In the Shadows of Lotte:A Journey Through Shame and Self-Discovery(Part Three)

This is Part Three of In the Shadows of Lotte: A Journey Through Shame and Self-Discovery, following on from Part One, published in October 2025, and Part Two, published recently.

My wife's idea to clear some space by putting my female things into storage worked well for a while. It was also her suggestion that I should keep a few things back rather than storing everything away. She understood that getting rid of everything wouldn't work in the long run, but she kept insisting that the balance between male and female clothes wasn't healthy and that I should own more male clothes than female clothes.

At the time, though, I don't think she fully understood how I felt. I was perfectly content with the balance I had and, if I'm honest, I would have preferred not to have any male clothes at all. Unfortunately, I still needed my male wardrobe for the life I was living, so it wasn't something I could simply let go of.

For a while at least, I had space in my wardrobe again, the loft was clear, and life settled back into its routines of work and family. On the surface, everything seemed normal again.

Inside, however, Lotte kept finding her way to the surface, and I constantly found myself questioning who I really was. I knew this went much deeper than cross-dressing. Putting on women's clothes was never enough; I wanted to look and feel more feminine. That was when I started exploring shapewear, breast forms, and more realistic wigs.

Little by little, changes began to appear. First came pierced ears, then a nostril piercing, followed by a navel piercing, and eventually body hair removal, including my chest, back, arms, and legs. I often wonder what it must have felt like for my wife to cuddle into me one night, running her hands through my chest hair, only to find it gone the next.

She wasn't happy about these changes, but she tried to accept them because she could see how much they meant to me. With hindsight, I can understand why they must have felt selfish. At the time, though, they didn't feel like choices so much as necessities.

It felt as though two parts of me were in constant conflict. The male side urged caution, reminding me of my responsibilities and the impact my decisions were having on the people I loved. But the female side, the part of me I knew as Lotte, had become increasingly difficult to suppress. She wasn't asking any more; she was demanding to be seen.

Every change brought a brief sense of relief, but it never lasted. Instead, it only revealed something else waiting just beyond it.

Naturally, my wife had questions about where all of this was leading. She later told me she had begun to feel insecure and worried that I might start buying clothes again. I did my best to reassure her that there wouldn't be any more surprises, but by then my promises carried little weight. I had made the same promise after every new change.

Each time, I genuinely believed I had reached a point where things would settle, but the feeling always returned, stronger than before. I wasn't deliberately breaking my promises; I was responding to something inside me that I had spent years trying to suppress. The more I acknowledged it, the harder it became to push it away.

While I was trying to understand who I was becoming, my wife was left wondering who I would become, and whether the changes would ever stop. At the time, I was too absorbed in my own internal struggle to fully appreciate the uncertainty she was living with. I now realise we were both frightened, but for very different reasons.

Before long, I started searching online for answers, trying to make sense of feelings I couldn't fully explain. I found forums and communities where people described experiences that echoed my own. As I read their stories, something began to shift. The question I had been circling, but avoiding, became harder to dismiss:

Was I transgender?

Some people I found online had already begun transitioning, and I found myself drawn to their journeys with a quiet but growing intensity. At first, I was fascinated by the transformation itself, the visible journey from one appearance to another. I studied the changes over time, looking at before-and-after photos and trying to understand how people had reached a point where they could finally live as themselves.

Many showed the effects of hormones, facial surgery, and, in some cases, breast augmentation. I found myself fixated on how fully feminine they had become. Slowly, it became impossible to deny what I was feeling: I wasn't just interested in their stories. I longed to be them.

The difference between their before-and-after images stirred a sharp, unfamiliar sense of envy that I didn't yet have the words to explain. It wasn't simply admiration. It was something deeper, a feeling that they had become something I had spent years wishing I could be.

It was physical as much as emotional. My heart would race, a heat rising in my chest, my stomach tightening with something close to longing. It wasn't admiration any more. It was recognition, mixed with a quiet grief for something I felt I had never allowed myself to become.

Looking back, I can see how easily I became caught up in what is often described as the “pink fog”, a state where everything feels driven by the need to become more feminine, and each step forward feels both urgent and inevitable. At the time, I didn't have that language, but it felt as though my judgement was being pulled in one direction with increasing force.

During this period, I wasn't really getting the chance to dress or make use of the clothes I had bought. The lack of opportunity only seemed to intensify the longing I felt. The spending didn't stop, but it became more sporadic and reactive.

I can now see that I had become caught in a cycle that was difficult to break. The desire to dress would build until it became overwhelming, and buying new clothes felt like a way of moving closer to the person I wanted to be. For a short while, the anticipation gave me a sense of relief. The excitement of choosing something new, imagining how it would look, and picturing myself wearing it created a temporary escape from the feelings I was struggling with. But when it came to actually wearing those clothes, another fear often took over. Would I look feminine enough? Would the clothes suit me? Would I feel any closer to the person I wanted to be?

Those doubts often meant the clothes remained unworn, leaving me feeling as though I still hadn't found what I was searching for. Eventually, the longing would return, and with it came another urge to buy something new.

When that happened, I would go on small online spending sprees, buying the same kinds of things each time: dresses, fluffy jumpers, knitted cardigans, heels, and boots. And where did they all end up? Back in the wardrobe I had only just emptied.

Over time, something in my day-to-day life began to shift in a way I couldn't fully explain. What I had once dismissed as mood swings became more frequent and more intense, periods where I felt overwhelmed, as though I could barely keep myself steady.

Some evenings, I would retreat into the bathroom and lie in the bath for hours, usually in the dark. It was the only place where I could withdraw completely, where nothing was expected of me. Sometimes, lying there in the silence, my thoughts would drift towards ending my life. It wasn't that I wanted my life to end so much as I wanted the unbearable conflict inside me to stop. I was searching for some way to escape the constant struggle I felt trapped within.

There were moments when it felt as though I was coming apart internally. Anxiety would come in waves, sometimes triggered by things that seemed insignificant from the outside: seeing a woman in passing, a hairstyle, or a body shape that stirred something in me I couldn't explain.

It was the same feeling I had when I looked at those before-and-after images, a tightening in my chest, a sense of longing that felt almost painful, followed by confusion about why it affected me so strongly.

I didn't have the language for it then. I only knew that my reactions were too intense and too consistent to be meaningless. It would take time before I began to understand those moments in the context of gender dysphoria, but at the time, I was simply trying to get through them without fully understanding what was happening inside me.

As the years passed, my gender dysphoria seemed to intensify. What had once been something I could push into the background was becoming impossible to put aside. There were days when I felt I was only just functioning. It began to seep into every part of my life, affecting both my work and my relationships. I was constantly distracted, and concentrating on even the simplest tasks became increasingly difficult.

Before long, thoughts of living my life as Lotte began to consume me. I found myself spending hours researching gender-affirming hormone therapy (HRT), facial feminisation surgery (FFS), and breast augmentation. They were no longer abstract ideas or passing curiosities; they had become possibilities I couldn't stop thinking about.

Around the same time, I became completely obsessed with female hairstyles. Whenever I saw a style I loved, I couldn't help imagining what it would feel like if that hair were mine. It wasn't just admiration; it was another source of longing.

I started growing my own hair because I desperately wanted the freedom to wear it in those styles. A wig, no matter how convincing it looked, was never going to satisfy that need. It could imitate the appearance, but it could never give me the feeling of having my own feminine hair.

I wasn't chasing the appearance of femininity any more. I wanted it to be part of me.

The same was true of women's bodies. Certain body shapes would stop me in my tracks, but not simply because I found them attractive. More often than not, I was looking because I wanted to look like them.

I would study the softness of their figures, their curves, and the way they carried themselves, wishing those features belonged to me instead. My own reflection became a constant reminder of the person I didn't want to be. I longed for softer curves, a more feminine silhouette, and a body that reflected how I increasingly felt inside.

That wasn't to say the attraction wasn't real; it was. But it was only one part of a much more complicated picture. For years, I struggled to untangle those feelings.

Was I admiring women because I found them attractive, or because I wanted to be like them?

More often than not, it was both.

The closest description, as I now understand it, was that I felt like a woman who happened to be attracted to women. At the time, though, I didn't have that language. All I knew was that I wanted to be a woman while still being attracted to women, and trying to untangle those two truths often felt impossible.

As those thoughts became more frequent, they slowly stopped feeling like occasional intrusions and began to dominate almost every quiet moment. Whenever my mind wasn't occupied with work or family life, it drifted back to the same questions.

What if I really was transgender?
What would transition mean?
Could I ever live as Lotte?
And perhaps most frightening of all, what would it cost?

I found myself mentally rehearsing impossible futures.

One moment, I imagined what life might feel like if I finally allowed myself to transition. The next, I pictured everything I stood to lose: my marriage, my family, my career, and the life I had spent decades building.

Neither future felt bearable.

Remaining as I was felt increasingly impossible, yet changing seemed equally terrifying.

The conflict I had felt for so long had changed. It was no longer a balanced struggle between two parts of myself. Every day felt like a negotiation between two versions of myself, but it was becoming increasingly one-sided.

The part of me that had carried me through fifty years of life was desperately trying to preserve everything I had built, while Lotte was becoming impossible to silence. There were moments when I convinced myself I could continue living as I always had, burying those feelings once again. Those moments never lasted.

Before long, something as ordinary as seeing a woman whose appearance stirred that familiar longing, discovering another hairstyle I wished were mine, or reading another transition story online would pull me straight back into the same emotional turmoil.

What made it even harder was that nobody else could see the battle I was fighting. To the outside world, I was simply carrying on with work, family life, and everyday responsibilities. Inside, however, I felt as though my entire identity was being dismantled piece by piece.

The person everyone believed they knew was becoming harder and harder for me to recognise as myself.

By that point, I had moved well beyond simply questioning my gender. The question was no longer whether these feelings would disappear. Deep down, I already knew they wouldn't.

The question I kept returning to was far more daunting:

If this really was who I was, what was I going to do about it?

Transition didn't really seem like an option.

I'd made vows to my wife, and I couldn't imagine being the person who shattered the life we had built together. Whatever I was feeling, I couldn't see how pursuing transition wouldn't come at an enormous cost to the person I loved most.

There was something else, too. By then, I had reached my fiftieth birthday, and part of me had begun to believe I had simply left it too late. I told myself that transition was something people did when they were younger. Even if it was what I truly wanted, perhaps I had missed my chance.

It was a painful thought, but in some ways it almost felt easier to accept that than to face the possibility of turning my entire life upside down.

Despite telling myself that transition wasn't an option, the dysphoria refused to loosen its grip. If anything, it seemed to be growing stronger.

I couldn't explain why.

Perhaps it was because I had finally stopped dismissing what I was feeling, or perhaps years of trying to suppress it had simply reached a breaking point. Whatever the reason, I knew I was struggling more than ever before.

Then, one late afternoon after work, everything came to a head.

A woman walked past me wearing a hairstyle almost identical to one I had longed to have for years. Ordinarily, it would have been an unremarkable moment, but something inside me suddenly gave way.

My heart began to race, my stomach churned, and a wave of heat swept through my body. I could feel panic rising, but underneath it was something even more painful.

As I watched her disappear into the distance, all I could think was how desperately I wished I could look like her.

She wasn't just another woman passing by. In that moment, she represented everything I longed to be.

The intensity of the emotions completely overwhelmed me. By the time I arrived home, I was barely holding myself together. I collapsed into my wife's arms and sobbed uncontrollably, trying to explain what had happened and why something so ordinary had reduced me to tears.

At the time, all I knew was that something inside me had finally broken.

I can now see that it wasn't really about the woman I had seen or the hairstyle she was wearing. It was about everything she represented. Years of suppressed longing, questioning, and trying to understand myself had all surfaced at once.

I can only imagine what was going through my wife's mind as she tried to comfort me. She had already lived through years of unexpected changes, each one followed by my reassurance that things had finally settled.

Now here I was again, sobbing in her arms as I struggled to explain feelings I barely understood myself.

One question stayed with me.

She kept asking, “So you don't want to be a woman?”

I remember instinctively dismissing the question, not because it wasn't important, but because I didn't know how to answer it. The truth felt far too complicated.

Part of me wanted to say no, because admitting otherwise felt unthinkable. Another part of me knew that the longing I had been trying to suppress had become impossible to deny.

I simply didn't have the words to explain the conflict I was living with.

What we did agree on, however, was that I couldn't keep trying to make sense of it on my own. Whatever this was, I had reached the point where I could no longer pretend I could deal with it alone.

Together, we decided that the best way forward was for me to seek help from someone with experience in gender identity.

Not long afterwards, I referred myself to my local Gender Identity Service for counselling.

Soon afterwards, I received a phone call from one of the team at the Gender Identity Service. It was an introductory conversation, an opportunity for them to ask how I was doing, provide some resources that might help while I waited, and explain the process and the likely waiting times. I appreciated the contact, but I also knew that this was only the beginning. The reality was that I would need to be patient.

Since then, things have been moving forward at a slow pace. While waiting, I have been taking small steps, trying to find ways to acknowledge Lotte while also managing the realities of the life I have built.

In August last year, I had my first ever makeover and photo-shoot, an experience that allowed me to spend four hours as Lotte. It was a day I will never forget.

Seeing a version of myself that I had imagined for so long finally appear in front of me was an incredibly emotional moment. For those few hours, I wasn't just putting on clothes or makeup; I was able to step into a part of myself that I had spent years trying to understand.

What surprised me, though, was how complicated my feelings were afterwards. Despite how meaningful the day had been, I found myself disliking many of the photographs. When I looked through them, I often struggled to see the woman I felt inside. Instead, I saw my male self, covered in makeup, carefully posed, and wearing what felt like a forced smile.

Ironically, the photos I connected with most were the ones taken by the makeup artist on her phone immediately after the makeover, before the official photo-shoot had even begun. They felt more natural and more like me. There was less pressure to perform, less awareness of the camera, and somehow those simple moments captured something that the professional photographs didn't.

Just a couple of months later, I returned for another makeover and photo-shoot, this time with a bridal theme. Once again, it was a magical afternoon and one that will stay with me forever.

Being able to experience what it felt like to be a bride for a few hours, wearing a beautiful wedding dress and seeing myself in that role, felt like something I had only ever dreamed about. For those few hours, I was able to step into a moment that felt incredibly special and deeply personal.

Yet once again, my feelings about the photographs afterwards were complicated. The strange thing was that I hadn't felt those doubts on the day itself. When I looked in the mirror, I didn't question what I saw. I simply enjoyed the moment and allowed myself to be Lotte.

Perhaps it was the excitement of the day, the atmosphere, or the way I was able to see myself in that moment. Or perhaps those mirrors really were a little bit magical.

Just before Christmas, I made the decision to start wearing black nail polish full time. It may seem like a small thing, but for me it represented something much bigger. It was a visible reminder of the part of myself I had spent so long trying to hide. Since then, I have regularly visited a nail salon to have them redone, and I have started having my toenails painted as well.

Other changes have followed. There has been full body waxing, which has helped me feel more comfortable in myself, and I have had tattoos that reflect different parts of my journey. One is a feminine design of delicate butterflies, representing the softer side of myself that I have gradually allowed to emerge. Another is a transgender symbol set against a pink and blue watercolour background, a permanent reminder of the identity I have spent so long trying to understand.

I also chose to have a Depeche Mode tattoo. On one level, it is a tribute to a band that has been part of my life since I was younger. But it carries a much deeper meaning for me too. The lyrics from their song Wrong, "the wrong mix in the wrong genes", resonated with something I had felt for years. Those words captured, in a way I couldn't fully explain, the feeling of being a person whose inner self and outer appearance had never quite matched.

I've also been growing my hair out again. I'm not sure how many times I have attempted to do this over the years, but I do know that the last time I wasn't far off reaching the length I wanted before I cut it all off when my dad passed away. I wanted to look smart and presentable for his funeral, and at the time it felt like the right thing to do.

This time, though, it has been growing well. For a 52-year-old, I feel fortunate that I still have a good head of hair, even if much of it is now grey. I have a style in mind, and I have already had a consultation with a hairstylist who I hope will help me achieve the look I have been imagining.

My wife has never liked my hair long, and I can understand why. From her perspective, it is another visible change, another reminder of the direction I seem to be moving in. Once again, I find myself trying to balance my need to express this part of myself with the impact those changes have on her.

I haven't told her yet that the style I have in mind is more feminine. For now, she has tolerated the length, although there are regular, subtle reminders that she feels it has gone far enough. I understand those reminders, but I also know that cutting my hair short again would feel like giving up something that has become increasingly important to me.

I like to think that my wife and I are in a good place. I know how fortunate I am to have her by my side. She has shown me incredible loyalty, compassion, and understanding throughout all of this, and that is one of the biggest reasons I continue to question what the future holds.

It would be easy to focus only on my own struggles, but I am constantly aware of what this journey has meant for her too. She has told me that, in some ways, she already feels as though she has lost a part of me to Lotte. I know there is still a fear that, despite my reassurances, one day I might come to her with a decision that changes everything.

I understand why she feels that way. From her perspective, she has watched one change follow another, each one accompanied by my belief that it would be the last. Even though I have never wanted to hurt her or make her feel uncertain about our future, I know that my actions have sometimes made it difficult for her to trust that there won't be another step.

In one particular conversation, I raised the possibility of trying a low-dose approach to hormones, sometimes referred to as micro-dosing, as a way of helping me manage the intensity of my gender dysphoria.

Her initial reaction was understandable. When I mentioned hormones, I think her mind immediately went to full hormone replacement therapy and what that could mean for our future. She knows enough about transition to understand that HRT can represent a significant step.

After we talked it through, she became more open to the idea of me exploring whether a low-dose approach might help. She isn't dismissing what I am feeling; she wants me to find a way of easing the dysphoria while also understanding what this could mean for both of us. At the same time, I know that this is another step into unfamiliar territory for both of us.

After considering it carefully, I referred myself to the Gender Identity Clinic to explore whether micro-dosing might be an option for me. I am now on their waiting list, which brings with it a mixture of emotions. Part of me feels relieved that I have finally taken a step towards getting professional support, while another part of me understands the significance of what this could mean for my future.

A FEW FINAL THOUGHTS

As I reflect on everything I have written here, there is one thing I feel I need to say: I have not travelled this journey alone.

First and foremost, I want to give my deepest thanks to my wife. She has had to navigate a journey she never expected to be part of, facing uncertainty, change, and moments where I know she has felt frightened about what the future might hold. Despite that, she has continued to show me incredible compassion, patience, and love. I know this hasn't always been easy for her, and I will always be grateful that she has stood beside me while I have tried to understand myself.

I also want to thank my daughter, my sister, and the other members of my family who I have trusted enough to open up to about Lotte. The support and understanding they have shown me has meant more than I can properly put into words. Simply having people in my life who I can talk openly with, without having to hide this part of myself, has made an enormous difference.

I also owe a huge thank you to the blogging community and the online forums that have supported me along the way. At times when I have felt overwhelmed or alone, those connections have been a source of comfort and reassurance. In particular, I want to mention Lynn, Sue, and Ally, whose kindness, honesty, and support have been invaluable. There are also many others I haven't named here who have offered encouragement, understanding, and friendship, and I am equally grateful to them.

For so many years, Lotte was something I kept hidden away, something I struggled with privately and often tried to understand on my own. Being able to finally share that part of myself with others has changed things. It hasn't removed all the uncertainty, and there are still many questions about where this journey will lead, but I no longer feel that I have to face those questions completely alone.

 
Thanks for reading, 

Lotte x