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“I feel like we’re all just winging it,” said one clinician at the World Professional Association for Transgender Health (WPATH), according to a recent report that exposed a recording of what advocates of so-called gender-affirming care have been saying when they think no one’s watching. “And [that’s] okay, you’re winging it too. But maybe we can just, like, wing it together.”
The “it” they were “winging” was my body. Their recklessness has left me with lifelong scars, both physical and psychological.
I was only around fifteen years old when I was introduced to transgenderism. A lot of what I heard resonated with me. I hated myself and hated my body. I was diagnosed with borderline personality disorder and anorexia, so I was no stranger to being uncomfortable in my own body. I had gone into the doctor’s office to get help for my mental state, and after my first appointment, I left with a letter of approval for testosterone.
Just one appointment led me down a pathway of permanent destruction and mutilation. I believed my doctors when they told me that girls could become boys, and that removing my breasts was the “life-saving care” I needed to avoid taking my own life. I genuinely believed the doctors who said transitioning was going to be the cure to my mental and emotional distress.
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I was not in a good enough place or old enough to understand that I was being medically abused, or that having my healthy body parts destroyed and discarded would only deepen my trauma. Yet, those calling themselves “medical professionals” didn’t care. They were, after all, winging it.
Doctors are required to “do no harm.” As a teenager struggling with severe mental health challenges, I was not aware that I was being experimented on. I went to these doctors because I needed help. Real help. I was distressed, mentally ill, and suicidal. By any standard, I was a vulnerable little girl, and the last thing I needed was to go under the knife.
There are entire fields dedicated to stabilizing young people in crisis. None of those protocols include experimenting on healthy, developing bodies. None of them includes rushing children into irreversible harm. None of them include rushing children into permanent procedures without long-term data, consensus, or basic caution.
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This particular news story was incredibly painful to read. The phrase “winging it” has echoed in my mind for days. But that’s precisely what happened to me, and is what is happening to countless others. My story is unfortunately one of many, and I am choosing to speak out.
The consequences of these doctors “winging it” haunt me every single day. They are there when I look in the mirror and when I use the bathroom. They are there when I’m bonding with my children. Every part of my daily life is a reminder of what was done to me under the guise of “compassion.”
When I see the life-altering consequences I have no choice but to carry, I wonder how any medical professional, institution, or organization entrusted with the lives of children could justify this recklessness. How could they gamble with the future of thousands of children’s lives, including mine?
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The truth is this: the doctors never considered my future. They considered their ideologies, personal agendas, and wallets above the lives of the very ones they were treating. I have a baby now, a child whose life has been shaped by the medical decisions forced onto me when I was far too young and unstable to consent to what was happening.
Because of the doctors who operated on me when I was so young, I was unable to breastfeed my son. My body was never designed to endure hormones meant for men and surgeries that cut away my healthy breasts. Yet the people responsible, the ones who were supposed to protect me, shrugged off their own uncertainty and made decisions anyway.
They were winging it. With my life. With my child’s life. With the lives of countless young patients who trust them.
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As a suicidal teenager, I was seeking what I was told would be life-saving care. What I didn’t realize was that the doctors who were tasked with taking care of me were rewriting my future and putting it in the hands of people who had no desire to help my mental illness. Now that the truth is coming out, the question I keep returning to is painfully simple:
Why didn’t my doctors care enough to protect me?
Whatever the answer to that question is, what matters is that the medical community must be held accountable, not only for the harm already done to people like me, but also to prevent vulnerable children from going through what I did. No young person should ever again be subjected to irreversible interventions based on guesswork.
No parent should be pressured into consenting to experimental medicine disguised as certainty. And no child should grow up to learn that the adults entrusted with their care were making it up as they went along.
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