When I started taking testosterone, I had a clear idea of what would happen to my mind and my body. All the sources I found gave me a similar timeline. In the first month, I would have oily skin, more acne, more body hair, and an increased libido. Three months in, I was hoping my body fat would start redistributing, I would gain more muscle, and my voice would drop.
I expected my body to roughly follow that schedule. Even though I was on a low dose at first, I assumed everything would happen fast.
A year and three months later, I realize that’s not the case. The changes to my body have felt remarkably slow. While going through my first puberty, I wished I had been a late bloomer. The same hasn’t been true for my second. A part of me had imagined testosterone as this immediate cure-all. Some people talked about it as if it were. Though I was excited, I didn’t feel that immediate relief. Everything I read told me I should have had more tangible proof of taking hormones. I’ve spent a lot of the past year feeling impatient.
Thankfully, I’m now at a place where I’m (mostly) enjoying the ride. Part of that is thanks to finally seeing some tangible changes. But there’s a lot of emotional work that I did to get here, too.
Because I was nervous about my body changing too rapidly, I started out on a low dose of T. As a nonbinary transmasculine person, I wanted to feel it out as I went. I wasn’t sure how masculine I wanted to look. Despite this, I had some goals in mind. I wanted more body hair, a deeper voice, and (above all) to not consistently be identified as a woman while out of the house. About a month in, I noticed the first changes. Annoyingly, they were the ones I was least thrilled about, even though I had mentally prepared for them: acne and oily skin.
Another month went by, then three, then five…and I still felt as though I were getting left behind. It was hard to tell what parts of my body were slowly changing and what was in my head. I definitely had more pimples on my back and arms. And my skin routine totally changed. I had to start using moisturizer more so my skin didn’t overproduce oil. But…was I always this hairy? I still didn’t have much muscle, but I thought I noticed my thighs losing fat and my stomach gaining some. Maybe it was due to a change in diet. I found it harder to sing and heard a few voice cracks. Maybe I just sounded a little different on the phone? Maybe I had a cold making my voice slightly more raspy. If the changes were there, they were too subtle for me—or my friends and family—to validate. Even more frustrating, I was still consistently getting misgendered.
Making my own timeline
Timelines are just estimates. They often don’t account for people like me who started on a low dose, and they certainly don’t account for a singular body’s reaction to hormones. Logically, I knew this. But that didn’t stop me from feeling like something was wrong. I wondered if I was applying the gel incorrectly. I suspected taking a low dose of finasteride might be slowing the changes. Finasteride is a medication that blocks DHT, another hormone that comes with taking testosterone. It’s the hormone responsible for male pattern balding, which was a change I wanted to avoid. Since the medication blocked one change, I was worried it wouldn’t stop there.
So, I talked to my doctor. They reassured me that finasteride likely wasn’t the issue and gave me some options. I could up my dose. If I still wasn’t seeing changes after that, I could switch to getting testosterone in the form of shots. About five months into taking testosterone, I went up to taking three pumps of gel instead of two. Later, I upped it to four.
While I waited, I tried my best to focus on what I could control. Hormone therapy is just a piece of the puzzle when it comes to gender expression. Clothes are another factor. My wardrobe has been gradually changing to make me more comfortable, both physically and emotionally. I’ve donated some shirts that made me self-conscious about my chest and added others that have a boxier fit. I bought jeans that settle at my hips rather than my waist. While waiting for my voice to drop, I signed up for voice lessons. Even without a lower voice, my lessons have helped me understand my body better. I’ve learned a lot about the anatomical changes I can’t see, like my vocal cords becoming thicker.
Only recently, I’ve had evidence of my hormone usage that I can see and hear. I’m definitely hairier. Certain pants fit better at my hips and others I can’t wiggle past my stomach anymore. And my voice finally noticeably dropped! All those changes weren’t in my head, after all.
In retrospect, I don’t think I gave my body enough credit. I often dismissed subtle changes. Now, I try to acknowledge those tiny victories more often. I know my own body pretty well, so, if something seems different, I try my best to validate what I’m feeling. Of course, when you’re looking in the mirror every day, subtle differences can be tricky to pinpoint.
Acknowledging changes vs body surveillance
Dysphoria made it emotionally challenging for me to constantly check my body, like a lot of people recommend. Pre-testosterone, I tried my best to ignore my reflection. It was jarring to suddenly put it under constant surveillance. The thoughts that came up during my daily check for changes weren’t always nice. I felt like I had to pay close attention so I wouldn’t miss it when something finally happened.
Trans people are often expected to do voice recordings, take pictures of their faces and bodies, and journal throughout the process of taking hormones. I tried doing this at the start of taking T. It resulted in a bunch of uncomfortable-looking selfies, frustrated voice recordings, and journal entries that just said, “Wish this was going faster” or “Still nothing!” This much body surveillance made me more dysphoric. After a while, I stopped.
No one—very much including trans people—should feel like they have to pay super close attention to their bodies. If recordings are used in the right way, they can be a great tool. Some people feel empowered by tracking their progress. But for others, it can be frustrating or overwhelming. Sometimes, finding distractions can relieve those feelings. I picked up a few hobbies, like crocheting. I started writing more for fun. Having other activities to focus on helped me take the pressure off of my medical transition.
Once my mind was no longer consumed by my progress, I was able to get back into recording it. This time, I prioritized my comfort. I ditched the bathroom selfies entirely. I’d rather have a few photos of myself out having fun than a lot of me looking miserable. I don’t journal unless it feels cathartic to do so. I decided to only make voice recordings when there is a big, noticeable change. Recently, I recorded my vocal range. I used to do choir and I’m interested in seeing how my singing voice changes.
My new approach to recording these changes is driven more by curiosity than impatience. I’ve stopped monitoring my body and now I try to just notice it. This helps me feel less like a lab rat and more like an artist expressing myself.
Even after these alterations to my mindset, I still have my off-days. I still feel dysphoric. I used to view taking T as a cure for dysphoria. Now I realize it’s just a part of my journey towards feeling more like myself. Dysphoria isn’t always linear. While on T, I’ve felt a range of emotions. I’ve felt excited discovering a few chest hairs or realizing my calves have become more angular (a completely unexpected, but welcome change). I’ve also felt hopeless. I’ve been dissatisfied with my still slightly curvy silhouette. I’ve had a great day ruined by someone misgendering me.
The social impact of taking T
Overall, I view hormone therapy as a process that has changed my life for the better. However, something so impactful is bound to create complicated thoughts.
Since starting T, I’ve been more aware of how others perceive me. Decisions I used to make in public without thinking have become ambiguous. When I left the house pre-T, I often acted like a cisgender woman for my own safety and comfort. I used the women’s restroom. I used a more feminine voice when talking to strangers. Lately, that strategy hasn’t worked. My voice now cracks whenever I talk at a higher pitch. I can no longer predict what binary box (if any) I’ll be put in by strangers. I feel like I’m having to learn how to socialize all over again. The experience of being visibly trans is validating and euphoria-including, but it’s also scary. I’ve been taught how to socialize in a very specific, gendered way and now I’m having to unlearn a lot of that.
One of the things I’m trying to unlearn is how I see myself.
All the misgendering and assumptions I make about how others perceive me has impacted my self-image. I’ve been working on not assuming others’ opinions of me. When I’m in public, I try to speak with the voice I want to have. I use the restroom I feel most comfortable in. Slowly, I’ve been getting rid of habits formed due to others’ expectations of me. I’ve also been trying to be kinder to myself. As my body continues to change, I don’t want to vilify parts of myself that I’m leaving behind. I also want to learn to accept and love the parts of me that don’t end up changing.
Although some days I wish I were farther along, I don’t regret starting on a low dose. Beginning hormone therapy can be a daunting step. It’s full of so many conflicting, messy emotions. It can feel freeing and lonely and confusing and euphoric all at once. So, I’m glad I eased into it. It gave me time to process and mentally prepare (to the point of being pretty impatient). Feeling this way has taught me a lot about myself. Before I started T, I was terrified of being wrong. Now I know I’m not. Changes I was previously worried about are now things I’m eagerly awaiting. Despite all this impatience, I’m proud of how far I’ve come.
