I Believed I Was a Gay Woman - The Legendary Artist Helped Me Uncover the Reality

During 2011, several years ahead of the celebrated David Bowie exhibition launched at the famous Victoria and Albert Museum in England, I came out as a gay woman. Up to that point, I had only been with men, with one partner I had wed. Two years later, I found myself nearing forty-five, a recently separated caregiver to four kids, making my home in the US.

At that time, I had begun to doubt both my personal gender and attraction preferences, searching for understanding.

My birthplace was England during the early 1970s - prior to digital connectivity. As teenagers, my peers and I lacked access to Reddit or YouTube to turn to when we had questions about sex; conversely, we sought guidance from pop stars, and in that decade, everyone was challenging gender norms.

Annie Lennox wore boys' clothes, The flamboyant singer adopted feminine outfits, and pop groups such as popular ensembles featured artists who were openly gay.

I craved his narrow hips and precise cut, his defined jawline and male chest. I wanted to embody the Berlin-era Bowie

In that decade, I lived driving a bike and dressing like a tomboy, but I returned to conventional female presentation when I opted for marriage. My spouse moved our family to the United States in 2007, but when the marriage ended I felt an powerful draw back towards the male identity I had previously abandoned.

Given that no one challenged norms to the extent of David Bowie, I opted to devote an open day during a seasonal visit returning to England at the V&A, with the expectation that possibly he could guide my understanding.

I was uncertain precisely what I was searching for when I walked into the display - perhaps I hoped that by submerging my consciousness in the richness of Bowie's gender experimentation, I might, consequently, encounter a insight into my true nature.

Quickly I discovered myself positioned before a modest display where the visual presentation for "that track" was recurring endlessly. Bowie was moving with assurance in the primary position, looking stylish in a charcoal outfit, while positioned laterally three backing singers wearing women's clothing clustered near a microphone.

In contrast to the performers I had encountered in real life, these female-presenting individuals didn't glide around the stage with the self-assurance of inherent stars; rather they looked disinterested and irritated. Positioned as supporting acts, they chewed gum and showed impatience at the tedium of it all.

"Those words, boys always work it out," Bowie performed brightly, appearing ignorant to their diminished energy. I felt a fleeting feeling of understanding for the backing singers, with their thick cosmetics, awkward hairpieces and too-tight dresses.

They seemed to experience as ill-at-ease as I did in female clothing - irritated and impatient, as if they were yearning for it all to be over. Precisely when I recognized my alignment with three individuals presenting as female, one of them ripped off her wig, smeared the lipstick from her face, and unveiled herself as ... Bowie! Shocker. (Naturally, there were further David Bowies as well.)

In that instant, I knew for certain that I wanted to rip it all off and become Bowie too. I craved his lean physique and his sharp haircut, his strong features and his male chest; I aimed to personify the slender-shaped, Bowie's German period. And yet I couldn't, because to authentically transform into Bowie, first I would need to be a man.

Coming out as homosexual was one thing, but personal transformation was a significantly scarier possibility.

I needed further time before I was ready. During that period, I tried my hardest to embrace manhood: I stopped wearing makeup and threw away all my feminine garments, shortened my locks and began donning men's clothes.

I sat differently, walked differently, and modified my personal references, but I stopped short of hormonal treatment - the possibility of rejection and regret had caused me to freeze with apprehension.

Once the David Bowie display finished its world tour with a stint in New York City, after half a decade, I went back. I had reached a breaking point. I found it impossible to maintain the facade to be an identity that didn't fit.

Standing in front of the identical footage in 2018, I knew for certain that the issue wasn't my clothes, it was my body. I didn't identify as a butch female; I was a man with gentle characteristics who'd been presenting artificially throughout his existence. I desired to change into the man in the sharp suit, dancing in the spotlight, and at that moment I understood that I could.

I made arrangements to see a doctor soon after. The process required further time before my personal journey finished, but none of the fears I anticipated came true.

I still have many of my feminine mannerisms, so people often mistake me for a queer man, but I accept this. I desired the liberty to experiment with identity following Bowie's example - and since I'm at peace with myself, I have that capacity.