Since before I was born, my body has been rejected.
I didn’t have to declare a trans identity to face judgement. I didn’t have to do, nor say, anything; merely be in the process of coming into existence. Not only was I going to be born physically disabled in my bones, I also had a 50% chance of being born with Downs Syndrome. In response, my mother was booked in for an abortion without her consent. She was not told; nothing was discussed, only assumed.
Abortion is a choice. It’s one that my mother did not make, but rather had thrust upon her by a eugenist and ableist outlook on my life, leaving her mortified. Who has the right to tell her she should not have a disabled child she has been eager to bring into the world?
Thus, even before birth, it was clear the outlook on my life was constructed. It was not worthy. This was further solidified when the first several years of my life were dedicated towards bone manipulations and surgery to make me as ‘normal’ of a child as they could. Because normality is about how others view you. It has nothing to do with your comfort, your view. I might have been able to now walk in a way that appears normal, but what of the mental and physical trauma? All the pain and chronic illnesses caused thereafter? None of it was addressed, of course. I appeared ‘normal’ to the outside world and was seen as worthy of the life I had almost not been given.
This became a common theme over time, where I felt inclined to make myself as palatable as can be for able-bodied discomfort. Is it any wonder, then, that this would also apply to how I felt about being transgender?
I realised I was trans at the age of 17. At first, it felt exciting to discover and explore, but as the reality kicked in about how brutal the waiting times are for British gender clinics, and how trans people can be treated, I once again fell into this need to be palatable.
I hated being trans just as I hated being chronically ill. With transmedicalism at the forefront of representation of transgender men at this time, I unfortunately adopted much of that mindset. I had to force myself into a box to be valid, which only made me more dysphoric.
I was able to be referred to a gender clinic at age 19, once I was fully out. After two and a half years—much shorter than how long others wait in the UK—I finally started testosterone. Shortly thereafter, things began to change, bit by bit, in how I felt about being trans.
At age 25, I was finally able to have top surgery after quite the wait. This was a crucial turning point. The surgery was life changing, immediately making me feel more at home at last in my body.
And said body handled it more than I could have imagined. This body that I had frequently hated, had berated for not being good enough and not being ‘right,’ kept me safe. I was immensely grateful for it pulling through and allowing me this joy. Immediately, this was correct—it was as though the flat chest had always been there and the breasts had been stuck on without my consent.
I would say that this was a turning point for my internalised ableism and transphobia alike. I had already worked at both immensely and had made great progress. This moment, however, was monumental. My body was mine at last after so much medicalisation and scrutiny. Throughout all the pain it was, at last, home.
Whilst my body frequently feels as fragile as glass, my heart has been hardened into a diamond. With sheer tenacity, I carefully but deliberately sculpt the glass into a sculpture of my own making. ‘Self-Made Man’ takes on a whole new meaning in a body where autonomy had previously been taken away from it, and finally, needles can draw blood for a reason beyond illness; a reason that makes me want blood to keep pumping from that diamond heart.
I now love being trans because I could not have experienced such reclamation without it.
I don’t judge others nor my past self for not doing so. Being trans comes with a great deal of turmoil, especially as our rights continue to be rampantly under threat. However, my trans joy perseveres, and if I could choose to become cis by pressing a button, maybe I would be tempted to be free of that strife. But if pressing that button came with forgetting I was ever trans and that part of me erased entirely, I don’t think I could press it. I definitely couldn’t do so to become able-bodied. Because these experiences have shaped me and made me who I am, and I am proud of who I am: a strong-willed, generous, determined and resilient person. If I was not trans and disabled I cannot say how much of those traits would exist. Would I have even become an artist, when the arts were so alluring to one who had been isolated, bullied and judged for physical limitations?
Being ‘normal’ is far from an ideal for me now. I have reclaimed my body and made it into something that belongs to me, and me alone; only one of me exists in the entire world. Insignificant in the grand scheme, but deeply significant in my own life and what I give to others.
If I’m not ordinary, all that is left is to be extraordinary.
And that’s exactly what my trans disabled body is destined to be.
About the author: I’m Oliver, a disabled and chronically ill, gay trans man. I explore themes of this identity in both my visual art and writing, using them to educate, allow others to feel seen and share my voice to the outside world as someone who has been primarily housebound long term.
Connect with Oliver on Instagram at @oliver__niko, on Bluesky at @oliverniko.bsky.social, and on Tumblr at oliverniko.