I first realised I was trans at 14 years old. I had initially come out as gay, but my mother had taken me to see a psychologist at a gender clinic near our home in Belgium because she thought I should discuss my identity further. When I heard the doctor explain to me what it meant to be trans, I realised that that was how I actually felt. Quite soon after that, I was eligible to begin hormone replacement therapy – with sex reassignment surgery (SRS) always being the end goal.
In the beginning, having a name for how I identified felt good. When anybody bullied me at school for being “different”, I understood that there were lots of other people like me, and I felt proud of it. My parents and brothers are really open-minded. The only hard part for them was worrying about whether I would be treated badly. The first time that I wore make-up and a dress out of the house, everybody felt nervous – but at the end of the day, my family loves me and accepts me as I am.
That said, it took a long time for me to process the idea that I was going to have surgery. Even going through hormone replacement therapy is like experiencing puberty again and again and again, and it’s kind of a nightmare. I had never had an operation before, and a lot of my friends were really skeptical about it. Still, you have to be a certain age to do it, and I was on a waiting list that was nearly three years long, so I just kept myself busy being a regular teenager.
Then, at 16 years old, I had to come off my hormones because I needed to freeze my sperm cells. After the surgery, I would be infertile, so this was the only way that I would be able to have children. At first, I felt really hesitant about it. It’s a lot to consider whether or not you’re going to have a baby when you’re a teenager. Being trans forces you to grow up insanely quickly. My mother was the one who talked me into doing it, and I’m so glad she did.
Roughly a year later, I had my first appointment with a surgeon. He explained the SRS procedure and then told me that I would have to wait a few more years to have it done. I felt so shocked and terrible in those moments that I broke down. I had thought that soon my transition would be “complete”, and I would feel better. I understand now that that’s never the case, but it seemed like the only way forward for me at the time.
In the end, my surgery did get pulled forward. I never told anybody at the gender clinic how bad my mental health was just before I had my SRS. I felt so horrible about myself that I had lost all of my friends and left school – ultimately trying to commit suicide. Thankfully, I had another psychologist at home that I could speak to, but I worried that if I told any of the doctors about it that my surgery would be further postponed, so I kept quiet.
It’s hard to fully grasp what the surgery is going to mean for your life before you do it. There’s this whirlwind of doctors appointments – none of them more than 30 minutes long – and there are all of these medical terms being thrown around. Nobody fully explained to me what was required in terms of aftercare – that you have to take hormones and use stents for the rest of your life to keep the wound open. I also had no idea about the complications that could arise.
When the day of the procedure finally came, I was under anesthesia for 10 hours, and then I spent five days lying on my back in the hospital. I had such a terrible reaction to the painkillers I was given that I could neither eat nor drink for a full week. The doctors also taught me how to be independent really quickly. I was told to dilate four times a day for an hour and sleep with a prosthetic. Even though you’re meant to spend at least seven days in the hospital, I was sent home after just five.
That led to another serious complication within a week of my initial procedure. My mother had created a sort of at-home hospital for me because I found it hard to get up the stairs. One night, I was in the middle of dilating when I felt the most excruciating pain, and I began screaming and crying. My mother immediately called the hospital, and by the next morning, I was back in for another surgery. The wound had basically ripped itself open – and I had to go under anesthesia for another four hours.
At that point, I just thought, “What did I just do to myself?” But there was no turning back by then. I don’t even remember much of that period because I sort of erased it from my memory. That’s how intense the pain was. It took such a massive toll on my body. Just a few months later, I collapsed from exhaustion. I had pushed myself too hard while I was still healing. It’s really a lot to deal with both physically and mentally.
The turning point came for me when I finally moved to London and started university. I began feeling more comfortable with myself, and I started modelling. Now, I have the support of my amazing boyfriend [fellow model Finn Buchanan], who’s a massive part of my life. The two of us share everything with each other. It’s been transformative knowing that if I have a horrible day, I always have him to fall back on.
Still, the idea that after SRS your transition is “over” is a complete myth. I feel like that narrative has persisted for so long because it makes being trans more acceptable for society. You can have all of the hormone therapy and surgery there is, but you’re always going to be trans in the world’s eyes. For example, before I met Finn, I had my fair share of horrible dating experiences. Lots of men would say to me, “I can’t date you; I’m straight.” Except really I was never a man; I was just living in a body that had male genitalia.
It’s a struggle. There are lots of people who choose to live “stealth”, meaning that after their transition they never reveal their past to anybody. Honestly, though, I could never see myself doing that. I cannot imagine the stress of having to lie to people and move away and begin all over again. I don’t feel like being trans is something that you can “cure” or get rid of. It’s just a part of your identity, like being born in a particular country.
Now, I’m about to have my fifth surgery in two and a half years to correct more issues related to my SRS. I still have dysphoria because my body has never really functioned the way that it should. I may look confident when I’m out and about at fashion weeks and attending a lot of glamorous parties, but the reality of my life is that I’m often at home because I don’t feel okay.
Today, in spite of everything, I’m glad that I had SRS, but I’m still going to keep telling people about the negative aspects of my experience. It’s time for us to be more honest about what surgery does and does not “fix” rather than being silenced by the fear of what other people will say. At the end of the day, I’m incredibly proud to be a transgender woman, and I’m going to keep using my voice and my platform to speak the truth whenever I can.
