From Shame to Authenticity:

My Detransition Story

As children, we all long for belonging. But for gay men, that journey often becomes a labyrinth of shame, rejection, and resilience. My childhood offers a glimpse into this complex reality—a path shaped by confusion, survival, and the relentless search for identity in a world determined to other me.

Born in 1976, I grew up in a small rural but historic part of the Midwest, the heart of the Bible Belt. Our family farm, surrounded by woods and endless fields, seemed idyllic—perfect for a spirited little boy like me. On the surface, life was simple, but underneath, I carried burdens too heavy for any child to bear.

At around 4 or 5 years old, I was subjected to acts of grooming by an adult family member. My memories are fragmented, as trauma often clouds the details to protect the mind. But one memory remains crystal clear: he warned me that if I ever spoke of what happened, the devil would come for me. That fear held me captive in silence, an invisible weight I carried well into adulthood.

Outwardly, I was just another boy among friends, blending in at school. But by third grade, something shifted. I couldn’t explain it, but the boys around me noticed. They picked up on some ineffable "difference" that I wasn’t yet aware of. Slowly, I was excluded—left behind on the playground, picked last in gym class. I was no longer one of them. And then came the taunts. I didn’t understand the words “gay” or “queer” yet, but I understood rejection. The boys saw in me something I hadn’t even begun to see in myself.

The bullying worsened as I grew older. Fistfights, cruel names, whispered jokes at my expense. By the time my parents became aware of what was happening, the damage had already begun to take root. I believe they sensed my difference even before I did, but rather than offering guidance or compassion, their response became one of denial and shame.

As I reached adolescence and my sexuality became undeniable, the fragile balance at home crumbled. My father distanced himself emotionally, while my mother, though more engaged, wrestled with her own fear and confusion. Arguments over my perceived “choices” often spiraled into physical violence. I was left feeling unmoored—without acceptance or a sense of belonging, either at home or at school.

In hindsight, I can see how these formative years laid the groundwork for a life defined by shame. Before I even understood who I was, I had been taught to feel unworthy of love, unworthy of connection. That internalized shame, reinforced by both family and society, became a lens through which I viewed myself for decades to come.

For many gay men, coping with that shame means not only being closeted but donning a mask of hyper-masculinity to blend into straight society. For others, like me, who couldn’t hide their differences, the world was far less forgiving. My mannerisms, voice, and appearance betrayed me, leaving me vulnerable to mockery. Those of us who didn’t fit society’s expectations of masculinity were often judged not just by straight men but also by other gay men, whose internalized homophobia left them unable to face their own insecurities.

Throughout my childhood and into adulthood, I sought refuge in the safety of female friendships. Strong, nurturing women offered the love and validation I didn’t receive from my male peers or my family. These friendships, while deeply meaningful, also became a hiding place for me. I leaned into the feminine parts of myself they celebrated, yet those traits were never enough to fill the void left by my unmet need for male bonding and acceptance.

This lack of connection to other men shaped me in profound ways. I never learned how to feel a sense of brotherhood or belonging among them. Instead, I learned to fear their judgment and hide from their rejection. And when men in my life—friends, lovers, or even mentors—inevitably reinforced that fear, it only deepened my wounds.

Through my 20s and 30s, my coping mechanisms began to unravel. Drugs, alcohol, and promiscuity became tools for escaping the shame that had been embedded in me since childhood. I was desperate for validation and connection, though I often sought them in ways that left me feeling emptier than before. It wasn’t until I was nearly 40 that the full weight of my unresolved trauma came crashing down.

In 2016, a traumatic event triggered a tidal wave of buried memories and emotions. Suddenly, I was back in that fragile, wounded place, haunted by the bullying and abuse of my youth. The internalized homophobia I had carried all my life became unbearable. I couldn’t stop hearing the cruel names I’d been called as a child or my mother’s warning that “If you choose to be gay you will die alone and with AIDS.” I began to see my sexuality as the root of all my pain, my suffering, and all that had gone wrong in my life.

“If you choose to be gay you will die alone and with AIDS.”

Amid this mental crisis, I turned to a narrative that seemed to offer a way out. At the time, media and culture were saturated with stories of transgender identities and the promise of affirmation. This is what gender ideology seemed to offer. I convinced myself that perhaps my struggles weren’t rooted in shame or trauma but in being “born in the wrong body.” Transitioning seemed like a solution to my pain—a way to finally feel whole, to “fix” myself and not be gay anymore.

Looking back, I see now how gender ideology preyed on my vulnerabilities. Within two therapy sessions, I was diagnosed with gender dysphoria and put on the fast track toward medical transition. No one asked me to explore my deeper wounds. No one encouraged me to question whether this path was truly right for me.

For eight years, I lived as a transgender woman. At first, I felt relief—euphoria, even. But that feeling was fleeting. Changing my appearance hadn’t healed the broken parts of me. The fractures I had tried so desperately to outrun eventually caught up with me. And when they did, I was left to confront the truth: I had spent my entire life trying to escape the shame and rejection that had been ingrained in me since childhood.

By chance, I stumbled upon an interview with a detransitioner on YouTube. By the end of it, I was in tears—his story resonated so deeply with mine. In that moment, I woke up and saw things for what they truly were. Though it took me another year to gather the courage to begin the process, I haven’t looked back since. Detransitioning has been the most difficult yet rewarding journey of my life. It’s a slow, often lonely path of unlearning, facing the wounds I once avoided, and rewriting the narrative I was given. But with each step, I feel closer to authenticity—closer to the man I was always meant to be.

My hope now is for young gay boys to grow up in a world where they are enough, just as they are. A world where they don’t have to change, hide, or conform to find acceptance. Because every boy deserves the chance to belong, not in spite of who he is, but because of it.