My name is Claire Olivia Milton. Or at least… It used to be.

I was born on 2nd March 1990, the second daughter of three, to two loving parents. My father is a manager at a big investment firm, my mother- 15 years his junior- was his secretary until she fell in love with him, got married and had three kids. Growing up I wanted for nothing- I lived in a big house, was spoiled rotten, went to the best schools… And yet, from a very young age I knew something was wrong, not with my family, but with me.

When I say ‘wrong’ I of course mean ‘amiss’, something ‘off’ about me. My older sister, Emma, is very much her father’s daughter. Academically successful- straight As in her exams, head girl at school- she took an interest in our father’s work from a young age and is set to follow our father into a very lucrative career. My younger sister, Rebecca, is the apple of our father’s eye. She studied all varieties of dance from an early age, sang in the school choir and is a talented jockey too (riding a horse the family owns, of course). I… Did none of those things. Don’t get me wrong, I did well at school- particularly at languages and music- but I was hardly the teacher’s pet, nor was I interested in other performing arts or sports.

Nor did I enjoy school that much. Like my sisters, I went to an expensive private school, and every day I’d dress in the school uniform and feel utterly RIDICULOUS. My hair was held back by a burgundy coloured hair band, and I’d wear a matching blazer and grey knee-length pleated skirt with itchy knee-high socks regardless of the weather. Every day I went home, I would race upstairs as fast as I could to change into a comfortable pair of jeans. PE was even worse- if I wasn’t wearing a netball dress that was seemingly designed to make it easier for paedophiles to get their kicks just by looking at me, it was a gymnastics leotard that did the trick even more successfully.

All throughout childhood, everything felt a little ‘off’. Then, when I was thirteen, I went through puberty- and things got infinitely worse.

Imagine waking up one day and feeling that your body was attacking you. Imagine developing an overwhelming urge to tear your own skin off, you’re in that much psychological pain from what you’re experiencing. My parents told me that it was normal- that I was turning into a woman. It was at that exact moment that a switch flipped in my brain. I’d suspected previously what was wrong, but this confirmed it. I was turning into a woman, and I didn’t want to. I didn’t even want to be female. More than anything, anything at all… I wanted to be a boy.

I’d always been somewhat tomboyish. I didn’t have much of an interest in sports but I loved watching motor racing- particularly Formula One- on television. I had dolls and dress-up clothes growing up, but I much preferred playing video games. My hair never grew beyond shoulder length, and I never developed ANY interest in cosmetics, whereas my sisters would play with make-up from an early age. My parents convinced themselves- and to a lesser extent, myself- that it was just a phase, that I’d grow out of it, but puberty just strengthened my feelings. Every day that I was turning into a woman was a day in hell for me. But I endured it, endured the constant torture my body put me through every morning. I tried various coping strategies, such as dressing more masculine, keeping my hair cut short, making more male friends at school and taking an interest in their hobbies. I immersed myself in my music, became highly proficient at guitar and keyboards, wrote songs, even recorded them- but every song I sang, I wished I was singing in a deeper voice. I exercised, went running- but always wished I could run faster, wished my body was physically stronger. The coping strategies worked… Right up until my sixteenth birthday.

For my birthday, my mother took me and my sisters (who at the time were 18 and 10) out for a day of pampering. My hair- which was short at the time- was styled into a very feminine pixie cut. My face was expertly made-up, my nails manicured… And every second of it felt like torture. I felt uncomfortable, even foolish. I’d tried to get out of it by faking a cold, but my mum insisted, after all- in her words- ‘my sisters were really looking forward to it’. Never mind what I wanted, of course.

I arrived home and changed into the party dress that had been laid out for me, and the brand new high-heeled shoes. Once I was all dressed up, I felt a wave of nausea wash over me. It was like I’d been punched in the stomach, I couldn’t breathe, I could barely stand up. All I wanted to do was scream, tear the clothes from my body, and tear the skin from my flesh. My mind snapped- I pulled the shoes and the dress off and hurried into my en-suite bathroom, where I scrubbed my face clean of make-up and scratched off the dreaded nail polish. I slicked my feminine hairstyle back, exposing my bare forehead, and I said the four words that would change my life.

“I. Am. A. Boy.” That was the moment- as far as I’m concerned, anyway- that Claire ceased to exist. Defiantly, I slipped off my bra, and using a roll of masking tape I had on my dresser, taped my breasts down as flat as they would go. I took off my nasty, sweaty tights and rolled a pair of black socks up my legs, before pulling on a smart pair of black trousers. I pulled on a smart white shirt- technically a blouse, due to the way the buttons fastened, but opaque, like a man’s shirt- and fastened my school tie (the only tie I owned) around my neck. I pulled on a pair of lace-up school shoes- the most androgynous shoes I owned- and looked at myself in the mirror. Aside from a few stray flakes of red on my fingernails- and my unfortunately ‘cute’ shaped face- I was every bit the handsome teenage boy.

"I. Am. A Boy." I repeated to myself as I took a deep breath. What I was doing wasn't just an act of defiance, it was out and out rebellion against the two people who raised me for the last sixteen years, and the consequences could be dire. But the consequences of being a girl just one minute longer... I didn't even want to contemplate them. As far as I was concerned, the switch had been flipped. From now on, it was boy or bust.

“I’m ready,” I said in my deepest possible voice as I strode downstairs, exuding an air of confidence but inside, I was utterly terrified. The looks of shock on my parents’ faces did nothing to help my nerves.

“Claire…” Mum whispered. “What- what have you done to yourself?”

“Where the hell is your dress!?” Dad yelled. “Do you know how much that thing cost!?”

“I don’t care how much it cost,” I said, my lips trembling despite my defiance. “I’m not wearing dresses any more, or skirts, or anything like that. I’m not a girl, I’m a boy.”

“Don’t be stupid!” Dad spat. “Now get upstairs and get dressed! NOW!”

“NO!” I yelled in the older man’s face, desperately trying not to wet myself through fear. “I can’t live like that anymore! You can’t make me!”

“You’re my daughter, and oh yes I can make you!” Dad growled, looming threateningly over me.

“Then go ahead!” I shouted. “Make me!” I braced myself for pain as dad raised a hand in front of me.

“Ray!” Mum yelled. “Stop this!” Much to my relief, dad stood down, though the look of sheer hatred with which he pierced me still haunts me to this day.

“Emma, Becca, go to your rooms,” dad ordered. Meekly, my sisters obeyed. “Kitchen, now.” Still hoping to maintain some control of the situation, I nodded my head, and followed my parents into the kitchen. Much to my relief, dad didn’t yell in my face the instant I entered the room, though his anger was obvious.

“Precisely what the hell do you mean, ‘you’re a boy’?” He asked me through gritted teeth.

“I mean exactly that,” I said. “Every day I wake up and I’m a girl I feel like screaming. I feel like my body’s actually trying to kill me and every time I do anything feminine I feel like I’m falling down a black hole. But when I’m like this, when I’m being a boy… I feel comfortable. It’s like a security blanket, like I can pretend for one, blissful moment that it’s actually real.”

“Claire...” Mum whispered. “Why didn’t you tell us earlier?”

“Seriously? After the reaction I just got?” I said, making dad lower his head in shame.

“What’s changed?” Dad asked, his anger finally giving way.

“I just couldn’t take any more,” I sighed, trying desperately not to cry. “I looked at myself in the mirror, in my dress… And I felt like I was going to die, right then and there. I just snapped.”

“Well you can’t go back to school on Monday as a boy,” dad snorted.

“And why not?” Mum asked, placing a supportive arm around my shoulders. “HE has made it quite clear that HE can’t handle life as a girl any more. If HE wants to be a boy… Then we should accept that. We’ll call the headmaster on Monday, explain that Claire’s ill, that we need to meet with him to explain the situation.”

“It’s only three months until her- oh, I suppose his- GCSEs anyway, why bother?” Dad asked.

“How would you like being forced to be a woman for three months?” I asked sarcastically.

“Okay then,” dad sighed. “We’ll call the headmaster on Monday. Christ, here I am hoping for an easy life as I get to retirement age…”

“It’s hardly a walk in the park for me,” I quipped, earning myself a disdainful stare from dad. “You wouldn’t like being forced to be a woman for three months, and rightly so. Try living with it for sixteen years.” Almost immediately, dad’s frown disappeared.

“This is going to be a hell of a thing to try to explain to everyone at work,” dad moaned self-pityingly. “But I guess what’s most important is what Claire wants. It’s her life, after all. ‘His’ life, whatever. And I suppose we’re going to have to call you something other than ‘Claire’, right?”

“I hadn’t really thought about it,” I confessed. “Clarke? That’d make me sound like a wanker…” Much to my relief, both mum and dad laughed at my joke. I tried to brainstorm some names when we were interrupted by a knock on the kitchen door.

“Hi,” Emma said cautiously, clutching her laptop. “Can- can I come in?”

“Of course,” mum said. Emma took a seat next to me and opened her laptop, showing me the webpages she’d loaded onto it.

“I think,” Emma said softly, “that Claire might have a case of gender dysphoria. I’ve been looking it up online, it’s a real thing and can be diagnosed by a doctor.”

“We’ll add the doctor to the list of people to call on Monday, then,” dad said.

“There are also plenty of websites and support groups available online,” Emma said. “Claire… If this is really a big deal for you, you don’t need to suffer alone.”

“How are we going to explain this to Becca?” Dad wondered aloud. “Surely we can’t simply say ‘your sister is now your brother’? She’s much too young to understand that…”

“She’s 11 next month, she’s not an infant,” I said firmly. “When I was 11, I knew that there were people who lived their life as the opposite gender to the one they were born. That woman who won Eurovision, the one who won Big Brother…”

“Yeah, but they’re not members of our family,” dad pointed out.

“I’ll talk to her first, explain everything” I said confidently, before taking a deep breath and standing up. “No time like the present…”

“I’ll come with you,” Emma said. “I’ll be just outside in case you need any support.”

“Thanks,” I said nervously as we climbed the stairs together.

“Not a problem,” Emma said, before giggling. “Bruv!” Taking a deep breath, I knocked on my baby sister’s bedroom door and let myself in.

“Hi,” I said quietly to the young girl, who was sat on the bed, still wearing her party dress.

“Hi,” Becca said. “Claire… Are you going to have a sex change?”

“I- I don’t know,” I confessed. “But I probably am, yeah.”

“Why don’t you want to be a girl anymore?” Claire asked, her voice not sad, but inquisitive.

“It’s not a sudden decision,” I said, sitting down next to her. “Imagine… Imagine if you woke up tomorrow, but the body you were in wasn’t your own. Imagine if you had to live life as someone completely different, and deep down inside, you knew it was wrong. That’s what it feels like every day for me. I don’t love you, or Emma, or mum and dad any less. I’M the one who needs to change, not you or anyone else.”

“Do- do you wish I was also a boy?” Becca asked, and to my shame, I couldn’t help but chuckle.

“No, of course not!” I said, giving my little sister a quick hug. “You be whatever you want to be.”

“Are you still going to be called Claire? Because that’s a girl’s name…” Becca pointed out, making me laugh again.

“Yes, yes it is,” I said with a smile on my face. “I haven’t actually thought of a new name yet.”

“I used to have an imaginary friend,” Becca said. “I used to pretend he was my big brother. I always wanted a big brother.”

“What was his name?” I asked.

“Stuart,” Becca said.

“Then that’s what I’ll be called,” I said proudly. “Stuart Milton. Nice to meet you, Becca.”

“Nice to meet you, Stuart!” Becca said happily, shaking my hand before giving me another tight hug.

“You can come in now, Emma,” I yelled, prompting my big sister to come into the room and join in the group hug.

As promised, I was kept out of school the following week, my parents citing ‘illness’. I saw my GP that week, who referred me to a counsellor who didn’t take much time to diagnose me with a case of gender dysphoria and start me on a course of hormone replacement therapy. Upon meeting with my headmaster, he agreed to several compromises to allow me to continue attending school. I would wear trousers- even though the uniform guide stated that girls HAD to wear skirts- and wouldn’t take part in any PE lessons until the end of term, and if I needed to use the toilet, I’d use the staff toilet. The headmaster was understandably concerned that he was indulging a ‘whim’- but when my parents made it clear that this was being discussed VERY seriously, he became only too happy to oblige. Even a school as prestigious and expensive as his couldn’t run the risk of being accused of transphobia. Of course, I was still addressed as ‘Claire’ rather than ‘Stuart’- at least until I was able to change my name by deed poll over the summer- but it was a small price to pay to finally live the life I’d always wanted to lead. I didn’t really have any female friends at school- I mostly hung around with boys- so the change there wasn’t as pronounced as it was at home.

Over the course of the summer between finishing school and starting at my music college, everything changed dramatically. My wardrobe was cleaned out- most of my dresses and skirts were earmarked for Becca, when she got older, but a lot of it went straight in the bin or to a charity shop. My underwear drawer saw the most dramatic makeover. Whilst I’d still have to wear a bra until my double mastectomy the following summer, my panties were replaced by boxer shorts, my tights and lacy socks were replaced by plain black cotton socks. The dress I wore on my sixteenth birthday would turn out to be the last item of female clothing I would ever wear.

My body changed dramatically under the influence of the testosterone supplements I took. My hips and backside got smaller, whilst my muscles suddenly grew. My skin- previously smooth and soft- became tougher, with body hair quickly growing and covering my body. Most excitingly of all, I started to grow light, wispy facial hair that I was very reluctant to shave, until dad insisted on teaching me how to. Despite his initial resistance, dad quickly grew to love having a son, and we’d take part in father-son activities almost every weekend, including an especially exciting weekend at the British Grand Prix one year! Following three years on hormones, my double mastectomy and a hysterectomy, the only way you’d ever have been able to tell that I was ever a girl was by pulling down my boxer shorts.

I went to university in September 2008, studying music at the University of Nottingham, and I graduated in 2011 with a 2:1. My parents and my sisters were in attendance at my graduation, and had mile-wide smiles on their faces as they had their photographs taken with me in my cap and gown. Probably the most proud was Becca, who by that time was sixteen years old, and a dead ringer for how I looked when I started to be Stuart.

“I’m so proud of you!” Becca yelled as she gave me a tight hug. “Look at you, Mr. Graduate!”

“Thanks,” I said, still feeling a little emotional following the end of my studies.

“Soo,” Becca teased, “did you meet anyone nice at uni? Any GIRL take your fancy?”

“That’d… Kinda raise some awkward questions,” I said with a laugh. Prior to my transition, I hadn’t really had any thoughts either way about sex, either with boys or with girls, but as the testosterone took its hold, I found myself more and more attracted to girls, and more and more in need of sex. Of course, the university had a healthy LGBT society, of which I was a part, and I did have dates- and the odd sexual encounter- with girls, but I didn’t have anyone you’d describe as a ‘girlfriend’

“How about you?” I asked Becca with a laugh. “Anyone I have to beat up for breaking your heart yet?”

“As if dad would let me see anyone!” Becca laughed. “Haven’t you noticed yet?” I stopped and looked at my non-longer little younger sister, who had a very sly smile on her made-up face.

“Noticed what?” I asked.

“My dress!” Becca enthused, giggling excitedly.

“Um, yes, it’s very nice, what about it?” I asked.

“It’s yours, silly!” Becca laughed. “It’s the dress you wore on your sixteenth, when you stopped being Claire.” I couldn’t help but laugh.

“Well at least now it has an owner who wants to wear it!” I chuckled, giving my little sister a quick hug. "And that's the day I started being Stuart, not 'stopped being Claire'. Always look forward, not backward."

"Aww, I'm so lucky to have you as a big brother!" Becca said with a warm smile. But if anything, I was the lucky one for having such an amazing and accepting family in my life.

I moved back to London shortly after graduation and got good work as a session guitarist/music teacher- nowhere near as much as my parents or my elder sister earned, but more than enough to live on independently. I continued to see my psychiatrist (a very expensive one, paid for by my dad), but it wasn’t until April 2013- seven years since I’d started my transition- that the ‘final piece’ in the puzzle fell into place as I entered Dr. Phillips’s office and stared into the face of someone I’d only recently heard of, yet felt I knew intimately.

“Hi,” I nervously said to the beautiful young woman sat in the waiting room.

“Hi,” she politely replied.

“I hope you don't mind me asking,” I continued. “Are- are you Jamie-Lee Burke?”

"Yeah," Jamie replied, offering me a polite handshake. "Nice to meet you."

"Wow, I have the same psychiatrist as a celebrity," I quipped, inwardly kicking myself for sounding so goofy in front of such an attractive girl. "You know, what you said on TV yesterday morning really struck a chord. Sometimes it's nice to know there's someone else who understands."

"...I don't follow?" Jamie said, looking at me puzzled.

"Well you know what Dr. Phillips's specialism is, right?" I asked, chuckling that I hadn't been 'made'. "Would it surprise you to learn that just over six years ago my name was Claire, and I was the not-so-proud owner of a vagina?" Much to my delight, Jamie's jaw dropped as she looked at my trim, yet masculine body.

"You're kidding," she breathed, making me chuckle more.

"Oh, the wonders of testosterone," I said with a smile. Over the next few minutes (before she went to her counselling session), I got to know the recently-famous young woman, and even plucked up the courage to ask her out on a date- which to my amazement, she accepted!

I did eventually go out with Jamie, but only very briefly- it turns out that not actually having a penis was a deal-breaker, even though she still had one herself! After dating Jamie, I also briefly dated her friend Krystie, a ballet instructor (whom Becca quickly signed up with after learning that Krystie was classically trained), who was MUCH more adventurous than Jamie when it came to sex. Still though, as adventurous as the sex was, the fact that I was still lacking my ‘final piece’ put Krystie off as well.

Unlike transsexuals who ‘go the other way’, many transmen don’t end up having SRS, largely as the operation to graft a penis onto the body is considerably more complicated than the operation to remove it, and the odds of there being a post-operation complication can be as high as 55%- odds I'm not overly keen to play. And yet... I know I'll always be incomplete without 'it'. When I was sixteen, I NEEDED to be a man, and now I'm 23, I am a man. Do I really need the final piece to be complete?