I Was Convinced I Was a Lesbian - The Legendary Artist Made Me Realize the Truth

In 2011, several years before the celebrated David Bowie display debuted at the famous Victoria and Albert Museum in London, I declared myself a lesbian. Previously, I had solely pursued relationships with men, one of whom I had entered matrimony with. By 2013, I found myself in my early 40s, a freshly divorced mother of four, residing in the US.

At that time, I had begun to doubt both my gender identity and attraction preferences, seeking out clarity.

I entered the world in England during the beginning of the seventies - prior to digital connectivity. When we were young, my peers and I were without online forums or digital content to consult when we had questions about sex; conversely, we looked to music icons, and throughout the eighties, everyone was experimenting with gender norms.

The iconic vocalist sported masculine attire, The Culture Club frontman wore women's fashion, and bands such as Erasure and Bronski Beat featured performers who were proudly homosexual.

I desired his slender frame and precise cut, his defined jawline and flat chest. I aimed to personify the Berlin-era Bowie

Throughout the 90s, I lived riding a motorbike and dressing like a tomboy, but I returned to conventional female presentation when I decided to wed. My husband moved our family to the US in 2007, but when the union collapsed I felt an undeniable attraction back towards the manhood I had earlier relinquished.

Considering that no artist experimented with identity to the extent of David Bowie, I opted to devote an open day during a summer trip visiting Britain at the museum, hoping that maybe he could guide my understanding.

I lacked clarity precisely what I was searching for when I entered the show - maybe I thought that by immersing myself in the richness of Bowie's norm-challenging expression, I might, consequently, discover a clue to my own identity.

I soon found myself positioned before a modest display where the film clip for "Boys Keep Swinging" was recurring endlessly. Bowie was moving with assurance in the foreground, looking polished in a dark grey suit, while off to one side three supporting vocalists wearing women's clothing gathered around a microphone.

In contrast to the entertainers I had seen personally, these characters failed to move around the stage with the poise of inherent stars; instead they looked bored and annoyed. Positioned as supporting acts, they chewed gum and rolled their eyes at the monotony of it all.

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

They appeared to feel as ill-at-ease as I did in women's clothes - irritated and impatient, as if they were hoping for it all to be over. At the moment when I recognized my alignment with three male performers in feminine attire, one of them removed her wig, removed the cosmetics from her face, and revealed herself to be ... Bowie! Shocker. (Understandably, there were further David Bowies as well.)

At that moment, I knew for certain that I desired to rip it all off and emulate the artist. I craved his slender frame and his precise cut, his strong features and his male chest; I wanted to embody the slender-shaped, Berlin-era Bowie. And yet I found myself incapable, because to truly become Bowie, first I would require being a man.

Declaring myself as homosexual was a different challenge, but gender transition was a considerably more daunting prospect.

I needed several more years before I was ready. Meanwhile, I made every effort to adopt male characteristics: I stopped wearing makeup and eliminated all my feminine garments, trimmed my tresses and began donning male attire.

I altered how I sat, changed my stride, and changed my name and pronouns, but I halted before surgical procedures - the potential for denial and second thoughts had left me paralysed with fear.

When the David Bowie show concluded its international run with a presentation in Brooklyn, New York, five years later, I revisited. I had reached a breaking point. I couldn't go on pretending to be something I was not.

Positioned before the identical footage in 2018, I knew for certain that the issue wasn't about my clothing, it was my body. I wasn't a masculine woman; I was a male with feminine qualities who'd been in costume since birth. I wanted to transform myself into the person in the polished attire, moving in the illumination, and now I realized that I had the capacity to.

I made arrangements to see a doctor not long after. The process required further time before my transformation concluded, but not a single concern I anticipated materialized.

I continue to possess many of my feminine mannerisms, so others regularly misinterpret me for a homosexual male, but I accept this. I desired the liberty to explore expression following Bowie's example - and now that I'm at peace with myself, I can.