Questions about coming out are some of the most common in trans spaces. Among them, there's one that often stands out: trans women seeking advice on how to come out to their cisgender wives.

The advice offered is vast and varied, but it's rarely satisfactory for those asking. Often, the person is overwhelmed with doubts that can only be resolved by taking that one crucial step — to come out.

Once upon a time, I was one of the women asking that question. I was hoping for an answer that would quiet my worries, something to cling to that would make me believe things might go the way I hoped. But no answer, no amount of well-meaning advice, could silence the doubts or drive away the fears tearing me apart.

Not until I actually did it. I came out to my wife as a transgender woman.

And today, I share my story.

If you've read my essay, Not One of the Boys, this story began about a year after the moment of clarity described there — that moment when I realized, somewhere deep inside, that I am a woman.

It was a year of research and soul-searching. Countless nights spent poring over scientific literature and exploring trans spaces, gathering information and clues — not unlike piecing together evidence in a detective case — until, at one point, there was simply no denying it: I was irredeemably trans.

Then came the question: how would I break this to my wife? What would she say? How would she react?

For the next two months, I asked questions, devoured coming-out stories from both trans people and their cis partners, dug into statistics and data. I gently probed for her reaction to LGBT-related topics and media depictions.

I wrote countless coming-out letters and practiced prepared speeches. I had a list of resources to offer her, options for information, and ways to find support.

I thought I was as prepared as anyone could be for such a step, and I believed I had a fair chance of a non-negative reaction.

Or so I thought.

With careful consideration, I chose a date far removed from any special days for us. A bit of creative scheduling helped ensure we'd have an uninterrupted evening together.

I tried to make the evening as relaxed as possible — urgent matters were handled, we'd had a lovely dinner, and now we were home, chatting over a glass of wine.

But despite my efforts to create a calm atmosphere, the tension was palpable as I prepared to share my truth.

My heart pounded like a drum in my chest as I took a deep breath and said, "I have something important to tell you. I know this might come as a shock, but I promise I'll answer all your questions afterward…" I paused, took a deep breath, and said, "Dear, I am transgender. I am a woman."

A long moment of silence followed. I could see her face working through what I'd just said — a light-hearted half-smile slowly slipping into a blank expression before contorting into a grimace of disgust.

My heart sank. It felt like the walls around me were crashing down, the room's temperature dropping to sub-zero, yet I felt sweat forming on my brow.

I'd thought I was prepared for a negative reaction. Part of me had even expected it, though deep down, I'd held onto a shred of hope for something positive. I was bracing myself for tears, anger — maybe even a physical outburst.

Anything. Just not what I heard.

"How dare you call yourself a woman?" she said, her voice dripping with bile.

Dumbfounded by her reaction, I stammered, trying to explain myself. I tried to tell her what I felt, that I never asked to be born this way, that I never imagined it would come to this… but it was no use.

"Man up!" she snapped. "You were born a man, and that's what you're supposed to be. Though after this, I can barely call you that."

"I am a woman." I managed to say, though the words felt trapped in my throat.

"You are a freak. A mentally ill idiot!" she said, her voice laced with abhorrence.

Those words were the final straw. I couldn't hold back the tears that had been brewing inside. I couldn't believe that after everything we'd been through — sharing the best and worst moments of our lives — she would treat me this way.

"I thought you would understand me…" I managed to say, choking on tears. "I thought you would at least try to accept me…"

"What made you think I could ever accept this?" she replied, her voice trembling as she, too, was on the verge of tears. "This is the worst thing that could have happened. It would have been better if you'd died than… than this!"

"But why?" I asked, unable to grasp the weight of her words. "Why would you say that? I'm still the same person I've always been… I just finally understand why I always felt something was wrong."

"So you're telling me that all these years I was living with a woman?" she said, her voice rising, eyes full of angry tears. "I slept with a woman — is that what you're saying?"

I looked down and muttered, "Yes… But I didn't understand it back then. I didn't know who I really was."

"Liar!" she screamed, her voice full of rage. "Your lies are ruining my life, my marriage, everything I ever wanted! You lied to me every single moment for years!"

"I'm sorry…" I stammered, feeling my words falling apart under the weight of her disgust, anger, and pain. "I didn't know who I was…"

"You shouldn't have married me. You shouldn't have ever approached me!" she spat, jabbing her finger into my chest, her gaze piercing into mine. "Don't tell me you didn't know!"

"But I didn't!" I cried out, my voice breaking with despair. "It took me years to piece this together, to finally understand… I wish I'd known sooner. I wish I could have told you sooner."

"And now that you know?" she asked, her tone dripping with mockery. "You're going to prance around in a skirt, with a painted face?"

"I'm going to transition." I replied, trying to keep my voice steady. "To live as a woman."

"Oh, really?" she sneered. "So, what, you're going to get silicone breasts? Sleep with men? Is that it? You can only ever be a mockery of a woman!"

I could feel anger rising in me, despite everything.

"No! I just want to be myself, for once in my life!" I retorted, my voice firm. "I can't ignore this anymore. I can't keep pretending… I can't go on like this!"

"So, you're going to play-pretend now, huh?" she shot back. "And what about me? Did you even think about what this would do to me? My reputation? My career? What I want?"

"We could still be together… If you're willing to give it a try." I said, clinging to that last thread of hope. "It doesn't have to be the end."

Despite everything, I was ready to forgive her words, desperate to keep her in my life as my true self.

"There was never a beginning." she said coldly. "Just a house of cards built on lies, and it's all your fault. Why were you even with me? What did you need from me? What did I do to deserve this?"

"I was with you because I love you." I said softly, feeling the resignation in my own voice.

She looked at me, her face twisted with scorn. "And what am I supposed to do with you now if we stay together? How am I supposed to react if one day you grow breasts? If your body stops working "as nature intended"? I need a man next to me — a man! Not someone — something — like you!" Her voice rose to a scream.

I didn't reply. I wanted to, but I couldn't find the words. Everything we'd built together, all those years, came crashing down that evening. She stood there, staring, waiting for me to say something — anything.

But there was nothing left to say. So I turned and walked away in silence.

For the next three days, we lived like strangers, silent in our shared apartment. On the fourth morning, she said we needed to talk, and I hoped it might lead somewhere. We discussed our situation, the first of many such talks, but they always ended the same: she insisted I live as a man and stay with her, while I explained that wasn't possible.

This push and pull dragged on for weeks. We still shared the same space, living together like reluctant flatmates, each content to avoid the other as much as possible.

Eventually, she told me she couldn't just walk away. I was, after all, the only person she felt close to. Her reaction, she said, was rooted in the fear of losing me. She offered a reset, a chance to start fresh — if only I would stay a man or at least keep plausibly pretending.

For a moment, I nearly gave in. The fear of losing her weighed heavily on me, and I thought, I've spent so much of my life as a man; maybe I could keep doing it a little longer if it meant staying with her. But deep down, I knew it wasn't possible. Words, once spoken, can't be unsaid. And a person can only pretend for so long before the cracks start to show.

Sure, I might manage to keep up the act for a month, a year, maybe even a decade… but at what cost?

I felt trapped in a Catch-22. Choosing between the woman I love and the woman I am. And maybe, just maybe, she was right. Maybe I am selfish. But I chose myself. I have no regrets.

She deserves more than a lifeless shell of a partner, someone going through the motions, waiting for it all to end. And I deserve a chance at life — the kind of life most people take for granted — one where I can simply be myself, experiencing the world as I am, not as an actor trapped in a role.

Months have passed since that day. We still share the same roof, but not as spouses; our relationship has morphed into one of convenience. We're flatmates now, occasionally helping each other for the sake of old times. But this arrangement is only temporary. Neither of us holds any illusions; our future plans are worlds apart, and they don't include each other.

There was a period of grief over what we'd lost, for both of us. Adjusting to the absence of what had once felt like the most stable, enduring thing in life wasn't easy. Every now and then, nostalgia hits, and I remember those cosy evenings, the adventures we went on, the concerts, the late nights from our student years. All those moments are in the past now, frozen at the point when our future together ended.

But in the end, I still believe coming out was the right thing to do. As painful as it was, the truth had to be said — for both our sakes.

To you, dear reader, if you're wrestling with similar questions or preparing to come out to a spouse, I share my story not to dissuade you but to show that, even if things fall apart, even if it feels like your world has shattered, it's still worth it. After all, what's the point of being with someone who doesn't know the real you? Or who might not choose the authentic you, if given the choice?

Even if the worst happens, remember: in coming out, you showed courage, honesty, and trust. You gave them a chance to know you, and that's worth more than it might seem at first.

Thank you for reading. Best wishes,

Dayna