I Thought I Was a Lesbian - The Music Icon Made Me Uncover the Reality

In 2011, a few years ahead of the celebrated David Bowie exhibition launched at the famous Victoria and Albert Museum in the UK capital, I came out as a lesbian. Until that moment, I had exclusively dated men, one of whom I had married. After a couple of years, I found myself in my early 40s, a newly single mother of four, living in the US.

Throughout this phase, I had commenced examining both my gender identity and romantic inclinations, seeking out clarity.

My birthplace was England during the early 1970s - pre-world wide web. As teenagers, my friends and I didn't have online forums or YouTube to turn to when we had curiosities about intimacy; rather, we sought guidance from celebrity musicians, and during the 80s, artists were playing with gender norms.

The iconic vocalist wore boys' clothes, The Culture Club frontman embraced women's fashion, and musical acts such as Erasure and Bronski Beat featured artists who were openly gay.

I desired his narrow hips and sharp haircut, his angular jaw and flat chest. I aimed to personify the Bowie's Berlin period

Throughout the 90s, I passed my days driving a bike and dressing like a tomboy, but I returned to femininity when I decided to wed. My partner moved our family to the United States in 2007, but when our relationship dissolved I felt an powerful draw revisiting the masculinity I had once given up.

Given that no one experimented with identity to the extent of David Bowie, I decided to spend a free afternoon during a seasonal visit back to the UK at the V&A, hoping that perhaps he could guide my understanding.

I lacked clarity precisely what I was seeking when I stepped inside the show - perhaps I hoped that by immersing myself in the richness of Bowie's norm-challenging expression, I might, as a result, encounter a hint about my own identity.

I soon found myself facing a modest display where the film clip for "the iconic song" was recurring endlessly. Bowie was moving with assurance in the foreground, looking polished in a charcoal outfit, while positioned laterally three accompanying performers in feminine attire crowded round a microphone.

Unlike the performers I had seen personally, these ladies weren't sashaying around the stage with the self-assurance of inherent stars; instead they looked disinterested and irritated. Relegated to the background, they were chewing and rolled their eyes at the boredom of it all.

"Those words, boys always work it out," Bowie sang cheerfully, apparently oblivious to their reduced excitement. I felt a momentary pang of connection for the backing singers, with their pronounced make-up, ill-fitting wigs and constricting garments.

They gave the impression of as uncomfortable as I did in women's clothes - frustrated and eager, as if they were yearning for it all to conclude. Precisely when I realized I was identifying with three male performers in feminine attire, one of them tore off her wig, removed the cosmetics from her face, and showed herself to be ... Bowie! Shocker. (Of course, there were additional David Bowies as well.)

Right then, I was absolutely sure that I wanted to remove everything and transform like Bowie. I wanted his lean physique and his defined hairstyle, his defined jawline and his male chest; I sought to become the slim-silhouetted, Bowie's German period. However I was unable to, because to truly become Bowie, first I would need to be a man.

Declaring myself as queer was one thing, but gender transition was a considerably more daunting prospect.

I required further time before I was ready. During that period, I made every effort to become more masculine: I abandoned beauty products and threw away all my women's clothing, shortened my locks and began donning masculine outfits.

I sat differently, changed my stride, and modified my personal references, but I stopped short of medical intervention - the chance of refusal and remorse had caused me to freeze with apprehension.

When the David Bowie show concluded its international run with a stint in New York City, after half a decade, I revisited. I had reached a breaking point. I couldn't go on pretending to be a person I wasn't.

Facing the familiar clip in 2018, I knew for certain that the problem wasn't my clothes, it was my biological self. I wasn't a masculine woman; I was a male with feminine qualities who'd been presenting artificially all his life. I desired to change into the man in the sharp suit, moving in the illumination, and then I comprehended that I could.

I scheduled an appointment to see a doctor not long after. I needed further time before my transformation concluded, but none of the things I anticipated came true.

I continue to possess many of my traditional womanly traits, so others regularly misinterpret me for a homosexual male, but I'm comfortable with that outcome. I desired the liberty to explore expression following Bowie's example - and since I'm content with my physical form, I have that capacity.