Jamie Reed’s Whistleblowing Changed My Life

The last decade of my life had been the epitome of sunk-cost fallacy. Today I know that being a woman is just about being female.

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Last year, I made one of the biggest changes of my life when I decided to stop trying to disguise my sex. A few days after my 28th birthday would have marked ten years since I began injecting testosterone. I had always thought I would feel at peace with that milestone, so deep in my so-called “authentic life.”

Heading home from work one day in February 2023, I stopped to look at the newspaper stand, where a headline about Jamie Reed blowing the whistle on “gender medicine” at the St. Louis Children’s Hospital caught my eye. As I read the article, it shook me to my core how much I related to each and every line. I myself had used the phrase, “Would you rather have a dead daughter or a living son?” on my mother, a phrase I had heard online, a phrase apparently recited by medical professionals to distraught parents. I was horrified to realize I was not the only one who had gone down this path as a minor.

I had already stopped taking testosterone several months prior, fearing medical complications. Despite my facial hair, as my body fat began to redistribute I began to be correctly sexed by confused men in public restrooms. I debated my next step. My little niece had only ever known me as her “uncle,” since my husband and I lived outwardly as a happy “gay” couple. Having grown a beard and undergone a double mastectomy, I continued pretending to be a man… but did I want to?

As a child growing up in Alabama, I simply thought life would be better if I were a boy: I wouldn’t get stared at in the video game aisles or made fun of for liking sports. Never mind that if I were a boy, other boys would have judged me for my Care Bear collection and my affinity for Barbies. Each night I prayed and every year I made birthday wishes to one day wake up as a boy with not a soul having any recollection to the contrary. 

And yet in some ways I did not really mind being a girl. Our neighbor loved to tease my sister and me by yelling to us, “Hey, boys!” which was met without fail each time with: “WE’RE GIRLS, MARK!” In truth, I was less of a classic tomboy and more of a healthy young girl who did not let stereotypes dictate her life. I didn’t worry about my body until I learned about the ways others changed theirs. My issue was that everyone around me seemed obsessed with separating boys and girls by telling us what hobbies or friends we were allowed to have, something I did not understand. 

When I first went online, in 2006 or 2007, I was about 10 years old. At first I mostly played dress-up games. Eventually I learned that I could look up questions I had, which led me to Yahoo! Answers. I wound up on the LGBT section of the site, where I asked if I could be “a boy inside” even if I loved my long hair, liked my “girly” clothes and hobbies, and didn’t really mind being called a girl. The answer was, bizarrely, a resounding “yes.” Several of the responses even gave me resources: forums I had absolutely no business being on, full of adults trying to change their sex, as well as webcomics glamorizing medicalization.

I learned to hide things from my family and to judge them negatively for not being able to understand or accept the complexity of “gender identity.” How could they deny that I was a boy inside? How could they deny “gender” might exist in shades of gray? Adults online told me that males who said they did not “feel like guys” were only saying so because they “never had to think about gender” the way I did.

My mother, at her wit’s end with how much I had gone silent towards her, did the only thing she could think to do: She read my diary. The first page of this new journal was dedicated to the logistics of stuffing my underwear with rolled-up socks to create a phallic bulge while still needing to use the girls’ locker room at school… my mother confronted me angrily, asking me how long I had been doing all these things to look like a boy. I completely shut her out, my trust in her shattered. I decided never to tell her about things going on in my life, such as self-harm, sexual abuse from a neighbor that made me ashamed of my own body, and the isolation I felt as a result of my hereditary progressive hearing loss.

My mother took away my “boy clothes” and refused to let me cut my hair. She would threaten to send me to all-girls schools. Several times she followed me to the store to ensure I was not buying duct tape, which she learned I was using to flatten my chest, or shaving razors, because she knew I was no longer shaving but instead self-harming. All of these things pushed me further away. My story finally looked more like the desperate stories of other teenagers in my boat, with families who fought every step of the way against gender ideology.

One day, realizing that my mother sometimes used male pronouns in front of me but used female pronouns when talking to anyone else, I came to the horrifying conclusion that I would never be accepted by my family as the opposite sex. Everyone online told me that suicide rates for “transgender” teens were sky-high, that without “transition” death would be my only relief. I attempted to take my own life. The tides turned in my favor: I never heard my birth name again, and was exclusively referred to as male.

Years later, when I wanted to back out, I remembered how hard it was to convince her in the first place.

At age 14 I found a gender therapist in Montgomery and emailed her, explaining that I was uncertain if anyone would let me medicalize my body because I was “a little nonbinary.” She told me I would be surprised at how open-minded she was. I began saving up money to see her. Every single penny was pinched with the goal of one day using it all to “transition.” I did not do anything fun with my friends or create savings goals for adulthood.

At age 17, I finally had an appointment with her. She made sure to schedule it for the same day as a group meeting where I met another 17-year-old girl who was already on testosterone and a man pretending to be a woman who did most of the talking while we both sat there shyly, silently.

I spent all of twenty to thirty minutes telling my story, leaving out details regarding my nebulous sense of “identity” as tumblr had suggested and instead highlighting that I had “lived as male” for a few years at that point. The therapist asked why I had come to see her, since I “sounded so sure” of myself. I needed to see a therapist in order to be prescribed cross-sex hormones, I said. She turned to her computer, entering my name into a form pre-filled for just this purpose. She handed me a printed copy, saying she would also submit my referral to an endocrinologist who worked in the same building. I was floored. Was it really going to be this easy? 

When I saw the endocrinologist he was alarmed that I had listed lithium, a mood stabilizer, as a medication I took. I explained that I had mood swings but that I had full consent from everyone to begin hormones. He was uncomfortable and wanted letters from my parents and psychiatrist, but then ignored these letters after I submitted them.

Sometime during the following year, I dragged my mother to the probate judge to change my legal name. She sat there, looking desolate and defeated as I assured the judge that she fully consented. He told me he could not in good faith assist a minor attempting to lie about her sex.

A few days after turning 18, I returned to the endocrinologist, having never seen the gender therapist past that first appointment. On the basis of “informed consent,” he could not turn me down: as long as I said that I was aware of all the risks and side effects, and accepted them as par for course, I would be prescribed cross-sex hormones. Did I understand the medical risks of what I was doing? Sort of. All of the side effects meant nothing to me because I had been told online that the alternative was a life of misery and eventual inevitable suicide. It would be years before I saw myself in Jamie Reed’s words: “All it took for them to permanently transform themselves was one or two short conversations with a therapist.”

I left with a prescription which I filled that day. The taunting at school stopped as the bullies who mocked me heard my voice crack, then drop. Facial hair sprouted. I bound my chest, sometimes with very frilly, cutesy custom-made binders. (A cupcake print one comes to mind.)

I entered college very open about the fact that I was female but wanted to be a man. I frequently wore makeup and sometimes women’s clothes, saying I was “expressing femininity as a man.” I was on every “transgender student” panel and did my best to “educate” everyone on the intricacies of people like me. I got a large tattoo to mask my breasts, thinking I’d never be able to afford a mastectomy. 

At the appointment the tattoo artist asked me, her deaf client, “How do you sign MY BODY IS AMAZING?” I showed her and she turned it into a dance. It was the dance of another woman who struggled her whole life to love her body. I had begun to love mine but was still obsessed with not looking completely like either sex. This made romantic endeavors difficult because I insisted on trying to be with gay men despite not being male and no longer even making an attempt to look male.

I found out that my student health insurance covered “transition,” so I made a consultation for a “simple release” metoidioplasty because I wanted ambiguous genitalia. At the appointment, I had no sign language interpreter and did my best to understand the staff and communicate what I wanted. The surgeon asked if I wouldn’t prefer a more linear path involving a mastectomy first. The nurse shook her own breasts at me while looking at my chest, eagerly smiling to indicate that the doctor was right. Uncomfortable, I took off my shirt. The surgeon assured me that my tattoo would remain totally intact and that because I was so small-chested the mastectomy could be done with the keyhole method, leaving me without scarring. 

The day of the surgery, I kept wondering if something would go wrong. If my insurance would suddenly fall through. If my ride home would cancel, thus necessitating we reschedule the whole thing. Instead everything went very smoothly. Everyone assured me that when I woke up, I would be happy.

A few days later in my dorm room, seeing my new chest unbandaged for the first time, I could hardly remember having breasts. I thought this meant it was the right thing to do. In hindsight, it was trauma. I was 21 and had no idea that my breasts would not grow back if I stopped testosterone. Prior to the operation, I told my therapist I might one day have a child and want to breastfeed my baby, but we never followed up on that thread.

Post-mastectomy, I got a vaguely worded letter from the surgeon expressing that my sex had been “changed” and that I was now “physically male.” My birth certificate and driver’s license were amended to reflect this lie.

I was not unhappy, per se, but taking cross-sex hormones is like trying to install a Windows operating system onto an Apple computer. You can certainly do it, but the machine is not equipped to deal with that. I had already been through female puberty. My bone structure would never look male. I would never gain muscle the same way men do. I began struggling with my eating disorder much more severely following my mastectomy because I saw my stomach sticking out so much further than my now-flat chest. I developed vaginal atrophy and cervical problems which I am only just beginning to have treated because I avoided gynecologists for so long.

After meeting him on a gay dating website and falling in love, I married a man in 2019. We moved to the Midwest and I did something I always thought I wanted: I went totally “incognito” about being transgender, and let everyone believe me to be wholly male. Instead, I felt empty inside for years. I could never be wholly truthful about my childhood. My husband was privately uncertain how it was possible for me to “feel like a man” and later admitted to being terrified of the medical experimentation I was undergoing. He loved me dearly as his “husband,” and was willing to refer to me as such regardless of whether or not I medicalized myself. He expressed what my family was by then afraid to: How long would I live?

After reading an article about Jamie Reed in our local paper, I researched detransition. I had been taught to see people who stopped lying about their sex as self-hating, “transphobic,” or even rare cases of other issues being mistaken for “genuine gender dysphoria.”

What I found was so different from what I had been told: thousands of people who had been prescribed cross-sex hormones after a single appointment, many never seeing a therapist even once. Hundreds of women whose breasts had been removed without ever being asked why they wanted that. People whose healthy genitals had been mutilated to poorly approximate those of the opposite sex. So many who really did at some point–or even still–struggle with the desire to be the opposite sex, an impossible endeavor. 

The future was uncertain to me. I was nearly 30 and had lived half my life lying about my sex. There was no adult woman I could return to being.

Was there?

Hundreds of people told me that even if I had lived my whole life pretending to be male, detransition did not mean “going back” to anything. It meant stopping the medicalization and the lies. It meant starting over. It meant moving forward.

I planned to wait a year before publicly detransitioning as a way of “serving penance” (a coping strategy my husband suggested, knowing the guilt I felt about my medicalization) and to avoid being perceived as a man pretending to be a woman. I wore women’s clothing at home, along with breast forms, which took an insane amount of courage because I felt like I was crossdressing as a woman despite being female. 

One day, I snapped. I felt miserable going to work every day living a lie and absolutely could not continue to handle the frustration of dealing with a period in the men’s restrooms. I told my HR director about my situation, expecting shock. I expected a few slow weeks of telling managers, then coworkers, eventually changing my name tag and restroom habits. Instead, she was completely unsurprised. Expressing that she would support whatever timeline I wanted, she reassured me that absolutely no one would be uncomfortable with me in the women’s restroom. 

I changed my name tag that very day and told all of my coworkers through a handwritten note that I passed to them with shaking hands. Not one was fazed. Most reacted with great positivity and support. A few asked me privately why I had “transitioned” in the first place and I told them very honestly: I was groomed by adults online and felt trapped in my decisions. The last decade of my life had been the epitome of sunk-cost fallacy.

Gender ideology ruined my childhood. I wonder today what would have happened had I never been exposed to the rhetoric online or had therapists pressed me about where I was getting these ideas. Today I know that being a woman is just about being female. It has nothing to do with the way she dresses, the way she sits, or the way she walks, talks, and lives her life. My mother is relieved to have her daughter back. 

One day my in-laws came to visit while I was wearing breast prosthetics and feminine clothing. My husband and I expected bewilderment that never came. After a few hours of aimless conversation, I told them that if they weren’t going to ask why I suddenly looked like a woman, then I would just have to tell them. I was met with love and support, but wondered if I should say anything about the hole I saw their daughter falling down. 

My teenage sister-in-law had brought her sketchbook over to show me her drawings: large-breasted anime characters that she insisted were male. Later, I texted her about my detransition to which she responded with her desire to be a boy, her involvement in the same Internet circles I had fallen for, and her intentions to look more masculine. I see myself in her: She is ashamed of her body and the Internet has already told her this means she is “a boy inside.”

I wrote this for her but she is unwilling to read it. 

I’ll be there for her when she’s ready.

This essay was originally published by Women’s Declaration International, and reprinted here with permission.

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CORRECTION: The age at which the author first found a gender therapist has been corrected from 17 to 14, and the age she made her first appointment with the therapist has been corrected from “a year later” (i.e. 15) to 17. More information about the author’s rediscovery of these details can be found on her blog post.

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Céline Calame is an aspiring literacy specialist for deaf children in the Midwest. She volunteers with Women’s Declaration International USA, having joined its Desisted & Detransitioned Women’s Caucus in 2024.

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