I Was Convinced Myself to Be a Gay Woman - The Music Icon Made Me Realize the Reality

Back in 2011, a couple of years prior to the celebrated David Bowie display debuted at the famous Victoria and Albert Museum in London, I declared myself a homosexual woman. Until that moment, I had exclusively dated men, including one I had wed. By 2013, I found myself nearing forty-five, a recently separated mother of four, residing in the United States.

During this period, I had started questioning both my gender identity and attraction preferences, seeking out clarity.

I entered the world in England during the early 1970s - before the internet. When we were young, my companions and myself didn't have online forums or digital content to turn to when we had questions about sex; instead, we turned toward celebrity musicians, and during the 80s, musicians were challenging gender norms.

The iconic vocalist sported boys' clothes, Boy George embraced feminine outfits, and pop groups such as popular ensembles featured performers who were proudly homosexual.

I craved his lean physique and defined hairstyle, his defined jawline and male chest. I wanted to embody the Bowie's Berlin period

Throughout the 90s, I passed my days operating a motorcycle and adopting masculine styles, but I reverted back to traditional womanhood when I opted for marriage. My spouse transferred our home to the US in 2007, but when our relationship dissolved I felt an irresistible pull returning to the male identity I had previously abandoned.

Since nobody experimented with identity quite like David Bowie, I opted to spend a free afternoon during a summer trip visiting Britain at the V&A, anticipating that possibly he could help me figure it out.

I didn't know exactly what I was searching for when I stepped inside the show - perhaps I hoped that by submerging my consciousness in the extravagance of Bowie's norm-challenging expression, I might, consequently, encounter a clue to my true nature.

Before long I was facing a small television screen where the music video for "that track" was recurring endlessly. Bowie was moving with assurance in the front, looking polished in a dark grey suit, while off to one side three backing singers wearing women's clothing crowded round a microphone.

In contrast to the performers I had witnessed firsthand, these ladies weren't sashaying around the stage with the poise of inherent stars; rather they looked unenthused and frustrated. Placed in secondary positions, they were chewing and rolled their eyes at the monotony of it all.

"Those words, boys always work it out," Bowie performed brightly, apparently oblivious to their reduced excitement. I felt a brief sensation of empathy for the accompanying performers, with their thick cosmetics, uncomfortable wigs and too-tight dresses.

They appeared to feel as ill-at-ease as I did in women's clothes - annoyed and restless, as if they were longing for it all to be over. Precisely when I recognized my alignment with three male performers in feminine attire, one of them tore off her wig, smeared the lipstick from her face, and showed herself to be ... Bowie! Revelation. (Naturally, there were additional David Bowies as well.)

Right then, I became completely convinced that I wanted to remove everything and emulate the artist. I craved his narrow hips and his precise cut, his strong features and his male chest; I aimed to personify the lean-figured, artist's Berlin phase. And yet I couldn't, because to genuinely embody Bowie, first I would require being a man.

Announcing my identity as gay was a separate matter, but personal transformation was a significantly scarier outlook.

I needed additional years before I was prepared. In the meantime, I did my best to adopt male characteristics: I abandoned beauty products and threw away all my skirts and dresses, shortened my locks and commenced using men's clothes.

I changed my seating posture, changed my stride, and modified my personal references, but I paused at medical intervention - the chance of refusal and second thoughts had left me paralysed with fear.

After the David Bowie display concluded its international run with a stint in New York City, after half a decade, I went back. I had reached a breaking point. I found it impossible to maintain the facade to be an identity that didn't fit.

Positioned before the identical footage in 2018, I knew for certain that the challenge wasn't my clothes, it was my biological self. I didn't identify as a butch female; I was a man with gentle characteristics who'd been presenting artificially since birth. I aimed to transition into the person in the polished attire, moving in the illumination, and now I realized that I could.

I booked myself in to see a physician shortly afterwards. The process required additional years before my transformation concluded, but none of the things I anticipated materialized.

I maintain many of my female characteristics, so others regularly misinterpret me for a homosexual male, but I accept this. I desired the liberty to explore expression following Bowie's example - and now that I'm at peace with myself, I am able to.