I Was Convinced That I Identified As a Gay Woman - The Legendary Artist Helped Me Discover the Reality

During 2011, a few years prior to the celebrated David Bowie exhibition launched at the renowned Victoria and Albert Museum in England, I declared myself a lesbian. Until that moment, I had only been with men, including one I had wed. By 2013, I found myself in my early 40s, a recently separated caregiver to four kids, residing in the US.

Throughout this phase, I had commenced examining both my personal gender and romantic inclinations, seeking out clarity.

I entered the world in England during the dawn of the seventies era - pre-world wide web. During our youth, my companions and myself didn't have social platforms or digital content to consult when we had questions about sex; conversely, we looked to celebrity musicians, and in that decade, musicians were playing with gender norms.

The Eurythmics singer sported boys' clothes, The Culture Club frontman embraced feminine outfits, and bands such as popular ensembles featured performers who were publicly out.

I wanted his lean physique and sharp haircut, his defined jawline and flat chest. I aimed to personify the Bowie's Berlin period

Throughout the 90s, I lived riding a motorbike and wearing androgynous clothing, but I went back to traditional womanhood when I decided to wed. My spouse transferred our home to the United States in 2007, but when the union collapsed I felt an undeniable attraction revisiting the male identity I had previously abandoned.

Given that no one experimented with identity to the extent of David Bowie, I decided to use some leisure time during a warm-weather journey visiting Britain at the gallery, anticipating that maybe he could guide my understanding.

I lacked clarity precisely what I was seeking when I entered the show - maybe I thought that by immersing myself in the opulence of Bowie's gender experimentation, I might, in turn, discover a insight into my own identity.

Before long I was standing in front of a modest display where the music video for "that track" was continuously looping. Bowie was moving with assurance in the primary position, looking sharp in a slate-colored ensemble, while positioned laterally three accompanying performers wearing women's clothing crowded round a microphone.

Unlike the entertainers I had witnessed firsthand, these female-presenting individuals weren't sashaying around the stage with the confidence of born divas; rather they looked disinterested and irritated. Relegated to the background, they chewed gum and expressed annoyance at the monotony of it all.

"Boys keep swinging, boys always work it out," Bowie sang cheerfully, seemingly unaware to their diminished energy. I felt a brief sensation of understanding for the accompanying performers, with their heavy makeup, awkward hairpieces and restrictive outfits.

They seemed to experience as ill-at-ease as I did in women's clothes - frustrated and eager, as if they were hoping for it all to conclude. Precisely when I realized I was identifying with three male performers in feminine attire, one of them removed her wig, wiped the makeup from her face, and showed herself to be ... Bowie! Shocker. (Naturally, there were two other David Bowies as well.)

Right then, I was absolutely sure that I aimed to rip it all off and emulate the artist. I wanted his slender frame and his precise cut, his angular jaw and his male chest; I wanted to embody the slim-silhouetted, Berlin-era Bowie. Nevertheless I found myself incapable, because to genuinely embody Bowie, first I would need to be a man.

Announcing my identity as homosexual was a separate matter, but personal transformation was a considerably more daunting outlook.

I required further time before I was willing. During that period, I did my best to embrace manhood: I stopped wearing makeup and discarded all my women's clothing, trimmed my tresses and started wearing male attire.

I altered how I sat, changed my stride, and changed my name and pronouns, but I halted before medical intervention - the chance of refusal and second thoughts had rendered me immobile with anxiety.

Once the David Bowie show completed its global journey with a presentation in Brooklyn, New York, five years later, I revisited. I had reached a breaking point. I was unable to continue acting to be something I was not.

Facing the identical footage in 2018, I was absolutely sure that the challenge wasn't my clothes, it was my body. I wasn't a masculine woman; I was a man with gentle characteristics who'd been presenting artificially since birth. I wanted to transform myself into the man in the sharp suit, moving in the illumination, and then I comprehended that I was able to.

I scheduled an appointment to see a physician shortly afterwards. The process required further time before my personal journey finished, but none of the fears I worried about materialized.

I continue to possess many of my traditional womanly traits, so others regularly misinterpret me for a queer man, but I'm OK with that. I sought the ability to experiment with identity following Bowie's example - and given that I'm comfortable in my body, I can.