This was originally a long post in Polish, as I was Invited to tell my story (well, called to the fore, rather) and so I decided to ‘concisely’ summarize my trans lore.
In the beginning…
…was a child. Child of a conservative, rigid family. This had a huge and unfortunate negative impact on my life, their greatest achievement being the destruction of my independence and courage, replacing them with subservience and learned helplessness, which I only began to free myself from after moving out at 23. This influence meant an instilled belief that I couldn’t be special, had no right to be proud of my achievements (because there was always someone better), and didn’t have any intrinsic value beyond what I could provide to others.
The first point in particular meant that for years I didn’t give myself the space to think about my identity. This doesn’t mean I wasn’t aware: On the contrary, I was always fascinated by trans people, ever since I learned they existed from some ancient issue of Claudia magazine (typical reading for a boy, women’s magazines). How does it all work? How do they understand it? Would I be able to transition?
No, definitely not, it’s only 1% of the population, so there’s no chance I could be trans, right? Besides, I wouldn’t even look pretty? How could that be, me?
In hindsight, these were thoughts typical of trans women – or at least those I know – just like constantly identifying with female characters and pondering the question “do I like this character, or do I want to be like this character?“, especially in anime (shoutout to Bubblegum Crisis), exploring myself through roleplaying with other furries (but you know, it was just writing stuff), or commissioning artwork featuring not Tagz, but Tagza.
You know, standard boy stuff.
It seems to me that the key problem was a lack of knowledge and vocabulary to understand what I was feeling – and, due to the aforementioned learned helplessness, also the inability to find the right environment or people who could help me understand what I felt, what my body instinctively understood, but which my mind was yet to grasp. I thought I was cis for years, but while I kept up with legal developments concerning trans people, I didn’t dare think that I was trans because nobody ever told me that being trans isn’t the exaggerated, caricatured image served to us by the media.
No, you can have a more nuanced relationship with your body; you don’t have to look like a housewife from 1950s American commercials, nor fit into an externally imposed model of femininity. Understanding and internalizing this changed my life.
Would a cis person call themselves cis?
However, what changed things most was one question, asked after about a year of increasing internal turmoil and wondering if what I considered a kink and crossdressing wasn’t actually something much, much bigger. The question was: “Maria, how often do you wonder what it’s like to be the opposite sex and live as a man?“
You can probably guess her answer was “Never,” mid-bite. That was the pebble that started the avalanche. My first thought after that question, somewhere around 2022?
“Fuck, am I actually trans?“
Maria was the first person I came out to, and although it was a shock for her – which she never showed and only told me months later! – we both decided to face it. I gave myself six months to see how constant these feelings were. You can probably guess that after six months, I knew I needed this to live. I started looking for options and help, still not very radicalized at the time.
Through an acquaintance, I got contact info for PORT in Poznań, where I was eventually referred for therapy with Radek Specjalski. It started awkwardly and I was quite scared, but after about half a year of sessions and therapy, mainly focused on naming what I was experiencing and putting my experiences into words, I decided to start the diagnostic process. It was mid-2023. Anyone who’s been through it knows – it hit my wallet hard, and since I was fumbling in the dark, I gave completely authentic answers, which, with less positively inclined psychologists, might have suggested I wasn’t “trans enough.”
Luckily, I found competent people, and with Maria’s support, beyond therapy and diagnosis, we also explored together what femininity meant to me, my identity, and how it should actually look. Her invaluable patience and trust have been a huge source of support and gave me immense strength to cope with the stress of transitioning.
tagaziel.setav gender female
In early 2024, towards the end of the diagnostic process, I started my social transition, independent of hormones. Switching from masculine to feminine clothing, breast forms, and so on – it all required courage and getting a grip on myself, focusing not on others’ reactions, but on what felt good to me.
The biggest surprise was that nobody really cared. I always had more delicate features – it turned out in April this was because I naturally had low testosterone, near the bottom of the normal range, and high estradiol, bordering on the upper limit – and despite my height, I just blended into the crowd. The feeling of being constantly visible and watched also gradually disappeared. I stopped worrying, simply enjoying being part of the people around my.
Another reason I started transitioning socially was because I was tired: The process dragged on for months (though we still finished in just 10 months!), and at some point, I started counting down the days until I could start HRT (Hormone Replacement Therapy) – mainly to avoid succumbing to depression and the feeling of a wasted life.
When I picked up the evaluation on April 20th, 2024, I came dressed in a dress, choker, the whole nine yards. According to the opinion, I fulfilled all the criteria of DSM-V, ICD-10/11 and generally am – speaking scientifically – trans as fuck.
I snagged an appointment with an endocrinologist, booking that same day and getting a lucky slot for next week, immediately filled the prescription, got the tests done, and so on April 29-30, I started HRT. It was a bit underwhelming – after all, I had waited almost a year – but it turns out, with my characteristic determination, I didn’t rest until I started.
I later joked with Radek that some people might have a period of contemplation and reflection. Me? I took estrogen and nuclear amounts of anti-androgens and charged ahead. After all, I’d been thinking about it for the last year and a half!
HRT progressed steadily, I had good results in August, but I also started thinking about surgical steps. The original plan loosely involved starting HRT in 2024, perhaps an orchiectomy (testicle removal) in 2025, and vaginoplasty in 2026 (one of my dreams, basically forever, was to experience sex as a woman, not a man; typical cis fantasies, right?). But as usual, no plan survives contact with reality, especially random events.
Murphy’s Law of Transitioning
One such random event was meeting a British woman living in Switzerland through a trans Telegram chat. Katie is a wonderful trans woman who runs her own trans group. When I mentioned in conversation that I was considering an orchiectomy, she shared her experiences and the contact details for her surgeon. I knew I wanted to get rid of anti-androgens and start surgical steps – so rather than wait, I decided on a video consultation, quickly figured out the details, and waited for a date.
Next came September 2024. I went to Eurofurence in Hamburg with friends, already as a woman on HRT. Since it was my second con, I had friends to meet. Believe me, it was a wonderful experience – furries are great, and one of the best compliments I got was, “When you joined us, if you hadn’t mentioned you were trans, I wouldn’t have guessed.”
The second major event was getting a message from the clinic with available dates in October and November. So there I was, sitting on a wall outside Hamburg’s CCH, frantically texting Maria and calculating costs. The formalities were covered – my evaluation opened doors. In Spain, the actual situation mattered more than the formal one: my papers might say male and bear my deadname, but as it’s a civilized country, having the diagnosis of transsexualism (F.64.0) solved everything.
I chose October 23rd, as neither of us wanted to miss our Aleksander’s birthday on November 21st. I returned to Poland mentally calculating costs, then organizing flights, accommodation, etc., while Maria handled the corporate insurance. In the meantime, the stressful pace consumed me, hindering Estrogel absorption and throwing my body into menopause.
Despite the frantic pace, we arranged everything, and on October 22nd, I flew to Spain, supported by my friend Jola. A day later, I was in the operating room… Although it was incredibly stressful, once in the hospital, I was absolutely sure of what I wanted, and upon waking up, I felt incredible relief. I cried and laughed simultaneously. And though the return journey was tough, with my flight home on October 25th, I came back satisfied – besides shedding the burden of unwanted masculinity, I also met the amazing surgical team… And Garnet.
Garnet
You know, I always feared transition would be a lonely experience, that I’d be left alone – which did happen, as my family… to put it mildly, completely screwed up – but despite that, I made the decision because I needed it to live, not slowly die. I never expected to quickly meet a group of wonderful trans women and become fast friends, let alone meet a woman I would fall in love with. It simply started with her offering support and information about her own surgeries – she knew I was considering vaginoplasty and initially just wanted to share her experience to guide a younger woman.
At first, I saw her as an older sister I could always turn to for support, confide in, entrust with my deepest secrets. She supported me – especially on the eve of the orchiectomy, when old medical traumas from past surgeries began to haunt me, particularly a phimosis treatment involving partial circumcision (read: physical and psychological mutilation, as I was a pre-pubescent child treated worse than an animal – no, pardon me, veterinarians show more empathy). She was there on Telegram, patiently listening, sharing her knowledge, and simply being there for me. She and Maria were my crucial support system.
But something sparked. I wanted more, longed for her attention, her affection, for a place for me in her complicated life. I finally told her “I love you” at the end of October, when I realized how much her support meant, how much I wanted her in my life – and I began rearranging my romantic life with Maria’s full participation. Our seemingly monogamous relationship turned out to be polyamorous, and the transition proved much easier for both of us than I expected.
But that wasn’t the end of the twists.
I made a mistake
While recovering from the orchi, I also realized I had made a mistake.
A serious mistake.
A mistake that shook me.
While arranging fore suture removal before flying out, I nearly had a panic attack. Upon returning and reflecting, it hit me: It’s not normal to fear being naked for medical reasons in front of a trusted doctor. The very thought panicked me. Something was deeply wrong. This was compounded by the news that Maria was changing jobs – leaving a megacorporation after nine years – meaning we’d lose the insurance that had covered the surgery costs. I was happy for her, but also devastated for myself.
I realized the mistake was not opting for vaginoplasty immediately. My dysphoria was so all-encompassing that I had grown accustomed to the pain. I accepted it as the norm – just as I once believed everyone struggled with their gender and identity, considering it a typical human experience.
By mid-November, I resigned myself to my fate and felt incredibly down: I knew what was wrong, but it seemed impossible to arrange the surgery before Maria left her job. Garnet promised to be with me in the hospital, sharing her own incredible transition story. Then, the moment we found out the Cigna insurance would continue for three months after Maria’s departure, Garnet’s experience she shared with me became pivotal.
I remember the phone call: I was waiting in the car for Aleksander to finish a psychologist appointment in Poznań’s Rzeczpospolitej estate. When Maria told me we still had the insurance, the decision took 15 seconds.
“What would Garnet do?“
I Can Do Deadlines
After returning from Madrid, I promised I would dial back the chaos and craziness for a while. Maria predicted I would last a week at most.
I lasted two. I immediately fired off emails, contacted my surgeon, and on our son’s birthday, just a week after my initial email, I received confirmation: they could perform my vaginoplasty before the end of February, no problem. My knees literally buckled. The following weeks were a blur of logistical planning and paperwork.
Handling insurance and payment was surprisingly easy – I expected a fight, but the response (right after Trump’s election, no less) was simple: “Of course, we cover it. Where and when?” Video consultations, scheduling, booking flights and a three-week stay in Madrid – absolute madness with zero room for error. I ultimately chose colovaginoplasty (i.e., constructing the vagina from a segment of the large intestine) over the classic inversion method, as I couldn’t do hair removal beforehand and didn’t want to rely on follicle scraping. The total cost was around €25,000, but thanks to Maria’s corporate insurance, my out-of-pocket was only seven hundred Euros.
Welcome to cyberpunk; Arasaka will always take care of you (or Militech).
December brought more breakthroughs. First, I switched to self-administered estradiol injections for stable hormone delivery.
Second, and more importantly, I met Garnet in person. That’s a story for another time, but the feeling that had been developing like a gentle campfire erupted into a blaze. It surprised us both, intimidated us a little, but we decided to take the risk. Garnet intended to keep her promise, although neither of us expected I would be heading back to the operating room so soon to take the final step.
One More Mountain to Climb
I entered 2025 as a completely different woman. In the preceding months, my life had taken several sharp turns, and despite turbulent waters and crashing waves, these crazy maneuvers – sometimes pushing me to the brink of nervous breakdown and regularly ending in exhaustion – didn’t sink the ship but steered it toward calmer seas. Crucially, within just a few months, it turned out I wouldn’t be forced into a lonely, cruel existence – quite the opposite, I found a new, wonderful family and a love that didn’t destroy, but complemented my relationship with Tigress.
January passed in nervous anticipation. Finally, on January 27th, 2025, after two days back in Madrid, I checked into the hospital again. This time, it wasn’t harrowing but felt, as Garnet described it, like a meeting with destiny. I knew I needed this. That same sense of certainty, the absolute focus I’d felt entering the operating room in Madrid before, returned – both while wearing the blue hospital gown (which vanishes the moment Morpheus claims you, but still) and as I walked into the operating room to lie down on the table.
Yes, in Spain, you walk into the theater yourself with the surgeon or nurse and get onto the table unaided. And this wasn’t some modern room, but one of those beautiful cathedrals of surgery: double-height ceiling, dark green wall tiles, crammed with equipment, all centered on a black table draped with a folded green sheet, stirrups attached. I remember seeing those stirrups and being struck by the reality of what will happen to me over the next few hours. I knew exactly what the operation involved; I knew I needed, wanted, and desired it – but I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t a moment of gravity.
The last moments of my old life were lying under that green sheet, gazing at the surgical lamp overhead, and then sinking into nothingness. I have a small regret about not asking for surgery photos, but only a small one. What matters is that the surgery took place – and I woke up taped up, catheterized, aching… And utterly, finally, free from dysphoria.
New Life
That monstrous feeling, the fear, the chains that had bound me for decades – gone. Despite the cocktail of painkillers pumped into me during surgery, the pain was astronomical. Recovery was arduous; lying in the frog leg position and the liquid diet were hard to endure, as was nearly two weeks without a shower – but I would do it all again if necessary. There was no other option.
Maria, Garnet, and Piotr were crucial here. I couldn’t have managed in Madrid without them. Maria, my partner and spouse, who supported my journey and made the surgery possible; Garnet, first my sister, now my lover and partner, who fulfilled her promise and more; Piotr, whom I’ve known for over twenty years and who flew to Madrid without hesitation to look after me in the home stretch.
Now, three months post-surgery, I understand the source of that determination. I am a happy woman, finally feeling at home in my own body. I wake up, look in the mirror, and see someone I genuinely like – someone attractive to both myself and others. I’m in a wonderful relationship with two amazing people, I have a queer chosen family that loves me as I love them, and for the first time in years, I feel joy – real joy! – when I think about the future.
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