I Was Convinced Myself to Be a Lesbian - The Music Icon Made Me Realize the Truth

In 2011, a few years ahead of the celebrated David Bowie display opened at the famous Victoria and Albert Museum in the UK capital, I came out as a lesbian. Previously, I had only been with men, one of whom I had married. By 2013, I found myself approaching middle age, a recently separated parent to four children, living in the US.

During this period, I had begun to doubt both my sense of self and romantic inclinations, searching for clarity.

Born in England during the dawn of the seventies era - prior to digital connectivity. During our youth, my companions and myself were without Reddit or YouTube to reference when we had questions about sex; rather, we turned toward celebrity musicians, and in that decade, musicians were challenging gender norms.

The iconic vocalist wore boys' clothes, The Culture Club frontman wore girls' clothes, and musical acts such as Erasure and Bronski Beat featured artists who were publicly out.

I craved his slender frame and defined hairstyle, his defined jawline and male chest. I sought to become the Berlin-era Bowie

In that decade, I spent my time operating a motorcycle and adopting masculine styles, but I went back to femininity when I chose to get married. My spouse relocated us to the United States in 2007, but when the marriage ended I felt an powerful draw returning to the manhood I had earlier relinquished.

Given that no one experimented with identity quite like David Bowie, I chose to use some leisure time during a summer trip visiting Britain at the museum, anticipating that possibly he could help me figure it out.

I lacked clarity exactly what I was seeking when I walked into the exhibition - perhaps I hoped that by immersing myself in the richness of Bowie's norm-challenging expression, I might, as a result, discover a hint about my true nature.

I soon found myself standing in front of a compact monitor where the music video for "the iconic song" was recurring endlessly. Bowie was moving with assurance in the front, looking stylish in a dark grey suit, while positioned laterally three supporting vocalists dressed in drag clustered near a microphone.

Unlike the entertainers I had seen personally, these female-presenting individuals failed to move around the stage with the self-assurance of inherent stars; instead they looked disinterested and irritated. Placed in secondary positions, they had gum in their mouths and expressed annoyance at the tedium of it all.

"Those words, boys always work it out," Bowie voiced happily, seemingly unaware to their lack of enthusiasm. I felt a brief sensation of connection for the supporting artists, with their pronounced make-up, awkward hairpieces and too-tight dresses.

They seemed to experience as ill-at-ease as I did in women's clothes - irritated and impatient, as if they were yearning for it all to be over. Just as I understood I connected with three male performers in feminine attire, one of them ripped off her wig, smeared the lipstick from her face, and showed herself to be ... Bowie! Revelation. (Naturally, there were further David Bowies as well.)

In that instant, I was absolutely sure that I aimed to shed all constraints and emulate the artist. I wanted his lean physique and his sharp haircut, his defined jawline and his masculine torso; I sought to become the slender-shaped, artist's Berlin phase. Nevertheless I found myself incapable, because to genuinely embody Bowie, first I would need to be a man.

Declaring myself as queer was a separate matter, but gender transition was a considerably more daunting possibility.

It took me several more years before I was willing. Meanwhile, I made every effort to embrace manhood: I ceased using cosmetics and eliminated all my women's clothing, cut off my hair and commenced using male attire.

I changed my seating posture, changed my stride, and changed my name and pronouns, but I stopped short of surgical procedures - the chance of refusal and second thoughts had caused me to freeze with apprehension.

After the David Bowie exhibition finished its world tour with a presentation in New York City, five years later, I revisited. I had reached a breaking point. I found it impossible to maintain the facade to be something I was not.

Facing the identical footage in 2018, I became completely convinced that the issue wasn't my clothes, it was my body. 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 person in the polished attire, moving in the illumination, and now I realized that I could.

I scheduled an appointment to see a medical professional shortly afterwards. It took another few years before my personal journey finished, but none of the things I anticipated materialized.

I continue to possess many of my female characteristics, so others regularly misinterpret me for a gay man, but I'm comfortable with that outcome. I wanted the freedom to experiment with identity following Bowie's example - and now that I'm at peace with myself, I have that capacity.