Once upon a time, I didn’t realize it was okay to be anything but a man or a woman. I didn’t even realize that it was okay for me to want to be anything but the gender that matched my genitals. Even then, though, I suspected that I wasn’t a girl.

That was a long time ago, and for many years, I tried to be a girl, then later a woman, until one day I saw a documentary about people who had surgeries to go from female to male or male to female, and I thought maybe I was like that; a man in a woman’s body. Maybe that was why I didn’t feel comfortable in my own skin. So I did research, tried passing as a man, and that didn’t fit, either. I was still only comfortable half the time.

It didn’t help that I was also starting to suspect that I was asexual, I didn’t feel sexual desire for anyone, and I couldn’t even become aroused by myself with my own hand, and society told me that I was bound to be alone. All my vagina seemed to be good for was bleeding once a month. What was worse, though, was that I was being bombarded from all angles with the message that I would be expected to reproduce, that pregnancy was a woman’s crowning achievement, and I accepted it like a man being lead to the gallows accepts his inevitable demise. I didn’t want to be alone, so I kept on trying to fit in, to be normal, and I learned to hate my genitals. It got so bad that I didn’t even want to touch my vulva at all, even to wash in the shower, it disgusted me.

My road to healing started one random day after I started college, when in a moment of spontaneous boredom I typed “I don’t want kids!” into Google, and my search returned articles about people who called themselves “Childfree by Choice”. That was the first of many times I realized that there were other people out there like me. I wasn’t alone. I searched the term and found a community, some were unnecessarily apologetic, others needlessly hateful, but eventually I found a middle ground, a place where I could go for help, to talk to like-minded people without having to apologize for not liking kids or pretending to hate them. From them, I learned about safe sex, I learned the most effective forms of birth control, and I learned how to tell people I didn’t want children and defend my decision. Being female stopped being a life sentence to motherhood, and my period began a metamorphosis in my mind from a hated reminder of my fertility into a sign of my freedom from pregnancy. It was still disgusting and messy, but it wasn’t as bad as it once was.

My next few revelations came so closely spaced that I can’t quite remember what order they occurred in. It was like breaking down that first barrier started a landslide in my mind. If I didn’t have to have children, I didn’t have to have sex, I didn’t need to date, and if I didn’t need to do that, I didn’t need my gender at all. That was when I started identifying as an androgyne, and it fit. I didn’t have to be a man or a woman, I could be neither or both. I stopped performing gender conformity, and I started to love myself. I could dress however I wanted; I could present as male or female, or both at once. I learned that my genitals were simply there, something to be neither loved nor hated. I could ignore them and treat them like any other part of my body.

It wasn’t until much later that I learned that I wasn’t the only person out there that ignored the gender binary. There were people out there who called themselves genderqueer, and they were like me. I added the word “Genderqueer” to my vocabulary and wore it like a badge beside “Childfree” and “Asexual” on the cloak of my identity.

I already knew the man who would become my lover by the time I came to terms with myself, and despite the decision I’d made to remain single, I found myself falling for him. After a considerable fight with myself, during which REO Speedwagon’s “Can’t Fight This Feeling” helpfully played on continuous repeat in my head, I approached him and we began dating. I disclosed everything I knew about myself to him; my childfree status, my asexuality, my androgyne, and he took it in stride, he accepted me. I had dated others before him, but he was the first person I’d ever fit with, and as the bond between us grew, I began to experience something I never had before: desire. I learned that I wasn’t asexual after all, there was a word for me, too. I was demisexual, and I wasn’t alone.

It was like I’d begun adolescence at 20, I was horny all the time, and I finally understood what everyone was talking about when they talked about hormones. We were both virgins when we began to explore sexually, but we were also both armed with knowledge, and it wasn’t long before sex became fun and enjoyable for both of us. He gave me my first orgasm, and he encouraged me to buy my first vibrator. He helped me learn to bring myself to orgasm, and inadvertently, he also helped me learn to love my genitals.

As time wore on, I found things that made having a female body easier and more fun. I discovered menstrual cups, which made my period easier and more pleasant. I got a stand to pee device, so I was no longer held back by the difficulties of taking a leak in the woods or a public restroom. I learned that I preferred dildos to vibrators, and Njoy quickly became my favorite brand. Not to mention, I discovered Eden Fantasies, and I found a community where I could share these experiences with people like me, who also love their genitals, and people who might benefit from my journey in learning to love their own.