Can you remember the names of the kids in your class when you were at school? How far back? Even the ones who were neither your friends, nor your bullies?

I can't claim to remember all of them, but I've got quite a few stashed away in my head still, from age 5. Mark, Daniel, Tony, Sarah, Melanie, Karen (though at about age 8, she got moved to the year above the rest of us), Nina, Gary, Justin with the double-barrelled surname. I remember all their surnames, by the way — I'm just declining to publish them. Ah, and the twin girls who lived in the next street — now what were their names? Susannah and something, I think. Don't tell me, it'll come to me.

My point is that names stick. Almost 30 years since I last saw most of them, I can still remember almost all of their names, if not much else. Other than a bit of a personal blind spot some years ago for confusing Carolines with Catherines, I will often remember people's names with a high degree of accuracy, and for a long period of time. Ah, but what did they look like? Here, things are far more hazy.

As trans folk, many of us have old names that are associated purely with the past; and during transition, our appearances often change over time in a way that most other people's doesn't. Those memories of the past are often powerful and painful, a place we want to avoid being taken — or at least not go there unprepared. An unexpected reminder of a previous name, an inopportune sighting of a photo from the wrong part of our history, can be enough to seriously dampen the spirits for the rest of the day.

On mutability

Society teaches us that some things about a person are fixed, and some are mutable. Jobs, careers, where we live, having kids – all things in which society teaches us to expect changes. Partners, too (and that's more fluid now than it would have been 30, 40, 50 years ago). Even general life circumstance, such as bankruptcy or homelessness, we understand can happen, even if we don't expect it. Surnames? Women change their names when they marry, society used to teach us, though that's less true now than it used to be. For men, surname changes continue to be uncommon. Forenames? Nah, they're fixed, we're told. And gender — you what, now? You're having a laugh, ain't you?

Appearance, too, is subject to some odd and arbitrary rules. We expect people to get bigger as they grow from birth to adulthood. We expect that their appearance, in body and face shape, will change significantly around puberty. We allow for people to put on weight, and to lose weight – or neither. We expect that people's skin will look more aged over time, for their general posture to drop, for their youth to leave them. (But have you noticed how much younger a happily-transitioned person looks, compared to how they looked before?)

Words

It always surprises me when, on meeting a trans person for the first time, some people will almost immediately disclose their old name, even though as far as I can tell they don't have to. Even if they've not used that name for months. It's so directly opposed to my own approach, I honestly don't know what to make of it.

Society is wrong, of course, but it's hard to escape its influence. Deeply ingrained in the mind, is still that rule, the one that says: “forenames are forever”. As if the name your parents chose for you shortly after your birth is some kind of Universal Immutable Truth, just as inarguable as gravity making things fall downwards, or Christmas happening each winter. As if your True Name was written in the destiny of the heavens when you were born, and by some process that science still can't explain, your parents just happened somehow to know Your Name Of Eternal Truth.

Whatever.

But that ingrained rule, it causes damage. It is damage. It teaches us that, if someone's name was previously “A”, and now they're saying it's “B”, then they are lying and really “A” is still true. This is a very damaging lie, and I HATE THE FACT THAT IT HAS BEEN BURNED INTO MY HEAD. For now, the main defence I have against this perversion, this corruption in my head placed there by other people, is that I must never know someone's old name. Once known, it's almost impossible to un-know, and thus I must never find out in the first place.

I hate that this is true. I long for the day when that corrupt rule in my head is weakened, is gone. One day.

This is why I hate knowing people's old names — there's no value in knowing it, and once known, I find the old name almost impossible to forget.

But maybe there is value: not for the person being told, but for the person doing the telling: the power of deliberately releasing this supposedly-powerful thing, to demonstrate that in fact it has no power at all. For as long as the secret is held onto, there remains the anticipation – not always favourable – of disclosure. What will happen when people find out? How would that make me feel? Much like coming out in the first place, this is another secret that we each have to choose how to handle: whether to defend, to attempt to keep the secret; or whether to pre-empt what is perhaps inevitable, not to call it a secret. It's just a fact about our past like any other, with as much power over us as “where we used to live”, “what job we used to do”,  or “what TV shows we used to like”.

Pictures

In contrast to the difficulty of forgetting a word, appearances are much more indistinct. Sure, the human brain is evolved to be good at processing people's faces, and we can be very familiar with those that we see day-to-day. But it needs constant reinforcement. If I don't see someone for a while, the mental image I have of them will become progressively more elusive. I might think I remember what they look like, but the details of their faces slip away from me when I try to recall them, just as surely as if I'd tried to grab a handful of fog. Conversely, repeatedly seeing a contemporary image of someone reinforces that image; and absent of any continual reminder of what they used to look like, the past is allowed to fade, and the present remains strong.

We've all seen trans people posting before & after pictures, for various values of “before” and “after”. Before I came out, look at the dead eyes. The day I started taking HRT. First time I went out “as myself”. Twelve months on hormones, feeling good. Look how far I've come, I can't believe it. It's part self-validation (and there's absolutely nothing wrong with that), part showing others what can be done, showing what's possible. A message of hope, a voice calling out from the twisting, unseen path ahead, showing that the way if perhaps is not clear, is worth exploring, and perhaps traveling. So there's definitely value in sharing these old images, both as self-love, and to support others.

My past, my choices

I've had the good fortune of finding almost all of my trans friends, my Twitterverse, since I changed my name. It's been pretty straightforward to keep my old name to myself, to keep it quiet. All I have to do is not tell people. After all, what good would it do you if I told you anyway? I could tell you literally any one of a hundred or so popular names that white middle-class southern-English baby boys were given in the 1970s, and they'd all be equally plausible, and they'd all tell you the same thing: precisely nothing.

Sharing my old name, and my old-me photos, has been something that I've declined to do, at least so far – with a couple of exceptions. Occasionally I've posted an old picture, somewhere on a part of the Internet visible only to friends, and then deleted it a little while later; and sometimes I've shown someone an old photo in person, waved my phone at them, so that I know that the image hasn't been copied, doesn't need to be “taken down”. As soon as I've got my phone back, closed that app, from that moment on, the memory of what I used to look like is already fading from their minds, and the conversation moves on.

Our old names and photos are usually associated with powerful emotional memories. Sometimes of specific things that were said, or particular things that happened; or perhaps more generally with the state of our lives, our state of mind, at the time. What we did, or didn't do; how that made us feel. So these words and images have a strong connection to these emotional states, they draw on our pasts, and in ways which we don't always appreciate. Therein lies their power. You can even feel just a trace of that power when looking at other people's pre-transition photos. If a post-transition friend shows you an old photo of theirs, it's still possible to feel just a fraction of their emotions yourself (hence the “dead eyes” comment from earlier) – but it's far more powerful for pictures of yourself.

My pre-transition and post-transition selves are at once both the same person, and yet very, very different. So that old name? In many senses, that's not me. It has less power over me with each passing day; with every day, with every interaction with other people on this planet, the image of new-me is reinforced, and that person that nobody's seen for a few years slips further and further away. Him? Oh, yeah ... no. No, we kind of stopped talking. He doesn't come round here any more.

Maybe one day, I will find myself deliberately revealing my old name to the public at large, via some tweet or post. Perhaps because it still has power, and so by stripping it of its secret status, I'll have robbed it of that power; I'll feel relieved that I don't have to guard it any longer. Or maybe I'll wait for it to lose its power first. But when will that happen? Today, this still feels like quite a distant prospect.

But photos? Well ... never say never.

I didn't seriously think about my gender identity, actually really questioning my gender, until I was in my late 30s. I came out as gender non-conforming at age 39, and as trans at age 40. And because I realised I was a trans woman, that therefore made me lesbian too. So for the first 39 or so years of my life, I thought of myself as a cis-het male; and then from age 40-ish onwards, I've been a trans lesbian.

Basically, I'm still very new to all things LGBT, and I have no choice but to admit it, I'm ignorant of so much of LGBT history. To a large extent, LGBT history is really only learned by LGBT people – or perhaps those close to someone LGBT, a family member maybe. None of which was the case for me. I'm very much late to the party, so to speak.

Some of the bigger themes of history are easier to pick up on, of course – that sex between men was previously criminalised, and now isn't; the general advance of LGBT rights. But therein lies the trap: for those who've only recently started paying attention (such as myself), it's very easy not to see the wider historical context into which we fit. And it's all too easy to look at the last few years and think: We're increasingly visible, and representation and acceptance by society is improving. Life is good. And it is good, but let's not get complacent.

Recently, to mark the 50th anniversary of the Sexual Offences Act 1967, the BBC has been showing a series of programmes under the banner Gay Britannia (disclosure: I work for the BBC). While the content has been criticised has being too gay-centric instead of balanced LGBT – there's an interview there with the head of PinkNews, where he praises Little Britain, for crying out loud – I nevertheless gave some some of the programmes a watch.

Against The Law is a film about life as a gay man in the 1950s and early 1960s, when the law, the press and society persecuted anyone it suspected of being homosexual. Broadly speaking I suppose I was already aware of most of this, but seeing it dramatised brings it into sharp focus; and in particular I wasn't aware of some of the ways in which they tried to “treat” homosexuality. Quite an eye-opener, actually.

The other programme I watched was Prejudice and Pride: The People's History of LGBTQ Britain, an assembled narrative using news archive, interviews, and highly personal artefacts and stories. After the partial decriminalisation of male homosexuality in the 60s, this programme goes on to tell stories of seeing lesbianism represented in fiction, of gay communes and nightclubs, of having a gay bar where, for the first time, the windows weren't blacked out, being visible, not being ashamed. And of HIV/AIDS, and of Section 28.

Some of the stories very much rang true for me – but two in particular, I'd like to talk about further.

1987; the UK government launched its AIDS awareness campaign via TV and cinema and a leaflet to every household in the land. The slogan: “Don't Die Of Ignorance”, with AIDS represented as terrifying grey monolith, like a headstone, slamming into the ground. I was 14, and went to a boys' school. I fancied girls, at least in theory – but I was way too socially withdrawn for sex with another person to be anything but a distant thought. Sex, and therefore HIV/AIDS, was something that happened to other people. So now, 30 years later, watching this programme as people relate tales of lost loved ones, of memorials, of a great coming-together of people in shared grief and solidarity – that was all new to me, something which I'd not really thought about before.

Likewise Section 28, wherein homophobia was once again enshrined in the law, banning the “promotion” of homosexuality by local authorities. Now this was very much during my lifetime (1988-2003; when I was ages 15-30). But still, it was something that affected other people, because I was “straight”, I wasn't gay. And I shudder to think what language I would have used at the time to describe what I would now call “cis”. Again, I found it quite an eye-opener to see how the government enacted this law, and the chilling effect it had on queer people, on teachers, on anyone working in local authorities. How LGBTQ people united to fight this threat, in many ways which I don't remember – and a couple which I do [1, 2]; and how this led to the formation of Stonewall.

I'd imagine it's very different for people who realised they were trans much sooner (even if they didn't come out, or perhaps didn't even fully understand or have the language), or for people who already identified as something other than heterosexual. If you already knew you were LGBT back when these events were occurring, you'd have a very different take on it, I assume – it'd be part of your life too.

If we weren't still fighting the same oppressions then perhaps there'd be less need to learn our history. I hated history at school; the last history test I ever took was at age 13, about Mussolini and Italian Fascism. I scored 3/25. To a large extent I saw history as an irrelevance, but knowledge of history is useful in that it helps us to interpret the events of the present, and to guide and shape the future. I'm struggling to think of ways in which what I learned about the Saxons and the structure of their settlements is particularly relevant to my daily life; but with the current struggles against nazism, fascism and the far-right, the Mussolini example, above, is perhaps apt.

Likewise, as minority groups LGBT people continue to have to fight back against oppression. Whether it's verbal or physical abuse by those around us; or discrimination in the school or workplace; or the publication and broadcast of homophobic and transphobic content; or the questioning, the promotion of fear, the othering of us by those in power; and of course all those fights and more faced by those overseas, including criminalisation, violence, imprisonment, and death.

Being more aware of our history helps us fight all this, not least by helping us to see the injustices in the first place – but also to be more aware of the very possibility of erosion, of regression of those hard-won rights. I wrote above about how it's easy to look at just the last few years and think that visibility is increasing, acceptance is improving, life is good – but the recent rise of the far-right and its resultant increase in hate crime shows that our gains are fragile, and can be lost, and by being more aware of our shared community history, we can be more aware of the threats against us today, and better placed to fight them.

The news these days isn't a barrel of laughs; it's depressing, it's wearing, is tiring. It's OK not to engage. It takes strength, which we can draw from each other, but do not feel obligated to take part. Do whatever's right for you. But if you do find yourself wanting to fight back, you could perhaps do worse than take time out to go and learn some more of our shared history.

The first LGBT event I ever went to was Summer 2014, a march in London. I didn't really have any friends who I could go with, so I went along on my own – and yes, I enjoyed the day, but it was an event that seemed oddly without purpose or direction, somewhat sparsely attended, and I made only fleeting connections to other people.

Then, later that year, something started to change: I started to find a group of people, on Twitter, who I became friends with. Like, really friends – in a way that I didn't even realise I was missing before. Then in June 2015, I met up with some of these people, face-to-face, for the first time.

Just a month later: my first Trans Pride Brighton. I went along, again travelling and staying alone, but at least this time I knew maybe three or four people, who I threatened to stick to like glue. And then I got there, and something remarkable happened: hundreds of trans and non-binary people, all gathered together, proudly declaring their existence, demanding their rights, colourfully, noisily, and peacefully. After spending years in shame, and unaware of the other people like me out there, this was simply a revelation. At the end of the weekend, when it was time to leave these people, my friends, and go home, I cried; and one of my friends hugged me. Another new thing.

If 2015 was a revelation; 2016 was simply bigger and better. We marched down to the seafront, and along the main road towards Hove, the road closed on one side. Thousands of us, this time. We were noisy, we waved flags, we chanted slogans, and the public waved at us, cheered us on, car horns loudly adding support. And afterwards, we chilled out in the park, in the sun, again surrounded by so many people, and again I was reminded of the wonderful diversity of the trans and non-binary spectrum.

It's worth recognising, though, that some people really would like to come to this sort of event – for the friends, for the connections – but really struggle with big crowds. I hope those people do come, and find a way to enjoy the weekend in a way that works for them. The march, and the park afterwards, are a significant part of the day, but by no means the only way to enjoy it.

For me, then, Trans Pride represents friendship; connection; visibility; declaration; demonstration; diversity; inclusion. Being part of the march, being part of the community, being part of a group of real, genuine friends.

Belonging.

As I write this I'm here in Manchester for Sparkle Weekend, 2017. It's only the second time I've been – I came last year too – and while it's not quite the ideal event for me personally, I have nevertheless returned. Why?

It's obvious to anyone who's been here, that although it bills itself as “the world's largest trans celebration”, the event itself is aimed far more at the part-time / cross-dressing end of the transgender spectrum than at people like me. And although I'm not a fan of the label “transsexual”, it's definitely at times like these when it feels like it might be useful to have labels to help us talk about these things – about the different ways of being trans, all of which are OK. Because being trans, or non-binary, is just who we are. We all experience some kind of mismatch or dissatisfaction with our assigned gender, but how we react to that and deal with those feelings varies from person to person.

We could use language as terse as “some of us transition, some don't” – but even then, that's treating “transition” as a yes/no option, as if it's a single thing, which we know that it isn't. So let's be more specific.

How we deal with our gender identity (or, to put it more simply, our gender) – varies along many axes. What, if anything, do we tell our partners, our friends, our families, our colleagues? How do we present ourselves to the world, in our clothing, our hair, our skin, our voices, our speech, our mannerisms, our actions? What do we ask people to call us – our names, our pronouns? Do these things vary depending on context, or day of the week, or how we feel? Then, there's the things which, while they can be changed, can't be switched into and out of at will (if that's your thing): hair removal, body mass, hormones, or various forms of surgery.

It's easy – and potentially even useful – to label people as “part time” or “full time” or “transitioning” or “transitioned”, but that greatly contracts and simplifies a complex picture which we would do well to recognise as actually containing far more nuance, complexity and detail.

So, I'm here at Sparkle not just to hang out on the edges of the event, to meet up with friends, and generally have fun, but also for another reason. Because after all of the changes that I've achieved with my transition – which I now regard as effectively “complete” – I recognise where I was, where I came from, what I've been through. Although I didn't come to Sparkle until I'd already changed a great many things about myself, I look around, and I still see in those around me an essence of how I used to be.

This lunchtime, Lisa Severn and I will be holding one of the workshop events here, because we hope to be able to give back, to help some of the people here deal with their own gender: to deal with “transition”, whatever that entails for them. We're not experts – we'll simply be telling our stories, and hoping to facilitate discussion with any who attend. With luck, those of us who have already been down a path, can make the way easier for any who choose to follow.

You know how the story begins. The bit about trying to get HRT, that magic wand to give puberty a second wind, to drive changes in one's body and mind in the desired direction, towards one's correct gender. To get you nearer to where you need to be. I'd first gone to my GP near the start of 2013; and then, near the start of 2015 (yes, I think I was lucky – I only had to wait 24 months), I was at last on a combination of a T-blocker injection, and oestrogen. Those sweet little magic pills, twice a day.

Of course, with a second puberty, just as with the first, you expect major changes to the body. It would, perhaps, be surprising if it were all plain sailing. So when the symptoms first started appearing, I didn't really think much of it. Raynaud's Phenomenon, I now know it to be called: for me, basically an inability to regulate the temperature in my hands, in my fingers. On a warm sunny day, my hands could feel as cold as if I was making snowballs in winter. And then, just as suddenly, they'd feel like they had a fever – just in my hands, you understand – and I would have to run them under ice-cold water to get them to feel anything like comfortable.

Thankfully, this didn't last long. Maybe 3 months or so. But then, it was replaced by something worse.

Just as I'm starting to enjoy the softer skin that oestrogen was giving me, my hands start doing almost the opposite: they develop patches of thicker, rougher skin that have never been there before. Small patches at first, then gradually covering most of my fingers and thumbs. Meanwhile, the palms of my hands, down to the wrists and up to the fingertips, have gone raw, shiny and red. That thick skin, especially at my fingertips, develops deep lines, that become cracks, that then open up and bleed. Generally only one open cut at a time, which then heals after a couple of weeks or so. But then, I'm looking with suspicion at those deep lines in my fingers, on my thumbs, wondering which one will give way next, which one will be the next to break open, the next source of my pain. And then one does split open, and round we go again.

I crave soft, pale, feminine hands; but instead I have bright red palms, my fingers bleed, and my rough skin catches on everything.

Summer, 2015. I suddenly realise that my hands aren't as flexible as they should be. I can no longer grip small-diameter objects (for example, to open a soft drink bottle top), or manipulate small objects (coins, keys), or make a fist. My hands no longer have the strength to hold and operate spray aerosols, such as deodorant. I realise that, at some point and without realising, I've also changed the way I hold my toothbrush, because I can no longer hold it the “right” way, the way I'd normally hold it. When the hell did that start? My fingers become puffy, my rings no longer fit. I get a lot of cramp, too, in my legs and hands. At one point, when I flexed my fingers, I could feel the creaking of the tendons within the palms of my hands. Eww. I'm glad to say, that particular symptom went away pretty quickly.

A few months earlier, just after starting HRT, I had allowed myself to be discharged from the Charing Cross GIC. Now, a few months later, I'm back at my GP, wanting to go back to the GIC again. I can't help but notice the connection: I start HRT; the problems with my hands start. Coincidence? I don't know. That's why I want to go back and ask them. But of course, this part of the story is one that you can guess: the GIC are not quick to respond.

September. My hands are getting worse. I'm also getting a lot of pain in my ankles and knees: for example, if I've been sat with my colleagues having lunch, it can be agony trying to stand up again afterwards. That's new, that's not cool. Oh, and my hands are curling inwards – I have to really fight to flatten my hands enough to touch palm-to-palm. Hands curling backwards slightly – as healthy hands can – is way beyond my abilities. So I'm trying to get in touch with the GIC to hurry things along, or to at least get confirmation that I'm back in the queue. But no, trying to get information out of them, between appointments, is like trying to get blood out of a stone. I chase them for a month, to no avail.

Late September: I have a cough. I just can't shake it. On and on it goes, and of course I go to my GP after the first few weeks, but they're no help. Mid-December, and the cough is a lot worse. One evening at home I have a coughing fit while on the stairs, and it's all I can do to stop myself falling back down the stairs to the hallway. I go back to my GP, again. I tell them all of these symptoms, and explain the difficulty being re-admitted to the GIC. I ask to be referred to a different GIC, but he refuses.

Late December 2015, and the doctor has suggested I go to see the asthma nurse. I use an inhaler for a while, but it makes no difference. And then, just as I'm about to leave, the nurse asks to look at my hands. Have I had trouble with very cold fingers, she asks? I tell her yes, I tell her all about that, and the cracking skin, and the redness, and the stiffness. She refers me to the local hospital.

Finally. We're getting somewhere.

I forget the exact order, but I'm sent for two CT scans, a lung biopsy, an echo cardiogram, several lung function tests, and probably others that I've forgotten. The chest clinic refers me to the rheumatism clinic. The doctor at the rheumatism clinic immediately suspects the problem, refers me to a specialist hospital, and at last I have a name for this condition (although it's unconfirmed at this stage): “Scleroderma”, from the Greek skleros, meaning "hard", and derma, "skin".

Whereas February and March 2016 were are blur of appointments, tests and consultations, suddenly, things went quiet. I waited. The only treatment I'd been given so far was a cough suppressant. Needless to say, this did nothing for my hands, which continued to crack open. I tried various moisturising creams, but nothing really worked. I slathered it on at night, and wore white gloves in bed, to keep the cream in place, next to my skin. I took baths, with added moisturising oils. It all barely helped, if any.

I found it hard to eat and swallow. Mealtimes became hard work, a slog just to try to get the food down. I'd often abandon part of my meal uneaten, not because the food wasn't fine (it was), and not because I was full (I wasn't), but simply because I was bored and tired of taking so damn long to eat anything. I choked a lot, too – several times during 2015 / 2016, my wife was seconds away from having to call 999. I got a lot of congestion and phlegm which refused to shift, and sometimes made it hard to talk.

At work, I struggled. I've got a desk job, but it still sometimes involves walking around the building from room to room, and if nothing else, the office is still a long way from home, two hours in each direction. To that extent, even just turning up for work was a physical challenge, and one that I was increasingly unable to meet: I'd get to work, and immediately I'd be exhausted, useless. Why am I doing this, again? I arranged to work from home 2 days a week, but even that wasn't enough. Surely this wasn't sustainable. Work referred me to Occupational Health, which was (from my point of view) basically a waste of time: no amount of workplace assessment, and getting me different chairs, or keyboards, or adjusting my monitors, is going to help me regain lung capacity. You know what would really help? Not having a two-hour commute.

For maybe 4 months or so, I start using the Priority Seats on trains. You know, the seats nearest the doorways, the ones that people often offer to pregnant women. I hate having to ask, because, well, I hate admitting to myself that I'm ill, and I hate disturbing people, and therefore possibly confronting them. Some people are really nice: they surrender the seats quickly, without question:

Me: “Excuse me, may I have the priority seat please?”

Man sat in seat: “Why?”

Me: “Because I need it.”

That worked. But sometimes, things aren't so smooth. Once, I've run for the train – but when I say “run”, my lungs really don't let me run very fast. My running is basically the same as other people's brisk walking.

Me (very much out of breath and ready to keel over): “Excuse me, may I have the priority seat please?”

Man sat in seat: “You can't just have a seat just because you're a bit out of breath”

I think of all of the hospital appointments I've been to, the CT scans, the echo cardiogram, and far more.

Me (between catching breath): “I'm not here to discuss my medical history”, and I repeat my request for the seat.

The man, very reluctantly, moves.

Or the one where the man in the priority seat asked if I was pregnant (well, correct gendering, so that's nice), but when I refused to answer on the basis that my medical details were none of his business, he in turn refused to vacate the seat.

Let me be quite clear: At this time, nothing would give me greater pleasure than being healthy enough not to require the priority seats. Before I was ill, I used to be quite happy sitting on the floor of the train, even if there were seats: someone more needy could sit there. But with this illness, my mobility was significantly impaired: sitting down on the floor, and getting up again afterwards, were hard now. I had to really think about how to do so. Standing up by myself would take time, and thought, and planning, and a lot of space. Often, I accepted the help of friends or strangers.

I'll admit it: I was worried. Where would all of this lead? Would I regain the full use of my hands? Could I become as mobile as I used to be, until only recently? Would I have to stop taking HRT? In mid-2015, I'd made the decision that I did want GRS – but would this illness be an impediment to me achieving that goal? HRT and GRS obviously meant a lot to me, and there seemed a very real possibility that they might be in danger.

Eventually, in late 2016, the appointment with the specialist comes through: the Royal Free Hospital, in north London. Yet another day off work, but, whatever it takes: I'm there for probably about 3 hours in all, various tests, and consultations, and so forth. They tell me that they're sure I have Scleroderma, but they're not yet sure what kind. It's an auto-immune condition, and in my case, it's causing thickening of the tissues in my ankles, knees, hands, and lungs. I have scarring at the base of my lung which I'm told will never get better; this has reduced my lung capacity. And additionally, the thicker lining of the lung means that oxygen is not absorbed as easily into the blood, and so even the capacity I do have isn't working as well as it should.

After I've seen one of the doctors, someone else more senior comes in to meet me: a professor. He's very excited. Scleroderma, he tells me, is a condition that affects around 1 in 5000 people, and it affects women five times more often than it affects men. He's very interested in the fact that I'm transgender, and that my symptoms started at the same time as I started HRT. I belong to two uncommon sets of people – transgender, and Scleroderma – and I lie at the even-rarer intersection of the two. I feel like a hard-to-find research data point.

This point in the story, by the way, is where my GRS happened. Fun thing about that: at the pre-op consultation, I said I had Scleroderma, and rheumatism in my hands, and the surgeon asked me if that was going to stop me being able to dilate. Of course, I said "no" – I didn't want to say anything that was going to jeopardise my transition! Truthfully, though, the answer should have been "I don't know", since by that point, I didn't really know exactly what GRS aftercare actually involved. As it turned out, yes, my condition did make a few things a bit harder – mainly getting into and out of the bath. But basically, practice makes perfect: I had to do it several times a day, and I quickly became quite good at it.

A few months later, early 2017, and I return to the Royal Free for more tests. And at last: now, two years after the problem started, I finally get to start medication to actually treat this condition. In fact, it's a cocktail of 4 different drugs and 3 vitamin supplements, all on top of the HRT.

So at last, to mid 2017, to the present day. Things are getting better now. The cracking open of the fingers – “digital ulcers”, they called it – went on for something like 15-18 months, then stopped. The redness on my hands has improved, but could still be better. My lungs aren't quite as good as they used to be, I think, but they're far better than they were at their worst. I can flatten my hands, and even bend them back slightly. And, small victories: I can now open soft drinks bottles on my own – I no longer have to ask friends and colleagues, or indeed strangers in the street, to open them for me. I still can't make fists, but that's getting closer.

So far, I've been on the medication for 3 or 4 months, and the signs are looking good. I think they're thinking this might take 3 years or so in total. There's a bit of a way to go yet.

The timeline of this illness has been entangled with the timeline of my GRS, and subsequent recovery. I've achieved most of what I wanted from my transition – second puberty is a work in progress of course – but those soft hands are still proving somewhat elusive. I keep taking the medication: the pills, the gels, the creams. And I keep moving towards the life I want to lead, one step at a time.

Read more about Scleroderma at NHS Choices or at Scleroderma & Raynaud's UK

Back in the very early '90s, Usenet was a popular way to communicate on the Internet. And, it being the early '90s, the Internet wasn't in people's homes, let alone in our hands wherever we went. The Internet was primarily used in academia. And so, in September at the start of every academic year, there'd be a fresh influx of people new to this Internet and Usenet thing, and it'd take them a while to learn what it was all about. There'd be lots of question, people learning the ropes and the rules and the etiquette. And then eventually, they'd get the hang of it (or, they'd log off and put this weird "Internet" thing back in its box to gather dust).

But then in September 1993, something different happened: AOL began sending everyone (and I mean, everyone) free AOL signup CDs. The number of people using the Internet started to climb as never before, and it wasn't just in annual bursts each Autumn. Rather, now there was a continual stream of new people on the Internet, and therefore there was a never-ending supply of people not knowing the rules, or how things worked. That yearly cycle of "people not knowing stuff" each September now became an every-day, never-ending phenomenon.

Thus began "The Eternal September".

There are, perhaps, interesting parallels with transgender people. While it's never been true (to my knowledge at least) that our comings-out and realisations came in yearly cycles, there is of course a continuous supply of newly-realised, freshly-out trans people.

Now, trans stuff aside: if you or I were to suddenly develop an interest in, oh, I don't know, bird-watching for example, we'd probably recognise that (a) there's lots to know about bird-watching, and (b) we're not the first people to ever get into bird-watching, and (c) there are lots of other bird-watchers already who know an awful lot more about bird-watching than we do. And thus, although we might enthuse to people at large about our new-found interest for this area, we'd no doubt recognise our own limitations, and hold back on proclaiming ourselves experts in our favourite new subject.

But this humility, this ability to recognise one's own limitations of expertise, often seems missing among trans people – or at least, the more vocal ones (and yes, there's some confirmation bias at work here). A person who, having reached adulthood, then realises they're trans, might (apparently) easily mistake this realisation of their own trans-ness for a wider understanding of trans issues – without recognising that they've only just started to see one tiny piece of the puzzle, from one individual viewpoint. And thus, unknowingly encumbered by this misunderstanding, they overestimate their own expertise in all matters transgender.

Why might it be that this problem affects trans people, but not bird-watchers (for example)? I can see two main reasons. Firstly, activism fatigue: speaking out, being an activist, being visible, continually working against a never-ending onslaught of transphobia in all its forms, can be exhausting. It is the nature, therefore, of exhausting work that those who have been doing it for a while – those who might be most experienced in the field – take a step back, drop out. And when that happens, they tend to become invisible, unavailable for other would-be activists to learn from. The second reason I see is that some trans people choose to go even more invisible than that: they go "stealth". They shed the label "trans", preferring instead to be re-assimilated into the binary cis world, blending back into the throng from which they had previously stepped forth. So again, this is another way that we lose experience and knowledge from our collective pool.

Generally, for most individuals that is, this is probably not a huge problem, as our individual spheres of influence are not large. But what happens in the case of the more high-profile, the celebrity transitioner? Firstly, the celebrity's sphere of influence is that much larger, so the potential for damage done by poorly-chosen words or ill-considered opinions is that much greater. (But note that they are allowed to just be plain wrong and have bad opinions – that's a separate problem entirely). But also, the celebrity might well see publicity, the act of broadcasting their message to an audience, as a goal of merit in and of itself: TV or radio appearances, newspaper columns, online articles, might all attract a fee. Or at least more publicity, which is the next best thing. And dare we dream (gasp) of awards ceremonies?

So there's gold in them thar opinions, however ill-formed they are.

Eventually, after enough foot-in-mouth incidents, enough of a backlash, the celebrity transitioner might start, like their non-celebrity counterparts, to learn more about the subject matter; to understand the wider context; and to gain a more thorough appreciation of their own (lack of) expertise in the field. And maybe, what they say starts to become more considered, more balanced. Less hurtful, and more helpful.

By that point though the fickle public has moved on to listen to a different, newer celebrity. Or one might cynically suggest that the media outlets sense that the celebrity's mellowing opinions don't sell as well as they used to, precisely because they're more considered. And they move on.

But never fear, there's always a fresh supply of the recently-enlightened-trans: those who've seen the light, and are ready to spread the good word – however little of the book they've actually read.

Welcome to the Eternal September of the transgender world.

Monday, 29th October 2007: the day I started work with my current employer. I've had the good fortune to be in a supportive, steady job now for getting on for a decade.

Monday, 30th January 2012: the day I came out to my boss as gender non-conforming (what I actually said was: "So..... the thing is ... I like wearing women's clothes!"). And so I spent the next five years transitioning: changing presentation, laser, HRT, changing name/title/gender/pronoun, electrolysis, roughly in that order. Lots of my current colleagues therefore knew me from before I transitioned; but increasingly, as people come and go, lots of them have never known me as anything other than ... well, me. Rachel. (Hi!).

The list of people I work with, who knew old-me, might be slowly dwindling, but my trans status is no big secret. Or at least, I don't think it is. It's not like when new people join the team I introduce myself with "Hi, I'm Rachel, software engineer, massive tran" – nah. Doesn't happen. But, having said that, I have just remembered what my laptop looks like:

Um, yeah: two "Trans Pride Brighton" stickers, and one from Trans-Code. So maybe a bit of a clue there, for the more observant. :-)

But sticker clues notwithstanding: if you spend a bit of time with me, I wouldn't blame you if you started to conclude, or wonder, that I might be trans. It's the voice, isn't it? And the face. And the occasional bit of facial hair (especially when I have to grow it out prior to an electro appointment, raaaaargh).

So at work, it's no big secret that I'm trans. If you haven't worked out yet, my guess is you probably will soon. And sometimes, I throw in the occasional extra clue, like wearing this:

Oh, and if you follow me on Twitter, then it's game over: a high proportion of my tweeting is trans stuff.

So what do I generally do for Trans Day Of Visibility? Answer: probably not a lot different from usual, at least in meatspace. Maybe I'll tweet or blog a bit more.

This year though, I'll be doing something a bit different. As it happens, I've unavoidably had to take a couple of days off work, and so for TDoV this year, I won't even be at work: I'll be even less visible than usual.

No, for this year, I get to hang out with some friends who are probably going to misgender me (they have form on this); and then for TDoV itself, I'll be swapping my usual town/city lifestyle for a day of visiting a few farms in the West Country, buying cider. And while I'm doing this, I won't be wearing my Stonewall tee-shirt, nor will I be waving my 5-foot Trans Pride flag. Call me a coward, but I have a suspicion that while wearing the slogan "Some people are trans – get over it!" may not get a second look in the city, out in the countryside, it's probably a rather different matter. And that's just attention that I could do without.

So alas this year, on 31st March, I'll be going against the flow, by blending in: Trans Day Off Visibility, if you will. Try again next year?

I'm a typical mid-life transitioner (and no, that's not me in the photo above.  I wish).

People start identifying as trans, and come out, and transition at all sorts of different ages. Whatever "transition" means, of course: it's not a single event, and everyone does it differently. This is completely non-scientific, for which I hope you'll forgive me, but let's say that most people's transitions last (very roughly) around three to five years, and the average age for trans women to have GRS (if they have GRS) is 42. Or at least it was, a few years ago. So a straight-down-the-middle "average" trans woman might start transitioning in her late thirties, and complete her transition (whatever "completing" means) in her early forties.

As the modern vernacular goes: "it me".

I came out when I was 38, and it took me the next five years to work out what I wanted, and how to get it, and then to actually get it. I'm now 43. This is why I called myself "typical".

I often find myself reflecting, thinking about how I got here. I transitioned for the same reason that any trans person does: to be happier. So obviously, for at least quite a few years leading up to age 38, I wasn't very happy. "Ah," says the lazy voice in my brain, "you should have come out sooner! If you'd have come out at, say, age 20, you could have enjoyed a good chunk of your twenties, and all of your thirties, properly! Without the man-suit."

I find that this is an easy trap to fall into.

A great many of my friends – which is to say, my trans friends, since that's what most of my friends are – I've met in the last couple of years, via Twitter, and Facebook, and then by going to events such as Trans Pride Brighton. These are people from across the whole of the UK, and quite a range of ages – some in their early twenties, and others still going strong at around 70. All of which leads me to ponder: did I do it right? I compare myself to them. It's inevitable.

Should I have transitioned earlier? Or perhaps later?

I see some really cool, very smart promising young people out there: some who already have transitioned, some who are doing so at the moment, still more who are really only just getting started. Such youth, such vigour. Transitioning earlier on in life can unlock your full potential so much sooner. (But hey: transition when you are ready, and at your own pace).

So with all of these thoughts, I keep finding myself thinking: I should have transitioned sooner, right? I could have enjoyed two more decades of life as me, as Rachel. Right?

Wrong.

At least, I think I'm wrong.

You can't just take one turning point in your life, rewrite your life with that key event happening sooner, and yet still expect everything else that happened afterwards to be the same or better.

See, the thing is, there's lots of other stuff that happened in my life that I'm just fine with (and yes: I've led a reasonably privileged life). I'm fine, in fact I'm more than fine, with the fact that I've been in a stable, loving relationship for almost the last quarter-century. I'm fine with having navigated almost all of my life without being the target of hate crimes, because I wasn't LGBT. I'm fine with my career working out how it has, and the financial security it has afforded me. I'm fine with being loved and welcomed by my family.

Would all those things have been true now, if I'd have come out two decades earlier? That would have meant having to go through the nineties and noughties as a trans lesbian. Heck, it only just feels like it's OK now: I can't even imagine how hard it must have been twenty years ago, with society's attitudes then. With Section 28 recently enacted and still in force, with homophobia commonplace – no, normal – in news, the media, in daily life – to say nothing of transphobia. My relationship would have at best suffered, and I certainly wouldn't have been married as long as I have been, since women couldn't marry women until 2013. My career in the male-dominated software industry would have been so much harder. My family would almost certainly have fought back against me and my "lifestyle" (eye roll) much, much harder.

I think I can safely say: it wouldn't all have been a bed of roses.

So, those cool trans people I see now? Maybe what I want is to actually be them. Well, maybe. But people's Facebook posts are their edited showreels, the best-ofs, the highlights and the Christmas specials. Of course I could do that part. But how about the stretching finances to afford rent, and food, and transition healthcare, could I do that? The finding your place in life, working out what you want to do, finding a good job and holding it down. How about the search for love and companionship? Basically, the constant struggle to secure happiness. That struggle, is that what I want? Really?

I've been there, done that: I'm in no hurry to go back. So no. I don't want to be those people, however cool they look, and however pretty they are.

No, what I really want, what I miss, is something much more fundamental, and really, it's nothing whatsoever to do with being trans.

I miss being younger.

But: no regrets. We each transition in the best way that we can, and make the best of each situation. I reckon I've got a few years ahead of me yet, and I intend to make good use of them.

Image sources: Talking Heads, Universal Pictures

You've recently interviewed for an exciting-sounding job at a new place. You can't wait to start there!

You rock up on day one, and your new boss, Jess, welcomes you and gets you settled in. They direct you to a web form for you to fill in with your personal details so they can get you added to HR and the other various systems – name, address, contact details and so forth.

You load up the form, and take a look at the first question:

Err, that doesn't look right. The "name" field is a drop-down. What's with that?

You take a look at the available options:

So the allowed options are "Jess" and "Steve". And that's it.

Your name's Steve (or perhaps it's Jess), so you select your name, complete the form, and move on.

Welcome to the company!

The end.

And now, the alternate ending

Alas, your name is neither Jess nor Steve, so this is going to be tricky.

You call Jess over.

"What's up with this?" you ask. "Why is 'name' a drop-down list?"

"Well, it's a really small company, and it turns out everyone who works here is called either Jess or Steve", says Jess. "Just fill in the form as best you can".

"But my name's neither Jess nor Steve", you say.

"Oh! Oh, I see. Don't worry. I'll get Steve to fix the form.

One coffee later, and Steve has fixed the form:

Well, it's definitely different: the form now allows for three choices for Given name: "Jess", "Steve", or "[other name preferred]".

You explain the problem to Jess: "My name's neither Jess nor Steve: it's Alex."

"Oh!", says Jess again. "Oh, I see! You prefer being called Alex."

"I don't prefer it", you say, starting to get frustrated. "Well I do, but I prefer it because it's my name. It's not my preferred name – it's just my name."

"Right-o", they say, and two more coffees later, Steve's come up with the goods again:

Now the final option is labelled just "[other name]".

When you arrive back at their desk again, they can tell you're not happy. "Well what's the problem now?", asks Jess.

"I still can't enter my name", you say. "All I get to choose is that it's not Jess, and it's not Steve. It's like you don't even care what my name actually is."

Jess mutters something about "special snowflakes" under their breath, and walks off.

Day one isn't even over, and that initial welcome is starting to feel a little hollow. Do you really belong here?

The end.

Transition isn't easy. None of us do this because it's a laugh, or on a whim, or because it's “fashionable”. There are tears, there are hard choices. It costs time, costs money; it's a huge emotional investment. It can cost people their jobs, homes, friends, families, and more.

On the whole, I would say I've been quite lucky: my friends, family and workplace have been accepting and supportive. When I first came out, I expected rejection – but instead, I found that everyone accepted me. As my transition progressed, with my change of presentation, then HRT, then when I changed my name and pronouns, I still did so with the support of those around me. At first, I knew that I did not want surgery; then I suspected that I might want it; then finally, I knew that I not only wanted it, but needed it. And so, that is the path that I now tread; all the preparation, the planning, all leading up to my surgery, in mid-December.

Recently, I decided to make an extra effort to go and visit friends – those same friends who accepted and supported me. A chance to catch up, a chance to see them, before I have my surgery and am out of action for a while. So I travelled to visit trans friends, had evenings out with friends at work, and visited friends that I've known since university. All this getting-out-and-about is also a good way of keeping me busy, of helping pass the time more quickly.

So it was that this weekend my wife and I visited some friends that we've known for many years – since well before I started transitioning. We met up, had a few drinks, had a laugh – and I got deadnamed. Ah. Well, that's disappointing. I took my friend (“D”) to one side and had a word, making it clear how much it hurt, how much it would mean to me if he could get it right from now on. I changed my name more than three years ago now – surely that's long enough?. He looked genuinely remorseful – I think he really did, and does, want to do the right thing.

I said to him: “You're literally the last person who gets it wrong”.

But I was wrong. I had challenged the wrong person.

No, the real problem was D's close friend, S (who was also there with us). While D wants to do the right thing, S essentially refuses to do so. S even has a cousin who transitioned many years ago, well before I did, so you would have thought that he would be well clued up on trans matters. But no, quite the opposite: he refers to his (trans male) cousin by his deadname, and old pronouns (“she”). Unless you catch him when he's really in full form, when he referred to his cousin as “it” – and when challenged on this, dismissed the problem as something that didn't matter: “whatever”.

And yet, apart from this one thing, both D and S are friendly, accepting, supportive. At the end of the evening, we hugged, and they wished me well for my surgery. So the evening ended, my wife and I returned to our room, and we called it a night. Until I awoke a few hours later, with all of the above preying on my mind.

Next time I see them, I don't expect that S (and therefore also D) will have stopped deadnaming me. Next time I see them, they'll hurt me again. So why would I go back? Why would I knowingly place myself in the way of harm? What possible payback is there, which would make such hurt worthwhile? And even if it was somehow “worth it” – why the hell should I put up with this?

What was meant to be a nice trip away to catch up with some old friends over a drink, has instead left me wondering whether I should ever see them again. So far, I haven't lost any friends or family as a result of transition – but maybe that's about to change.

I wish my deadname didn't have this power over me, and maybe one day it won't – but for now it still does. But even if the word, the name didn't cause pain, then I would nevertheless still be hurt due to the deliberate, wilful, cruel, stubborn refusal to accept me for who I am.

When a friend both knowingly causes such damage, and so casually dismisses the harm that they cause, then you have to question whether they're really a friend.

Warning: Mention of sexual assault, included with the survivor's consent

Recently I went to Trans Pride Brighton – the second time I've been, and it was bigger and better than the year before. On a misty but warm Saturday morning, we gathered to march; and unlike last year where we effectively just did a short loop around the block, this year the route took us down to the seafront, then a good mile or so along the main road before arriving at the park for the afternoon's event.

As we marched, we waved our flags, blew whistles, tooted horns, and chanted slogans about access to healthcare, the right to respect, and safety from attack, and more. We were noisy and colourful, and we were visible: out there, getting in the way, as the police closed one side of the road for us. We marched, with a generous crowd along the roadside, and with the oncoming traffic crawling along on the other side of the road. People in cars sounded their horns, cheered and waved, as did people from overlooking buildings. It was glorious.

At the end of the march, we arrived in the park for the afternoon event, and it felt welcoming, inclusive and safe. Surrounded by so many other trans and non-binary folk, as well as families and allies, we relaxed, we chatted, met up with old friends and made new ones. With a view of the sea and the mist finally clearing to reveal the sun, we ate, drank, played games, and were able to just be ourselves.

With the park event drawing to a close, we left, generally in small groups, with most of us walking back towards the city. Away from the march and the park, and back onto the streets of the real world, we were suddenly once again a tiny handful of trans people in an overwhelmingly cis-binary world. Now, once again, our guards had to be up: some of us received unwanted attention, "chasers"; unsolicited and inappropriate approaches.

Back in my room, I rested, freshened up, worked out what I had planned for the evening – and now realise that for the first time this weekend, I'm starting to feel anxious. My plan is simple enough: go the Marly (the pub that many of us congregate around), meet friends, go on from there later on. It's no more than a 15 minute walk for me, but I'm nervous in a way that I haven't been so far this weekend. Tense, on-edge, afraid of navigating the world alone, as a vulnerable person.

I realise that I used to feel that same anxiety before transition too; but back then, the labels I felt I had that made me vulnerable were different: to do with being not-very-tall, not-very-strong, shy, nerdy. Now it's (at best) because I'm female, and (if things go really wrong) because I'm trans.

Finally I make it to the Marly, and I haven't been that glad to reach safety for a very long time.

Later, the time comes to leave the pub and take the short walk to the club, and once again there's a requirement to navigate the cis binary world outside. This time I can feel the safety in numbers, as a group of us make the journey together. And then we're in the club, which once again feels like a safe space, and I can relax.

When it's time to leave and head back to my hotel room, I don't manage to find anyone to walk me home, so I have to brave it. Almost as soon as I've left the club, I overhear two men, perhaps in their fifties, who are heading towards almost exactly where my hotel is. I tag along. One of them is on his phone – it sounds like they're heading to meet with their wives, perhaps. I stay within a few yards of them the whole way, and as we get nearer to the turn for my hotel, it feels busier, more lively – and less safe. I have to turn off, and there's a walk of no more than a minute on my own, and finally I'm back in the hotel, in reception, in the lift, in my room. Safe again.

I relax, unwind, catch up with friends on social media.

And then I see it, an update from a friend: tonight, in the club, one of my friends was sexually assaulted. I'm angry, sad, I want to hug her, and of course I want it not to be true, but it is, it happened, nothing can ever undo that. There, in the after-Trans-Pride party, in an LGBT venue, in what was supposed to be a safe space, her safety, her personal space, her bodily autonomy had been violated. She writes that it's the first sexual assault she's suffered, and now she understands why her cis female friends talk the way they do about it, how it's so awful. I think of back when I was assaulted, how violated it made me feel too, how insecure, how afraid and alone I felt, how I couldn't leave the house the next day. It's gone 3am and I should be going to sleep but I'm too wound up over this. I want to hug my friend and be there for her, but it's way too late.

The rest of the weekend passed off without incident (as far as I know): on Sunday I met up with friends, we ate, drank laughed, enjoyed each other's company. Some of our group went home on Sunday; the rest of us finished off the evening with good cocktails and great conversation, and the next day, we all went back to our everyday lives.

Normally I don't think much about safe spaces, because I don't have to – or rather, I do think about it, but in a fairly automatic way.

Walk along the street, but maybe cross the road to avoid that group over there. This street's OK, but not after dark. This street is just never OK, whatever the time of day. Choose the part of the restaurant away from the loud group of men. Pick a route to the exit of the pub, through the crowd, but avoid the rowdy group at the bar if possible. It's automatic, it's part of what we do every day without necessarily even realising it. It shouldn't have to be that way, but it is.

We're doing the work to solve other people's problems: to work around their lack of consideration, their hate, their bigotry, their violence.

As the march had set off, around noon on Saturday, one of the slogans we chanted was an assertion of the right to feel safe in public places, about the right to participate in public life in the same way as everyone else. We marched, and we chanted: “Whose streets? Our streets!”.

By time I went to bed that night, the meaning of those words had been forcefully and unpleasantly hammered home.

When I came out to my wife, I didn't know where it would lead. I expected rejection; what I got was support. So then although my wife knew about this other side of me, it remained hidden from the rest of the world. Within a few days, this other side of me had a codename. If my wife and I were out clothes shopping together, instead of her saying “I think this dress would suit you”, it would be “Do you think Rachel would like this?”.

For the first year or so after coming out, I still called myself by my old name, still identified as male. But all this time, the way I presented myself to the world moved inexorably towards a stereotypically feminine presentation, and eventually, I felt that the name and the presentation didn't “match”, and I wasn't happy with that.

For a long time I said to myself that I would change my name, if only I thought I could get away with it. But I deferred actually doing so, for fear of rejection, of ridicule, of failing at whatever arbitrary goals and rules the world laid out for me – rules to which, for some reason, I felt that conformance was important. Ultimately, I feared that rejection, and the unhappiness it would instil in me. But, eventually, I decided that the time was right: I was going to change my name to something that I was happy with, something that I had chosen. Of course, there was really only one contender: what was previously a secret codename became my legal name. More importantly, it became what people called me in my day-to-day life, what I called myself, and my previous name rapidly fell into disuse.

Ah, but there's the rub: especially at work, people will still know my dead name, even if they don't use it. As I approached the time when I would change my name, I thought a lot about this. Would things be better if the people around me didn't know my dead name? If they didn't even know I was trans? Is that even possible, that people might not know that about me? Regardless of whether or not it's possible, is it desirable?

I also gave a lot of thought to the problem of managing identity in an online world. Before my name change, people know me as a certain name; I have email accounts, and Twitter, and Facebook, and various other forms of presence. Should I keep those accounts, but just update as much of the profile data as I could to reflect my new name? Should I set up new accounts under the new name, and refer people over from the old accounts to the new? Or should I set up new accounts, and keep the two as distinct as I possibly can, leaving no trail from old to new – or more to the point, from new back to old?

There is no right answer to any of these problems: it is for each of us, as we navigate our individual transitions, to ponder these questions, and to make the decisions that are right for us.

I've been with my current employer for a while now – about eight-and-a-half years. Assuming I change employers at some point before I retire, then when that happens, I'll almost certainly be working with an almost completely clean slate. My new colleagues will know neither who I am, nor who I was. How open will I be about being trans? Happy to mention it just a readily as I'd mention that I like a good pint? Happy to talk about it, but only if it comes up? Rather not talk about it? Will I go out of my way to avoid saying that I'm trans? Would I lie about it, deny being trans, rewrite history?

But what's so special about being trans? Why do we treat gender transition any differently from any other kind of change?

There is not a person alive on this planet, cis or trans, who does not change: none of us is immutable. As each person changes slowly, day to day, the memories of who they were fade away, enduring more strongly in those closest to them; whilst the image of them now is reinforced with each fresh meeting, and with each new conversation.

None of us is who we used to be.

My name's Rachel, and I'm a trans woman. And I'm far happier now than I was before I came out.