On occasion I become humored when I read of someone who says they were “born into the wrong body.”
I figure I didn’t have a real choice. I had no choice on my parents, where I was born or the gender I was assigned. No matter what I thought, those three “facts” were non negotiable. Of course, as I grew, I learned while the “Big Three” were non negotiable, they could be questioned and even changed.
Like them or not, my parents will always be my parents. Sure, they had their faults but who doesn’t. As far as coming out to them, I tried to come out to my Mom. I was rejected and never tried again. I never tried to come out to my Dad. After all, I was doing my best to live a robust male life, so who cared?
I cared of course. As my gender dysphoria continued and began to take it’s own peculiar shape, I learned to suffer silently. Even though I think I came up with every possible question I could over why my gender issues were so prevalent, at no time did I come up with the idea I was born into the wrong body.
What I did come up with was I had a overwhelming desire to change the body I had. The more I was able to feminize it the better I would feel. I was fortunate in that the body I had was healthy enough to undertake hormone replacement therapy at a later age in my sixties. Thanks to HRT, I was able to learn the body which I was given was fluid enough to provide me a male foundation to play football and survive Army basic training all the way to presenting as a woman in public.
So, I guess I can say, I wasn’t born in the wrong body. I took what I had and adapted.