Imagine being prescribed testosterone at just 14, urged by a doctor who suggests it’s a lifesaver against potential suicide. That’s my story. Despite being physically healthy, I felt emotionally fragile, struggling greatly after enduring childhood sexual abuse. But in the eyes of the medical community, that anguish justified altering my body permanently, even before I could fully grasp what I was giving up.
It didn’t take long—just a week after my birthday to begin this journey. Unfortunately, alternative treatments weren’t even mentioned. My trauma was overlooked, and no one considered that adolescence can be quite a confusing and painful time, especially for those who have faced abuse.
Not too long after starting testosterone, I underwent a double mastectomy. My life took a sharp turn. Now, at 21, I grapple with the permanent consequences every single day, sharing my experience in the hope of highlighting the risks involved in irreversible transitions for minors.
Discussions around childhood gender transition often gloss over the raw realities. Buzzwords like “affirmation” and “self-expression” fill the conversation, yet the real physical repercussions that many face, like I did, are rarely addressed.
I deal with harsh urinary complications. There are moments when my bladder is so full that the pain is overwhelming—the bleeding and loss of control can be unbearable. At one point, adult diapers became a necessity because testosterone significantly harmed my pelvic floor and urinary system.
Then there’s the vaginal atrophy; another overlooked effect of testosterone therapy for women. Regular gynecological exams come with risks of injuries and bleeding. Many women, whether they’ve detransitioned or still identify as transgender, endure this in silence, often without sufficient medical support.
The pain is something that most doctors hardly warned me about. The enlargement of my clitoris caused discomfort and irritation that hasn’t left me even five years post-testosterone. My daily life revolves around avoiding discomfort, and now the only option I have is a highly invasive corrective surgery that could permanently alter my sexual sensations.
This was the so-called healthcare I received.
One of the hardest parts to accept was losing my voice. Before transitioning, I was deeply involved in choir and theater, and my voice was integral to my identity. Now, thanks to testosterone, permanent damage affects my ability to project. Screaming comes with pain, and conversations leave my throat feeling tense. Nightmares of being in danger without the capability to seek help haunt me—a fear rooted in my current reality.
At 14, I underwent a mastectomy. I was too young to engage in so many critical life decisions, yet I was allegedly capable of consenting to such irrevocable procedures.
The clinic I went to specialized in “drain-free” mastectomies, but this often led to complications, including areas of blackened, dead breast tissue. I ended up with an open wound and enduring nerve damage.
I never truly became a boy, though that was the narrative presented to me. What remains unchangeable is the loss of my ability to breastfeed in the future, a reality that weighs heavier as I age.
When I confided in a healthcare professional about my past traumas, they didn’t pause to ask critical questions. I saw three different clinicians, and none of them stopped to consider the deeper issues at play.
What’s most disturbing? The procedures I underwent are still viewed as standard care.
Why did I, a young girl already in pain, turn against my own body? Why is psychological trauma addressed through hormone treatment and surgery instead of comprehensive care? Healthy organs were removed from me when I was clearly suffering.
It seems increasingly that ideology takes precedence over genuine medical care.
Children shouldn’t be subject to a belief system that interprets their self-reported gender distress as a sign that they belong in another body. A 14-year-old can’t comprehend the weight of sterilization or the lifelong implications of chronic pain.
The current pediatric gender medicine model in the U.S. often emphasizes affirmation over caution. Children face confusion and discomfort, but the medical system too frequently places them on a rapid trajectory toward hormone treatments and surgeries without adequate warnings.
Long-term evidence affirming the safety of these interventions for adolescents is still lacking. There’s no effective way to monitor those who detransition or those enduring long-term complications. The safeguards ensuring thorough psychological evaluations for these vulnerable children are insufficient at best.
As more of us age and recognize the harm we’ve experienced, it becomes more distressing. Few in the medical community know how to help us heal.
The irreversible damage caused by these treatments, including the loss of my original voice and the physical changes, are permanent. But I can share my truth.
