Transitioning Beyond Pretence: Living Authentically as an Autistic Trans Woman
“As a trans person, you don’t transition to become someone else. You transition to stop pretending that you are someone else. There’s a huge difference.” The above quote resonates with a clarity that cuts straight to the core of my own journey. For most of my life, I wore layers of masks—constructed identities that protected me from a world that seemed hostile to authenticity. As an autistic person, masking became second nature, a survival mechanism in a world that doesn’t understand gestalt processing or the complexity of autistic communication. Layered on top of that was the deeper, more painful mask of gender conformity, performing a role that never belonged to me. Transitioning has not been about becoming someone new; it has been about stripping away those masks and finally living as myself—fully, unapologetically, and without pretence.
Unmasking and transitioning are two intertwined acts of self-reclamation. Both involve peeling back layers of societal expectations, false selves, and the exhausting pretence of normalcy. For me, these journeys are inseparable. As a gestalt processor, I experience my identity as a collection of interconnected pieces—each one unique, vibrant, and essential. Transitioning didn’t create a new piece; it revealed one that had always been there, waiting for me to stop hiding it. And unmasking my autism allowed me to see the threads connecting it all. Together, they formed a tapestry of authenticity I’d never been able to access before.
But this newfound openness comes with risk. In America’s current political climate, where anti-trans sentiment has been codified into laws and public discourse, living authentically as a trans person feels like standing exposed in a storm. To be autistic and trans in this moment is to walk through a world that feels increasingly hostile to your existence. And yet, I know that my authenticity is not just a personal act—it is resistance. Transitioning and unmasking are not acts of becoming but of unbecoming—letting go of the lies I told myself and the lies the world told me about who I should be. To live openly, even when it is terrifying, is to align with my truth. It is to stop pretending.
The Burden of Pretence
Before transitioning, I lived in a perpetual state of pretence, hiding behind masks that were never meant for me. I didn’t have the gestalts—the mental frameworks—for understanding my underlying feminine and neuroqueer identity, much less the language to express it. As a gestalt processor, the pieces of who I truly was floated disconnected, fragmentary, waiting to be brought into alignment. But for years, I couldn’t even begin to assemble them. The world around me did not feel safe enough to explore, let alone build, the authentic image of myself. It wasn’t until the last few years—when I found spaces of stability and acceptance—that I could start untangling the lies I’d been forced to live and glimpse the truth underneath.
Societal expectations didn’t just discourage my authenticity; they demanded my compliance. Every part of my life required me to perform identities that weren’t my own. In the workplace, I had to be a physical reflection of my employers’ values—spaces that were anything but safe for an autistic person, let alone someone in the LGBTQIA+ community. Whether it was enduring casual transphobia or hearing the “r-word” used to describe autistics, I was reminded constantly that any deviation from societal norms would be met with ridicule or rejection. The few jobs I managed to hold in an economy with an 80%+ unemployment rate for autistic individuals were rife with these micro- and macro-aggressions. These environments didn’t just fail to accommodate me—they were actively hostile to my existence.
This constant performance came at a significant cost. The emotional and mental toll of pretending to be someone else was relentless. As an alexithymic autistic, I already struggled to name and identify my emotions, but in those spaces, it didn’t feel safe to have emotions at all. The confusion of language and expression—what I was feeling versus what I was expected to feel—created an overwhelming disconnect. I had to compartmentalise every aspect of my true self just to survive, layering mask upon mask until I could hardly remember what my unfiltered self even looked like.
The façade was exhausting, but the fear was even worse. Decades of transphobic and homophobic comments from coworkers—“jokes” about the very identities I was privately trying to understand—created an environment of constant terror. What would happen if they knew? If they found out I wasn’t who I pretended to be? These thoughts haunted me, and every passing comment, every whispered slur, reinforced my belief that I couldn’t risk showing my true self. To these colleagues, my existence would have been a threat, a joke, or worse, an abomination.
The burden of pretending stretched far beyond the workplace. It infiltrated every corner of my life, from casual social interactions to deeply personal reflections. I spent years trapped in the suffocating contradiction of being an autistic person with a fragmented sense of self in a world that demands neat, linear narratives. I spent just as many years suffocating under the weight of a masculine identity that felt foreign to the core of my being. To pretend was to survive—but it was also to live half a life, disconnected, terrified, and always exhausted.
Only now, as I’ve begun to unmask and transition, can I see the enormity of that burden. It wasn’t just the effort of pretending—it was the cost of hiding the most beautiful, integral parts of myself. It was the cost of denying my own truth.
Transitioning as Unmasking
The journeys of unmasking my autism and coming out as trans are deeply intertwined, forming parallel paths of self-discovery and authenticity. Both required the courage to confront societal expectations and the layers of pretence I had constructed to survive in a world hostile to difference. Transitioning, in particular, was not just about embracing my gender identity—it was a profound act of integration. It allowed me to stop performing and start building the gestalts that make up my authentic self, piece by piece.
For decades, I lacked the language, safety, or even conceptual framework to understand my neuroqueer and feminine identity. As a gestalt processor, I experience the world not as a series of linear narratives but as an interplay of fragments—each one meaningful but incomplete until it is placed within a larger context. Before transitioning, those fragments felt disjointed, a kaleidoscope of truths that I couldn’t yet assemble into a coherent whole. The moment I allowed myself to begin transitioning, it was as though those scattered pieces finally started falling into place.
The process of unmasking my autism laid the groundwork for this. Recognising that I had spent most of my life suppressing my natural communication style and emotional patterns to fit into neurotypical spaces was a revelation. It was a difficult but liberating journey of accepting that my gestalt language processing, my sensory sensitivities, and even my alexithymia were not deficits—they were integral parts of me. This unmasking was the first step in learning to value myself for who I am, which in turn gave me the confidence to confront the mask of gender conformity I had been wearing for just as long.
Transitioning, however, pushed this unmasking even further. I remember the first time I introduced myself with my real name and they/them pronouns—it was like breathing fresh air after a lifetime spent holding my breath. Similarly, moments like allowing myself to wear clothing that resonated with my identity or discussing my transition openly with supportive friends and colleagues felt like reclaiming fragments of myself I had long believed lost. In those moments, I stopped pretending and started living as the whole, integrated person I am.
As a gestalt processor, my understanding of transition is not a single moment of revelation but a gradual process of assembling and reassembling my identity. Each milestone—coming out to loved ones, starting HRT, even small acts like correcting someone’s misgendering—felt like another piece sliding into place. The beauty of being a gestalt processor is that every step, no matter how small, becomes part of a larger, vibrant picture. Transitioning allowed me to see that my identity wasn’t something fractured or incomplete—it was a mosaic waiting to be uncovered.
But this process is not just about embracing my gender. It’s about unifying all the pieces of myself—autistic, trans, neuroqueer—into a cohesive, authentic whole. Transitioning helped me stop hiding from myself and the world, allowing me to integrate the many threads of my identity into a tapestry that feels uniquely and unmistakably mine.
Living Authentically: What it Means to Be Me
Living authentically, both as a trans woman and an unmasked autistic person, has been the most joyful and liberating experience of my life. For me, authenticity is not about physical appearances or presenting a specific image to the world. It’s not about documenting my transition in pictures on social media or curating a timeline of milestones. Instead, it’s about developing new gestalts—new ways of understanding myself—through the written word. Writing has been my mirror, my lens, and my canvas. It’s where I can see the fragments of my identity come together, where I can fully embrace the beauty of being me.
As a gestalt processor, I don’t experience my transition as a single event or even a linear process. For me, it’s a mosaic—a stained-glass window whose pieces were once scattered and hidden. Each moment of clarity, every time I’ve shed a mask or affirmed my identity, has been like finding another shard of glass and carefully placing it into the larger picture. And now, as I step back to take it all in, I’m overwhelmed by the brilliance of it. The picture is vibrant, intricate, and breathtaking—more beautiful than I ever imagined. Transitioning hasn’t made me someone new; it has allowed me to assemble and illuminate the pieces of who I’ve always been.
Shedding the pretence of masking and performing has opened doors I didn’t even realise were closed. It has allowed me to engage with the world in ways that feel meaningful and true. I no longer approach relationships with the weight of secrecy or the fear of being “found out.” Instead, I connect with people as my full self, which has deepened my relationships and brought me a sense of belonging I never thought possible. With myself, too, I’ve found a gentleness and understanding that I didn’t know I needed. I can look inwards without shame or judgement and appreciate the complexity and beauty of my own mind.
The greatest gift of living authentically, however, is the ability to fully participate in my own life. I no longer feel like an observer watching someone else perform the role of “me.” I am present, connected, and alive in a way I never was before. For the first time, I feel like I’m not just surviving but thriving, embracing the vibrant, interconnected mosaic of who I am with joy and gratitude.
The Broader Implications of Authenticity
Authenticity is a deeply personal experience, unique to every individual. For me, living authentically as an autistic trans woman is not about dramatic physical changes or striving to “pass” as a cisgender female. At 6’7” with the broad shoulders that helped me to two caber tossing championships, I know that blending seamlessly into societal expectations of femininity will never be my reality. And that’s okay. My authenticity isn’t rooted in “passing;” it’s rooted in embracing the feeling of being feminine, of living in alignment with who I am. The joy of wearing clothes that feel right, of using language that reflects my identity, of standing tall—literally and figuratively—as a trans woman, is far more meaningful to me than any external validation. My journey is my own, and it is enough.
This belief in personal authenticity extends to how I view the diverse experiences within both the trans and autistic communities. No two journeys are the same, and that diversity is not a limitation—it’s a strength. Some trans women document their transitions visually, others focus on social or medical milestones, and still others find their truth in ways that defy conventional narratives. Similarly, within the autistic community, the ways we unmask and embrace ourselves are just as varied. There is no one “right” way to be trans or autistic, and I reject any notion that we must conform to a single path or presentation. Every authentic journey is worth celebrating, and our uniqueness is amazing.
Unmasking and transitioning are not just acts of personal liberation—they are acts of resistance. They challenge the societal norms that demand conformity, that would prefer we remain invisible or silent. In today’s political climate, that resistance feels even more urgent. Since the election, we’ve seen LGBTQIA+ influencers dropped by sponsors, their visibility erased out of fear of the incoming administration’s openly hostile policies. The ad campaigns targeting trans people during the election were vicious and unrelenting, and now the fallout is clear: many corporations are retreating from their public commitments to diversity, leaving trans individuals more vulnerable and isolated.
In this hostile environment, the choice to live authentically becomes even more radical. To unmask, to transition, to refuse to conform to the rigid expectations imposed by society is to assert our humanity in a world that often seeks to deny it. For me, authenticity is not just a personal act—it is a declaration that I deserve to exist, to be seen, to be valued exactly as I am. It is a refusal to be erased, even in the face of growing hostility. By embracing our individual truths, we not only reclaim our own identities but also challenge the systems that seek to suppress us. Together, in our diversity and resilience, we create a powerful, undeniable force for change.
Final thoughts …
"Transitioning isn’t about becoming someone else; it’s about ceasing to pretend." These words resonate so deeply because they capture the essence of my journey. For so long, I lived a life of pretence, wearing masks to fit into a world that didn’t recognise or value my truth. Transitioning and unmasking have not been about changing who I am—they’ve been about peeling back the layers of societal expectations and revealing the person I’ve always been. It’s been a process of discovery, not transformation, and in embracing my authentic self, I’ve found a freedom and peace I never thought possible.
This journey has shown me that the most profound changes are internal. The world around me may see only minimal physical changes, but inside, the shift has been monumental. I am no longer hiding. I am no longer fragmented or disconnected from myself. Instead, I am whole, vibrant, and alive. Transitioning has illuminated the beauty of my identity as an autistic trans woman, and unmasking has allowed me to see and embrace the intricate, interconnected pieces of who I am.
As I continue to live authentically, I am reminded that my story is part of a larger, collective narrative. Each of us who chooses to step into our truth contributes to a rich and diverse tapestry of human experience. We show the world that there is no one way to be trans, no single path to authenticity. Together, we celebrate the beauty of our differences and the strength of our shared resilience.
Moving forward, I am filled with hope—not just for myself, but for our communities. Even in the face of hostility and adversity, living authentically is a powerful act of resistance and a declaration of our right to exist. By sharing my journey, I hope to inspire others to embrace their own truths and to remind them that they are not alone. Together, we are building a world where authenticity is celebrated and where everyone can live as their fullest, truest self.