I Thought That I Identified As a Gay Woman - The Legendary Artist Helped Me Realize the Truth

In 2011, a few years ahead of the celebrated David Bowie exhibition debuted at the renowned Victoria and Albert Museum in London, I came out as a homosexual woman. Previously, I had exclusively dated men, with one partner I had entered matrimony with. Two years later, I found myself approaching middle age, a recently separated parent to four children, living in the US.

At that time, I had started questioning both my gender identity and romantic inclinations, seeking out clarity.

Born in England during the early 1970s - prior to digital connectivity. During our youth, my companions and myself didn't have social platforms or digital content to consult when we had questions about sex; conversely, we looked to celebrity musicians, and throughout the eighties, artists were challenging gender norms.

The Eurythmics singer wore boys' clothes, The flamboyant singer embraced feminine outfits, and bands such as well-known groups featured artists who were proudly homosexual.

I craved his slender frame and defined hairstyle, his strong features and male chest. I aimed to personify the Berlin-era Bowie

In that decade, I spent my time riding a motorbike and adopting masculine styles, but I reverted back to femininity when I decided to wed. My partner moved our family to the US in 2007, but when our relationship dissolved I felt an powerful draw returning to the masculinity I had earlier relinquished.

Considering that no artist experimented with identity as dramatically as David Bowie, I decided to devote an open day during a seasonal visit visiting Britain at the gallery, hoping that maybe he could provide clarity.

I lacked clarity exactly what I was looking for when I stepped inside the display - maybe I thought that by losing myself in the opulence of Bowie's identity exploration, I might, consequently, stumble across a hint about my true nature.

I soon found myself positioned before a compact monitor where the visual presentation for "Boys Keep Swinging" was playing on repeat. Bowie was strutting his stuff in the primary position, looking sharp in a charcoal outfit, while to the side three accompanying performers wearing women's clothing gathered around a microphone.

Unlike the drag queens I had witnessed firsthand, these female-presenting individuals failed to move around the stage with the self-assurance of natural performers; instead they looked disinterested and irritated. Positioned as supporting acts, they were chewing and rolled their eyes at the boredom of it all.

"The song's lyrics, boys always work it out," Bowie performed brightly, seemingly unaware to their reduced excitement. I felt a brief sensation of understanding for the accompanying performers, with their thick cosmetics, ill-fitting wigs and restrictive outfits.

They gave the impression of as ill-at-ease as I did in feminine attire - annoyed and restless, as if they were longing for it all to be over. At the moment when I recognized my alignment with three male performers in feminine attire, one of them tore off her wig, removed the cosmetics from her face, and revealed herself to be ... Bowie! Shocker. (Understandably, there were further David Bowies as well.)

In that instant, I became completely convinced that I wanted to remove everything and emulate the artist. I wanted his narrow hips and his sharp haircut, his defined jawline and his masculine torso; I wanted to embody the lean-figured, Bowie's German period. Nevertheless I found myself incapable, because to truly become Bowie, first I would have to become a man.

Coming out as queer was a separate matter, but personal transformation was a significantly scarier outlook.

It took me several more years before I was ready. In the meantime, I did my best to embrace manhood: I abandoned beauty products and eliminated all my skirts and dresses, cut off my hair and started wearing men's clothes.

I altered how I sat, modified my gait, and changed my name and pronouns, but I halted before medical intervention - the possibility of rejection and regret had caused me to freeze with apprehension.

Once the David Bowie exhibition concluded its international run with a presentation in the American metropolis, five years later, I went back. I had reached a breaking point. I was unable to continue acting to be an identity that didn't fit.

Facing the identical footage in 2018, I became completely convinced that the issue wasn't about my clothing, it was my physical form. I didn't identify as a butch female; I was a man with gentle characteristics who'd been in costume all his life. I desired to change into the person in the polished attire, moving in the illumination, and at that moment I understood that I was able to.

I made arrangements to see a medical professional soon after. The process required further time before my transformation concluded, but not a single concern I anticipated occurred.

I maintain many of my feminine mannerisms, so individuals frequently misidentify me for a gay man, but I'm OK with that. I desired the liberty to explore expression as Bowie had - and since I'm at peace with myself, I am able to.