background, like a secret I wasn’t ready to face.
Now here’s the rub...
Belfast at the time wasn’t exactly the most "inclusive" of places, let’s put it that way.
And my family? Probably not the most open-minded of people. I’m sorry, but we’re about to get a little deep here.
When I was an early teenager, my second cousin took his own life.
He’d overheard a conversation between his dad and brother—filled with hateful remarks about "fucking queers."
Yep, you guessed it. He was gay.
And he felt like he couldn’t tell anyone.
The devastation that followed was heart-wrenching. His dad and brother never recovered from it. I think, deep down, they realized their words had been a part of what pushed him to such a tragic end.
This, my dear friends, is why you should never say things you don’t wholeheartedly believe—especially things that carry hate. Words have power. More power than you realize.
So, I held back.
Instead of fully embracing what I’d felt, I found solace in expressing myself in smaller, quieter ways. As I got older, I’d spend hours in a salon, letting a friend work her magic on my hair.
It became a running joke—I was "the vain one" in our group. But the truth? I just loved the energy of the salon.
The buzz, the chatter, the unapologetic focus on looking good. It was my happy place.
I also became obsessed with fashion. Tailored suits for work (leaving school early, it wasn’t for me, plus I was also more or less earning a living from sport so had a ‘job’ to top up funds), exceptionally expensive casual wear for weekends—it was all part of how I expressed myself.
Thankfully, I hit that phase right in the era of David Beckham and the rise of the "metrosexual," so it wasn’t exactly out of the ordinary, although it was at odds with the rough, tough, Northern Irish persona that my friends portrayed.
We were now at the point of me entering my twenties.
I’d had plenty of girlfriends along the way, but I somehow earned a reputation as "the boy to go shopping with."
My friends thought I just had a great eye for fashion, a natural flair for picking out the perfect dress or pair of shoes.
Little did they know, I wasn’t just styling them.
I spent hours planning outfits, shoes, bags, and entire looks—for myself. Every trip to the shops was another chance to piece together the wardrobe of the ‘woman’ I was quietly becoming, even if I couldn’t admit it out loud.
Eventually, my life took a terrible turn.
I can’t really talk about it—it would give Chris away—but it was a moment that shook me to my core.
And strangely enough, it also became the catalyst for my transformation, the kickstart to my blossoming into the person I am today.
I knew one thing for certain: I couldn’t survive in Belfast anymore.
So, I left.
I packed up my life—everything I had—and headed for the one place I knew I could finally begin to assume the form I had been so desperately seeking.
Did I know what that would look like? Nope. Did I have a plan? Not really.
But off I went.
What happened next? Well you will have to wait for that part of the story! |
xxx
