Brian's Story
Some people come up to me and thank me for telling my story. Others find it upsetting. Most people, I think, are simply interested to hear it. The truth is, I’m something of a curiosity to many folks. I can’t entirely blame them. After all, it’s not every day you come across someone who medically transitioned in the 1970s, lived as a woman for a decade, got legally same-sex married in the ‘80s, and then re-transitioned. Rarer still is someone with a story like mine who didn’t come out the other end an anti-transition activist.
In suburban Massachusetts in the early 1960s, I was a cherubic, curly-haired, dark-eyed, long-lashed, pretty, effeminate little boy. I understood early on that I was not attracted to girls, and I knew deep in my bones that I never wanted to be like the crass and brutish boys or men I saw around me. And I thought I was the greatest thing since sliced bread. Unfortunately, no one else seemed to share that view.
My inability to hide my gayness meant that by the time I was in middle school, I had basically outed myself to everyone. The way I looked, spoke, and even moved may as well have been a big neon billboard reading “gay boy.” It may as well have been a huge bullseye as well. I was bullied at school, called a “little faggot” by teachers in front of the class, and brutalized at home. My mother literally tried to beat the gay out of me. My father and brothers were no better. And in between the explosions of outright abuse, the fact that everyone saw me not only as different, but less than couldn’t help but take its toll on my psyche. Everyone saw me as a soft little queer, but you had to be tough as nails to survive that.
I reacted predictably: I acted out, got into fights, became sexually active very early, and started running away from home. I quickly learned that it didn’t seem to matter where I ran to, because I was running from myself.
When I was 16, my best friend Paulie, who was also gay, introduced me to an entirely new world. I met gay and bi folks, trans people, and drag queens. I started dressing in drag myself, and the more I did, the more my new friend group gave me something I’d never experienced before: approval and acceptance. It was more than just intoxicating — it opened a door that I saw as my way to escape the rampant homophobia crushing me from every side. I thought that maybe if I were a passing trans woman, people would just leave me alone.
By the time I was 18, I was well on my way to transitioning. I moved to New York City, started taking estrogen, got breast implants, a nose job, and legally changed my name to Natalia (I went by Tish). And I passed. I passed with flying colors. I looked like a woman, was seen as a woman, and worked as a woman — mostly in sex work. I passed so well, in fact, that when I changed my name, the clerk at the courthouse took one glance at me and marked me down as “female” on the forms. This allowed me to marry a soldier when I was 23 and live my own little version of the American Dream on an army base in Germany. The marriage eventually failed in part because of my unwillingness to have bottom surgery, something my husband very much wanted, but also because of my worsening substance abuse.
During my transition and throughout my 20s, I was an active drug addict. Alcohol, weed, crack cocaine, you name it. I was just flying by the seat of my skirt, driven by the winds of trauma, chemical hooks, and the need for approval. I hit rock bottom when I was diagnosed with HIV during the height of the AIDS epidemic. There’s nothing like a life-threatening illness to make you reevaluate what’s really important in life.
Everything changed when I got sober in 1986. In therapy, I learned how to be introspective and gained insight into my life choices and the reasons behind them. I was 30 years old, and seeing myself clearly for the first time in my adult life. I came to see that my decision to transition, though perfectly understandable given the circumstances, was ultimately made for the wrong reasons. This realization left me incredibly unhappy and depressed. But I worked through it.
I learned how to embrace both the feminine and masculine sides of myself and love them equally. I didn’t have to be one or the other — I could be both. It was then that I decided that the best option for me would be re-transition. I don’t like the term “detransition” because I wasn’t going back — I was moving forward. The man I transitioned to — the man I am today — is unrecognizable from the boy who transitioned to a trans woman all those years ago. And I don’t mean physically. Brian at 31 was immeasurably wiser than Brian at 18. More mature, confident, self-possessed, and, in time, at peace.
I changed my name (and legal sex) and had my breasts removed. I stopped hormone replacement therapy, which, after 15 years, was a helluva “welcome to puberty” moment. While my inner circle of true friends were happy for me, the broader queer community in which I’d become well known was stunned. There was a long period of mourning. They reacted as though I had died, as though this person they fell in love with no longer existed. I also faced a lot of rejection from men I dated when they found out that I previously lived as a woman.
There is nothing wrong with being trans. I’ve known so many wonderful trans people whose inner selves were more fully realized through transition. I never want to tell anyone what they should or shouldn’t do, because I never wanted anyone to tell me what to do. For me, however, my decision to become trans was not born of a deep-seated sense of myself as a woman, but rather my desire to become a new person who might lead some semblance of a normal life. Had I grown up in a time and place where being a gender-nonconforming gay boy was socially acceptable, I don’t think the desire to transition would ever have occurred to me.
I’ve done a lot of things in life, including sex work, acting, playwriting, and photojournalism. In the past decade or so, I’ve become a licensed therapist, where I work with people who, among other things, often have problems with addiction or issues surrounding sexuality and gender. When I met my present husband, we were dating for six weeks before I got up the nerve to tell him about my past, and he told me he already knew. I’d told him I was a playwright and he’d googled me. He didn’t care at all. But not everyone in LGBT circles is so open-minded.
What’s funny is that just as gay and bi people used to feel such enormous pressure to stay closeted in mainstream society, people in the queer community who re-transition face a similar pressure to keep it on the down-low. My recent play, Long-Term Survive Her (2024), which I wrote and performed, includes a long monologue exploring this strange dynamic. In it, I ask how folks who place such primacy on embracing one’s authentic self can tell me to shut up and be quiet about my own lived experience because it might “hurt the community”? How can some people’s experiences be unquestionable while others are up for discussion and voted off the island? The thinking behind that attitude reeks of hypocrisy, and I’ll never stop talking about it, because there are many people in the same boat who are too afraid to come out and be themselves.
As a therapist, I know a lot of folks who have, like me, transitioned for the wrong reasons and regret it. I’ve even spoken with friends who confided that they regret their decision and feel stuck — especially those who’ve had bottom surgery. That’s why I wasn’t surprised by how much the mostly young audience loved Long-Term Survive Her. So many came up to me afterward and thanked me for sharing my crazy life.
I’ve never politicized my story. And I never will. My politics are “people should mind their own business.” But I do try to share some of the lessons I’ve learned on my gender odyssey. First and foremost: it’s okay to be whatever you want to be. If you had to put me in a box today, I’d probably be more gender fluid than strictly gender-conforming. I can be very masculine at times, and very feminine at others. In fact, I still do drag, and just last year I played a female character in a play. I enjoy being able to express my femininity on stage but not be locked into this mold where I had to maintain this idea of femininity while denying my masculine side. As a trans woman, I felt as though I always had to be on my feminine game. Nearly every moment in the company of others was a concerted effort to make sure that I was being “feminine” enough. It was exhausting. Simply being myself without worrying about what people think is such a liberating feeling.
For more about Brian, check out his memoir Trans Figured: My Journey from Boy to Girl to Woman to Man (2018).
Artist Notes
“Brian sits on arid land, gazing at a beautiful garden that symbolizes “the grass is always greener on the other side.” This vision leads him to make several big life decisions. He eventually realises that he can embrace both his masculine and feminine sides — an evolution represented by the butterfly. The colors of the tree represent his latent talents and skills, which he ultimately discovers and begins to pursue. ”
Published Jun 15, 2025
