I Believed Myself to Be a Homosexual Woman - The Legendary Artist Helped Me Discover the Truth

In 2011, several years ahead of the renowned David Bowie exhibition debuted at the famous Victoria and Albert Museum in London, I declared myself a gay woman. Previously, I had solely pursued relationships with men, with one partner I had entered matrimony with. By 2013, I found myself nearing forty-five, a recently separated caregiver to four kids, living in the America.

During this period, I had commenced examining both my sense of self and romantic inclinations, searching for understanding.

My birthplace was England during the early 1970s - prior to digital connectivity. As teenagers, my peers and I were without online forums or digital content to reference when we had inquiries regarding sexuality; instead, we turned toward celebrity musicians, and during the 80s, everyone was experimenting with gender norms.

The iconic vocalist wore masculine attire, The Culture Club frontman embraced women's fashion, and musical acts such as popular ensembles featured members who were proudly homosexual.

I wanted his slender frame and sharp haircut, his strong features and flat chest. I wanted to embody the Berlin-era Bowie

In that decade, I lived driving a bike and adopting masculine styles, but I went back to traditional womanhood when I chose to get married. My husband transferred our home to the US in 2007, but when our relationship dissolved I felt an powerful draw returning to the male identity I had once given up.

Given that no one experimented with identity as dramatically as David Bowie, I decided to use some leisure time during a summer trip returning to England at the gallery, with the expectation that maybe he could provide clarity.

I lacked clarity precisely what I was seeking when I entered the exhibition - possibly I anticipated that by losing myself in the richness of Bowie's norm-challenging expression, I might, in turn, encounter a hint about my own identity.

Before long I was positioned before a modest display where the visual presentation for "the iconic song" was playing on repeat. Bowie was strutting his stuff in the foreground, looking polished in a charcoal outfit, while positioned laterally three accompanying performers dressed in drag gathered around a microphone.

Unlike the entertainers I had encountered in real life, these ladies didn't glide around the stage with the poise of natural performers; rather they looked unenthused and frustrated. Placed in secondary positions, they had gum in their mouths and showed impatience at the tedium of it all.

"The song's lyrics, boys always work it out," Bowie sang cheerfully, seemingly unaware to their reduced excitement. I felt a brief sensation of empathy for the backing singers, with their pronounced make-up, uncomfortable wigs and constricting garments.

They gave the impression of as uncomfortable as I did in women's clothes - frustrated and eager, as if they were longing for it all to conclude. At the moment when I understood I connected with three individuals presenting as female, one of them removed her wig, wiped the makeup from her face, and revealed herself to be ... Bowie! Surprise. (Understandably, there were further David Bowies as well.)

In that instant, I knew for certain that I aimed to remove everything and transform like Bowie. I wanted his narrow hips and his precise cut, his angular jaw and his male chest; I sought to become the slender-shaped, Berlin-era Bowie. And yet I was unable to, because to genuinely embody Bowie, first I would require being a man.

Announcing my identity as homosexual was a different challenge, but personal transformation was a significantly scarier prospect.

It took me additional years before I was ready. During that period, I made every effort to embrace manhood: I abandoned beauty products and discarded all my women's clothing, trimmed my tresses and began donning men's clothes.

I sat differently, walked differently, and modified my personal references, but I halted before surgical procedures - the potential for denial and remorse had left me paralysed with fear.

When the David Bowie display finished its world tour with a engagement in Brooklyn, New York, after half a decade, I returned. I had reached a breaking point. I couldn't go on pretending to be an identity that didn't fit.

Standing in front of the same video in 2018, I became completely convinced that the issue wasn't my clothes, it was my body. 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 man in the sharp suit, moving in the illumination, and now I realized that I had the capacity to.

I booked myself in to see a physician shortly afterwards. I needed additional years before my transition was complete, but none of the fears I anticipated came true.

I continue to possess many of my female characteristics, so individuals frequently misidentify me for a gay man, but I'm OK with that. I wanted the freedom to explore expression following Bowie's example - and since I'm at peace with myself, I have that capacity.