So Shall You Grow

Not been here for a wee bit, although the blog is always rattling around in my head in some form. But as I was adjusting to having a life again, I guess I just had nothing spectacular to report. You should be used to that by now.

But every now and then, I have proper news. that would be this week. Because actual transition stuff is happening again. And I’m back in a sharing mood.

My Gender Reassignment Surgery was never intended as a fix of anything. And it wasn’t. Instead it gave me a full stop on a certain chapter of my life. But the sequel was always in the offing. And Monday brought the first page of that story to the forefront.

Always adjust for ballast

Although I could have had Facial Feminisation Surgery, I liked the face that echoed both my parents instead. I could have had a tracheal shave. But an Adam’s Apple was never a chief concern either.

The only extra thing I ever considered was breast augmentation surgery and this week has brought me a step closer to that becoming a reality. A referral to see Psychology with potential surgery to correct that at the end. Happy Days indeed. No guarantees at all but a positive start to the Spring. And good enough reason to put in an appearance here. Seems my transition tale isn’t totally over.


More Comebacks Than Elvis

I’ve been accidentally absent from this blog for a little while. Taking my own life back simply got in the way of weekly musings. I’m mostly of the opinion that the break was a good thing.

But, a quick recap might be in order. From my surgery in 2017 till now has been a rough enough journey. My jubilant expectations of last year were savagely beaten to a pulp by my Mum’s terminal diagnosis and subsequent death. And so, I really had sort of felt a little bit defeated as 2019 started.

The truth is, I’m not. As horrible as things were, life really just goes on. Relentlessly. It’s up to you to get back onboard. So I kind of have. And that’s exactly how it’s supposed to be. Misery may love company but I’m a wee bit too busy to indulge her.

A very happy St Patrick’s Day to you all

To be back in my own home is still just a joy of it’s own. To have actually been able to return to work is hugely satisfying. To be continuing to build bridges with my brothers is a constant blessing. And life, as my Mother taught me, is always what you make of it.

Coming out of the limbo that was 2018 has been pretty surreal though. Having the freedom to socialise at will still carries a fair bit of guilt. It’s as if I’m neglecting something else. Or someone else. But I’ve decided that someone is perhaps only Me. And that every step back to normality is necessary. Unfortunately for you, that also means this blog is back again. Christ knows which direction it’s headed. We’ll find out soon enough.


If It Ain’t Broke

Been thinking about revamping the page a little. Whether it actually happens remains to be seen. Procrastination is my middle name.

It’s not that I think there’s anything wrong with it but I’m pretty sure WordPress can do more than I currently use it for. Exactly what, I do not know. But it’s slowly niggling me.

As casually thrown together as the page was, it was still a reflection of where I was when I started it. Even the little photo at the top had a purpose. A line of dolls. Because back then there was always an element of feeling like I was just dressing up. And that’s no longer true. I’m fairly confident I’ve gotten over that completely.

But a slight facelift might not be a bad thing either. I’ve gotten as far as a new logo at least.

But then I still like the old one. It’s just simpler. And I’ve maybe done enough rebranding for one lifetime already. So it’s the back burner for this notion of change for today. It will come but probably not ever on a Sunday morning. I get most of my procrastinating done then.


Like The Lidl Lindsay Wagner

So like I mentioned last time, I’m returning to work tomorrow. Which is going to be surreal AF after 15 months off and some extensive remodeling on my part.

What I eventually got for all my time & trouble was pretty much just a fatter arse & thighs that could crush a man’s skull but also, I suppose as an unintended side effect, a little peace within myself too. So I’m definitely not entirely the same kettle of fish going back at all. Chrissy 2.0 is kind of a lot happier, although sadly still not remotely bionic, and maybe a little more able to roll with life’s punches as they happen.

Some of that probably boils down to me being a larger fleshier target to begin with. I might not register an actual blow to my belly for hours. Me, junk food and particularly sweet things have hugely enjoyed our torrid enough affair this last year or so.

It all twerks out in the end

My current shape also tells me I definitely took to comfort eating like a duck to water. But I’ve never felt guilty about it. And I’m never going to. All in, I’m around 21 pounds heavier since I had my surgery. My little kebab baby is actually bang on the developmental weight for her age. And I’m OK with being a bit extra. Mainly because I’m pretty content. I’m not feeling pressure to be anywhere but where I am. Even if my current demeanour does say more paunch than raunch to the casual beholder.

However comfortable I might be, I’m still looking forward to getting more exercise than I have been currently. That alone should help me shift some of 2018 from my midriff. But there’s no real pressure within myself to be a particular size any more. If I lose it, great and if I don’t, there are always bigger trousers. Let the kettle chips fall where they may. I have bigger things to concern me. Like worryingly finding the cop in the video a wee bit hotter than my eyes say he probably is. That’s perhaps a whole hormone fuelled post of it’s own. And it’s already breakfast time.

Transition, You'd Better Work!

A Woman’s Work Is Never Fun

Accidentally skipped last week. It was the anniversary of my Mum’s terminal diagnosis so my head was elsewhere. It was a day that’s hard to forget, that carried news which felt like having your chair kicked out from under you. The worst kind of universal prank.

Already a year on and she’s nearly been gone three months. Which is still entirely surreal. I cannot count the number of times I want to tell her something, particularly bound by the urge to call her. Sadly, long distance doesn’t go that far.

I’ve just realised I’m halfway through this and have hijacked my own post. It’s not actually supposed to be about feeling sad or missing someone. Quite the opposite. It was meant to be about taking the first steps to pulling things back together. Because it’s just time to do that.


Candlelit vigils do not pay the bills however. And like it or not, short of her celestial intervention, I’m unlikely to win the lottery any time soon. I’m willing to meet her halfway and buy a ticket though, just in case. But I am now going back to work. Because I need to.

Not strictly for financial reasons if I’m honest. It’s more about purpose and routine. Two things which largely evaporated since her death. But also two things that will bring the structure needed to move on with my own life. Naturally I’m feeling both apprehensive and excited to start working again. And although fifteen months has been a long enough time in limbo, I have still allowed myself a week of freedom left to build up to it. But then it’s… Stop the world, I want to get on!


Pleasant Phucker

Forging ahead with 2019 and my first really proper weekend post of the year. We’ve not had a totally TMI post for a while I realise. So Fuck It, in the spirit of starting over and complete honesty, today is about the last mistake of and the lasting legacy so far of 2018. Luckily they are one and the same.

I suppose the worst thing about this tale is that I can’t even blame alcohol or evil external influences for today’s insight into how my head works. So it’s, most assuredly, just a post about an entire disaster of my own making. Which simply started with a casual “I wonder” on New Year’s Eve.

Smarter people obviously must wonder about smarter things but at slightly over a year Post Op and having been pretty scared to touch it, I sort of wondered if I should maybe do something about my lady garden before celebrating the bells. Really allowing myself to buy into the whole New Year, New Me thing as it were. So I stopped wondering and off we went. I considered it a perfectly rational idea at the time.

New Year, New Meow

What it was, however, was utter fucking folly! Not sure exactly how I thought it was going to go. But a glamorous expedition it was not. It’s a damningly difficult thing to navigate with a razor. Like the shifting sands of the Sahara. Only considerably fleshier and resonating with clear and present danger.

It’s also one of these things that you need to see through to the end once you’re underway. No half measures. Originally, my worst case scenario had been ending up with something resembling a plucked pheasant, but unfortunately the result was infinitely worse. More like a patchy pigeon which had barely survived a brutal altercation with a feral cat. A lesson learned as they say. Turns out there is a reason for discreet professional services for ladies. And this should really all be covered in the manual. As if they fucking hand you one.

Bit late for tearful regrets now though. So trying to stay positive about it. Came into 2019 feeling like a freshly minted woman. Obviously learned something I didn’t but possibly should have known. Once bitten, twice shy etc. And now I’m cautiously confident that, if I can survive the slow stubbly recovery ahead, I have 2019 beat already. In other news, there’s a sackful of disposable razors I’m not ever going to need again. Help yourself 😉



Five years ago today (yesterday was the technical date), I was leaving for work for the first time as a female. And I was pretty much absolutely terrified.

With good reason perhaps. I was so scared of everything I could possibly stand to lose. So much so, that I barely realised everything I stood to gain.

But reaching a five year anniversary is just quite a satisfying milestone for me. However difficult it was at various times, I regret little about the journey. And nothing about getting to my destination. So it all started on precisely such an innocuous Monday as today. Just by putting a foot over the door and starting out. I’m quite proud of the Me that managed that. Braver then than I feel today.

I’m in a happy little place all things taken into account though and not at all scared about what this year brings. If you are considering doing something, like a new job or a house move or even a sex change, all I can suggest is just take a step in a direction. The journey works out it’s own route. But it always starts with putting one foot forward.