My Story – Chapter 1 – Feelings

Feelings are our Compass

It’s a gorgeous day to be alive. I’m grateful for everything that has brought me to this moment.

Feelings are with us all the time — a constant presence, like breath. Joy, love, sadness, fear, anger, excitement… all part of the rich rainbow of emotion that colors our lives. To say one has “no feelings” is, I believe, untrue. Feelings may be hidden, repressed, ignored — but they are always there, whispering to us, guiding us.

When we try to suppress them, they find other ways to speak — through tension in our body, through illness, through fatigue in our spirit. I’ve come to understand that unexpressed feelings, especially those like sadness, fear, or hate, can manifest in the body if we don’t acknowledge and release them. But these emotions also serve a purpose. They can be catalysts for change, nudging us toward growth, awareness, and deeper joy — as long as they are not used to harm.

Among all emotions, joy and love have always felt the most beautiful to me. But I’ve also come to appreciate that without sadness or pain, the sweetness of joy would not be as profound. Each emotion holds its own sacred lesson.

Looking back, I realise that feelings were my compass — the quiet truth that kept reminding me there was more to who I was than what others saw. As a child and into adolescence, I often felt things that didn’t make sense at the time. Little things, like the joy I felt when I waxed the hair from my arms or chest. Or the way a thought — the idea of being a girl — would bring an unexplainable sense of excitement and belonging.

I didn’t fully understand these feelings then, but they were real. Powerful. Persistent. They weren’t fleeting fantasies. They were inner truths — my soul’s compass pointing to my deeper self.

You can’t trick your feelings. You can’t reason them away. You can try to analyse them, try to suppress them with logic, but feelings have a language deeper than thought. Thoughts may open a door, but feelings are what step through it. They are the experience of being.

Some of my strongest feelings came through thoughts that sparked joy — like the idea of buying women’s clothing, painting a fingernail, or wearing something soft and feminine. These thoughts didn’t come from nowhere. They arose again and again, and with them came courage. They dared me to be seen. Dared me to walk into a women’s clothing store. Dared me to dream.

I was not gay. I wasn’t seeking relationships with men. I was married to a beautiful woman, someone I truly loved. But I carried a secret I couldn’t explain, even to myself. And so I stayed quiet.

I remember a moment so vividly. My wife had bought matching white summer pants for us — light cotton, feminine cut, buttoned on the women’s side. When I wore them and realised what they were, the feelings surged through me like lightning. Joy. Electricity. Affirmation. Even five years into marriage, that part of me was still alive, still breathing beneath the surface.

At the time, I believed those feelings were behind me. I had built a life as a businessman, a father, a husband — roles that had no space, no roadmap, for what I was feeling inside.

But the feelings never left. They would arise during quiet moments. In secret. In rituals. I remember tanning in a bikini that would leave tan lines only a woman would have — daring myself to be seen. Wearing lace underwear beneath a business suit as I walked into executive meetings with calm, quiet confidence. These were sacred expressions, not just fantasy. They were me — surviving in a world that didn’t yet understand.

I didn’t overanalyse these moments. I didn’t need to. The feelings were my nourishment, my strength in times of stress. They brought calm when I needed it most. They were a secret sanctuary.

Over time, I learned not to judge them. I didn’t need to explain them to anyone — not until I could explain them to myself.

And so I began a slow journey — over years — toward allowing these feelings to be real. It began simply. Swapping men’s underwear for women’s. Slipping into a skirt at home. Choosing softness over suppression. I wasn’t chasing an identity — I was responding to what felt right.

But this journey wasn’t easy. My wife eventually asked for a divorce. She thought I might be gay, which I wasn’t — but I couldn’t offer her clarity either, because I didn’t yet have it myself. What I had were feelings, truth, and a longing for wholeness.

In time, the divorce became a blessing. It was painful — yes — but it set us both free. My young adult children came to live with me, and my former wife found her own home. We all found space to breathe again.

When the divorce was finalised, it felt like chains had broken from my legs. For the first time, I was free. Free to explore, to express, to evolve. Free to be who I had always been — not someone reinvented, but someone revealed.