I Believed I Was a Gay Woman - The Legendary Artist Helped Me Uncover the Actual Situation

In 2011, a couple of years prior to the renowned David Bowie show opened at the renowned Victoria and Albert Museum in London, I publicly announced a gay woman. Previously, I had solely pursued relationships with men, one of whom I had entered matrimony with. Two years later, I found myself in my early 40s, a recently separated caregiver to four kids, making my home in the United States.

Throughout this phase, I had started questioning both my sense of self and romantic inclinations, searching for answers.

My birthplace was England during the early 1970s - before the internet. During our youth, my friends and I were without social platforms or video sharing sites to consult when we had curiosities about intimacy; conversely, we looked to pop stars, and during the 80s, musicians were challenging gender norms.

Annie Lennox donned male clothing, Boy George embraced girls' clothes, and bands such as popular ensembles featured members who were proudly homosexual.

I desired his narrow hips and sharp haircut, his defined jawline and male chest. I wanted to embody the artist's German phase

In that decade, I passed my days driving a bike and dressing like a tomboy, but I reverted back to traditional womanhood when I chose to get married. My husband relocated us to the United States in 2007, but when the marriage ended I felt an powerful draw back towards the masculinity I had earlier relinquished.

Given that no one played with gender to the extent of David Bowie, I opted to devote an open day during a summer trip visiting Britain at the gallery, anticipating that maybe he could help me figure it out.

I lacked clarity exactly what I was seeking when I stepped inside the display - possibly I anticipated that by submerging my consciousness in the opulence of Bowie's norm-challenging expression, I might, consequently, stumble across a hint about my own identity.

Before long I was positioned before a small television screen where the visual presentation for "that track" was playing on repeat. Bowie was moving with assurance in the front, looking polished in a slate-colored ensemble, while off to one side three backing singers wearing women's clothing clustered near a microphone.

Differing from the entertainers I had seen personally, these ladies failed to move around the stage with the confidence of inherent stars; conversely they looked disinterested and irritated. Placed in secondary positions, they had gum in their mouths and rolled their eyes at the boredom of it all.

"The song's lyrics, boys always work it out," Bowie voiced happily, apparently oblivious to their diminished energy. I felt a fleeting feeling of connection for the backing singers, with their pronounced make-up, awkward hairpieces and constricting garments.

They appeared to feel as ill-at-ease as I did in feminine attire - annoyed and restless, as if they were hoping for it all to conclude. At the moment when I recognized my alignment with three male performers in feminine attire, one of them ripped off her wig, removed the cosmetics from her face, and unveiled herself as ... Bowie! Shocker. (Understandably, there were additional David Bowies as well.)

At that moment, I became completely convinced that I wanted to shed all constraints and become Bowie too. I craved his lean physique and his sharp haircut, his defined jawline and his male chest; I wanted to embody the slender-shaped, Berlin-era Bowie. And yet I was unable to, because to truly become Bowie, first I would have to become a man.

Declaring myself as homosexual was a separate matter, but transitioning was a significantly scarier outlook.

It took me several more years before I was prepared. During that period, I tried my hardest to adopt male characteristics: I ceased using cosmetics and threw away all my women's clothing, cut off my hair and started wearing male attire.

I sat differently, walked differently, and modified my personal references, but I paused at medical intervention - the chance of refusal and regret had left me paralysed with fear.

Once the David Bowie exhibition completed its global journey with a stint in Brooklyn, New York, five years later, I went back. I had reached a breaking point. I couldn't go on pretending to be an identity that didn't fit.

Standing in front of the familiar clip in 2018, I became completely convinced that the challenge wasn't about my clothing, it was my physical form. I wasn't a masculine woman; I was a male with feminine qualities who'd been wearing drag throughout his existence. I aimed to transition into the man in the sharp suit, moving in the illumination, and at that moment I understood that I was able to.

I scheduled an appointment to see a physician shortly afterwards. I needed additional years before my transition was complete, but none of the fears I feared occurred.

I maintain many of my feminine mannerisms, so individuals frequently misidentify me for a homosexual male, but I'm OK with that. I wanted the freedom to experiment with identity like Bowie did - and now that I'm at peace with myself, I am able to.