A few weeks ago, I used to be asked to provide a speech at a fundraising event at The Marlborough Theatre, Brighton, in my capability as An Inspiration. This ticketed event, featuring a raft of local drag kings and queens, would raise money for trans or non-binary individuals who could be struggling to cover the fee of surgeries.

A disclaimer: not all transgender people have, or wish to have surgeries. They are only as trans and just as valid as I’m, but I used to be not one in all those people. I wanted my outsides to as closely match my internal vision of self as possible. It’s very difficult to quantify what a lady is supposed to appear like, but a few of my features – my Adam’s Apple as an example – were distinctly masculine. And to do away with those ‘male’ features, I have opted to have a fuck-ton of surgery.

Consequently, I’m happier with my body than I’ve ever been, so I totally appreciate why many other trans people want surgeries. Those operations have made my life higher, easy as that. Each in being comfortable to pass a mirror and, furthermore, being comfortable on the bus or train, free from the lingering stares of rude people. It’s very nice to not have kids ask their parents “is that a person or a lady?” In that situation, you’ve got to laugh gaily and say it’s tremendous. It shouldn’t be tremendous, it’s soul-destroying if you happen to’re pouring your heart into living as a lady. For that reason, I fully understand why Mr Inglefield, the surgeon who did my facial feminisation, performs, on average, three such operations per week. These procedures often involve reshaping parts of the face sensitive to testosterone: brows, jawlines, hairlines and outstanding noses.

But back to my speech on the Marly. Being An Inspiration is kind of trying and there’s only so persistently you may rehash how sad you were as a toddler. So I made a decision to do something I’ve never actually done before: work out the entire cost of my transition to this point. Like, financially. Emotionally, I’m within the black: any harassment or temporary turmoil is well cancelled out by the enjoyment of being my most honest self. But when it comes to money…well. Here we go:

“Why am I disclosing this? Talking about money is crass. Nevertheless it’s also essential.”

I’ve had roughly fifty laser hair removal sessions to kill off my former beard at £45 a time = £2,250. A nose job cost £2,350. Facial Feminisation procedures got here to £9,014. A personal hormone prescription was £350 for a three-month supply. My NHS prescription costs have been £256 while botox and fillers were £800. That brings us to a complete of £15,020 during the last 4 years. Apparently, the explanation this millennial can’t afford a flat isn’t avocado on toast.

Now let’s check some privilege. The savvy trans person amongst you may note those surgery costs are slightly low cost. They’re. As I fall into the very area of interest category of ‘semi-famous trans women operating within the media’ I used to be offered certain discounts and cut-corners to feature on ITV’s TV show Transformation Street. As detailed above, I absolutely wasn’t ‘given freebies’ however the regular cost – especially for the facial feminisation procedures – would ordinarily have been higher. So the primary privilege was my status. The second was that – due to a book deal and a loan from my father – I used to be capable of afford even the discounted rates. I used to be lucky, and it bears repeating that there isn’t any set ‘cost of transition’. That’s the fee of my transition. A whole lot of trans people don’t want surgeries to change their appearance. Some people want a couple of. Some people want so much.

Either way, I’m sure you get my point: surgical transition is pricey as fuck. Why am I disclosing this? Talking about money is crass. Nevertheless it’s also essential. I worry about those that do want surgeries but can’t afford them. Just about every procedure listed above is NOT covered by the NHS. Only the laser hair removal can be covered, but I wanted to start out that process while I toiled on the year-long waiting list so opted to go private. That was also true of the £350 I spent on acquiring hormones privately during that agonising wait. And the 12 months I waited isn’t even so bad; in some parts of the UK, patients can expect to attend as much as three years to be seen by a gender specialist. Gender confirmation surgery would only be available several years into the transition process.

Nevertheless it’s all vanity, right? It’s all elective, right? To that I might belt out a convincing ‘fuck you’. After I first told a trans friend I used to be about to announce my transition, she told me, in all seriousness: ‘Congratulations! Be sure you’re pretty!’ Physical attractiveness, in fact, weighs on the mind of all women. It’s a symptom of the patriarchy. You’ll note I haven’t accounted for things like cosmetics, clothes and haircare because I shudder to think… Nonetheless, it’s also the case that transgender women are judged by barely different standards. Having the ability to mix in when out in public is significant to our safety and freedom from harassment. It’s absolutely not nearly vanity, beauty or sex appeal (although great in the event that they’re a side effect), it’s about feeling capable of leave the home in sunlight hours. It’s about mental health.

“With each procedure, I even have felt less terrified to be in public. My mental health, slightly bit at a time, has improved.”

With each procedure, I even have felt less terrified to be in public. My mental health, slightly bit at a time, has improved. If the NHS is serious about tackling mental health problems for everyone, I’d urge those accountable for the purse strings to contemplate funding cosmetic procedures for trans people. I mean, not botox and fillers, but I do know each trans ladies and men who been told they will’t get funding to enhance probably the most obvious gendered features: breasts; Adam’s Apples; very masculine facial expression, and people persons are struggling. Statistics for trans people and mental health problems make for bleak reading.

We also know through successive Stonewall reports that trans and non-binary people might struggle to search out paid employment. It’s a vicious circle: If you happen to don’t feel confident to be in public, many public-facing jobs are ruled out, which limits the potential to pay for surgeries that make you more confident in public. I’m wondering if all that is making a two-tier transgender world dividing those that can and may’t pay for what I feel is life-changing medical care. And in America, where there isn’t any NHS, the situation is even worse, and it’s commonplace for trans people to carry fundraising events or start GoFundMe pages. (I’m seeing this practice becoming more regular within the UK too. I’d urge you to provide wherever possible.)

It really isn’t about vanity. It’s about survival. I’d prefer it if we lived in an ideal world, post-gender, where people’s gender shouldn’t be policed, and I do know loads of trans people – with and without surgery – which might be fighting for us to get there. But we’re not there yet. That’s why I’m pleased to share the reasoning behind my various nips and tucks, within the hope that it’ll raise awareness about access and affordability regarding surgeries that might be hugely helpful for some trans people.

Those kids who tell me how inspiring I’m on Insta should know that I most definitely didn’t ‘get up like this’. I used to evaluate myself very harshly against other trans women, especially firstly of my transition. I used to beat myself up because I wasn’t ‘passing’ as well they were. I felt like I used to be failing. I don’t want people me and feeling that way. I look the best way I do because I’ve undergone painful surgery and plenty of months of swelling and bruising. And eventually: one more reason for sharing these very personal details is that it also provides a satisfying response to those that think being trans is a ‘trendy whim’… £15K is hardly an impulse buy on the checkout, is it?