Can You Really Understand What It’s Like to be Transgender? From my Lived Experience

Most people say they can't imagine what it's like to be transgender. They're right. Here's why that's not an insult - and why it's worth talking about anyway.

There's a question I get asked - or rather, a statement I hear made - more often than almost anything else. Usually well-meaning, almost always said with genuine warmth. It goes something like this:

"I can only imagine what you've been through."

And here's the thing. You can't. Not really. And I say that with absolutely no judgement, because it's not a criticism, it's just the truth. The honest, slightly uncomfortable truth that most people dance around because they don't want to sound dismissive and I don't want to sound ungrateful.

So let's actually talk about it.

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Gender Dysphoria Is Innate

Here's something I want you to sit with for a moment.

Imagine a child born on a desert island. Completely isolated. No other humans, no mirrors in any social sense, no exposure to gender roles or expectations or the concept of what men and women are supposed to look like or be. No outside world at all.

That child, if they were transgender, would still know. Not necessarily what - they wouldn't have the language or the reference points. But they would know that something about their body didn't feel right. That there was a fundamental mismatch between what they felt themselves to be and what they were. Not because anyone told them. Not because of anything they'd seen or absorbed or been influenced by. Just because that's what gender dysphoria is. It is innate. It is not learned, not chosen, not a reaction to the world around you.

I think about that quite a lot. Because it cuts through almost every argument that tries to frame being transgender as a response to something external. It isn't. It couldn't be. Even in total isolation, I would still have been me.

Five Decades of Knowing

I spent fifty-five years knowing something about myself that I couldn't name at three, couldn't act on at thirty and couldn't survive not acting on at fifty-five. That's not a dramatic flourish, that's just what happened. The decision to transition wasn't taken lightly or impulsively, or because it was fashionable. It was taken because the alternative was genuinely not surviving.

And I think that's where the gap opens up between lived experience and empathy, however deep and genuine that empathy is.

You might have had moments of profound self-doubt. You might have wrestled with your identity, your direction, your sense of self. You might have faced something enormous and come out the other side changed. Those experiences are real and they matter. But they are not this. They can't be.

Because what I'm describing isn't a phase of self-discovery. It's not imposter syndrome or a midlife wobble. It's knowing - from as far back as you can form a coherent thought - that something fundamental doesn't match. And then spending five decades pretending otherwise, performing a version of yourself that isn't you, becoming so good at the performance that even the people closest to you don't see it.

I was six foot. Seventeen stone. Heavily tattooed. I managed call centres and got called "The Viking." I held a black belt. I worked doors. I was, by any external measure, the picture of a particular kind of man. And inside all of that, I was exhausted in a way I couldn't explain to anyone, because how do you explain something you don't fully have the language for yet?

You can empathise with that. But you can't know it. Not from the inside. Can you really understand what it’s like to be transgender?

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The Complexity of Transition

And then there's the transition itself. Because I think there's a version of this story that gets told in headlines and feel-good features - the before and after, the relief, the becoming. And that part is real. The euphoria is real. Exhaling after holding your breath for decades is real.

But that's not the whole of it. Not even close.

Transitioning is one of the most emotionally and physically demanding things a human being can do. There is fear - of rejection, of safety, of whether you will ever feel at home in your own reflection. There is sacrifice, in ways both enormous and mundane. And there is guilt. A guilt that doesn't get talked about nearly enough.

Because the people who love you are also on this journey, whether they signed up for it or not. The people closest to me faced their own loss, their own adjustment, their own grief for something that had gone - even as I was finally arriving. I carry that. I don't think I'll ever fully put it down, nor do I think I should. It matters.

And then there are the harder truths about outcome. Many transgender people - particularly those of us who transition later in life, after puberty has already done what it does - find that the results we can achieve fall short of the results we needed. Not for lack of courage or effort. Just biology and timing. That gap between where you arrive and where you hoped to be can bring its own depression, its own grief. Society doesn't make it easier. The world is not always kind, and even when it is, the mirror can still be unkind.

I started transitioning at fifty-five. I am still on that journey. I sit with the knowledge of what might have been different had it happened earlier. I don't dwell on it - dwelling doesn't serve me or anyone else - but I don't pretend it isn't there either. It is. It's part of this.

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Can you really understand what it's like to be transgender?

Here's what I've learned in the years since I finally stopped holding breath: most people, when they say they can't imagine it, actually mean that they're trying. That counts for something. Quite a lot, actually.

The problem isn't empathy. Empathy is brilliant. Empathy is the whole point. The problem is when empathy tips over into assumption - when people fill in the gaps in their understanding with their own emotional framework and in doing so, accidentally miss the mark entirely.

"It must have been so hard to keep it secret." Yes. But also, it was the only option I had for most of my life, so the framing of it as a choice I was making - to hide - doesn't quite land right.

"You must feel so free now." I do. I genuinely do. But freedom after five decades of the alternative isn't simple joy. It's complicated and layered and sometimes grief sits right next to the relief, for the years that went differently.

"I'd have known. I'd have been able to tell." No, you wouldn't. And I say that gently but firmly, because I was very, very good at being Andy.

None of this means non-trans people can't be extraordinary allies. They absolutely can and the most remarkable support I've encountered has come from those closest to me, people who have no lived experience of this but who chose to listen rather than assume.

That's the distinction. Listening is available to everyone. Knowing isn't.

And in my work as a diversity and inclusion consultant, that's exactly the conversation I want to have with organisations - not "you should feel guilty for not understanding" but "here's what understanding actually looks like in practice, and here's why it matters more than you might think."

You don't need to have lived it to take it seriously. You just need to be honest about the limits of your frame of reference and curious enough to keep expanding it.

That's not a low bar. In the current climate, it sometimes feels like rather a high one.

But it's worth clearing.

I am a D&I consultant, keynote speaker, Mental Health First Aider, writer and transgender woman with 20+ years of senior corporate leadership experience. I work with businesses across all sectors to build genuinely inclusive cultures whilst also supporting transgender individuals and their families through every stage of the journey. If this piece resonated, you can find more articles on andreaking.net  or  book a free discovery call if you'd like to talk.

The views expressed in this article are my own and are based on personal experience and perspective. They are not intended as medical, legal or professional advice.

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Frequently Asked Questions

Why can't non-transgender people fully understand the transgender experience?

Gender dysphoria involves a fundamental, innate mismatch between body and identity that exists from early childhood, independent of social influence—something empathy can acknowledge but not replicate from the inside.

Is saying "I can't imagine what you've been through" dismissive?

No, it's often genuine acknowledgment of the limits of understanding. The problem arises when empathy becomes assumption, filling gaps with personal frameworks rather than listening to lived experience.

Does this mean non-trans people can't be good allies?

Absolutely not. The most powerful support comes from those who listen without assuming, stay curious about the differences, and honour lived experience while being honest about what they don't know.

Is gender dysphoria learned from society or innate?

It's innate. Even isolated from all social gender expectations, a transgender child would still feel the internal mismatch between their sense of self and their body.

Why was the external persona ("The Viking") so convincing?

Decades of necessity created expertise in performing expected gender roles. External success in masculine presentation masked profound internal exhaustion that even close relationships couldn't detect.

Can late-life transition (age 55+) still bring relief despite biological limits?

Yes. Even starting later, transition often brings coherence, authenticity and exhaling after lifelong tension, though it coexists with realistic grief for lost time and irreversible puberty effects.

What's the difference between empathy and understanding here?

Empathy connects emotionally but stays within one's own frame. True allyship requires recognizing when your frame doesn't apply, then listening to expand it rather than overlaying your own story.