I’m Not a Trans Woman, I’m Trans Female. That Difference Matters More Than Ever

The Supreme Court ruling on the definition of “woman” didn’t shock me. It landed with a cold inevitability, like a letter that was posted years ago but only just dropped through the door. It’s a line in law that many will see as a full stop. But for those of us who’ve walked the long path of transition, it’s not the end of the sentence. It’s a cue to get honest about the language we use. And why it’s failed us.

I’ve never called myself a trans woman. I won’t start now. Not because I’m afraid. Not because I’m ashamed. But because it isn’t true. I wasn’t born a woman. I cannot bear children. I wasn’t raised as a girl. I will never be a biological woman. And that fact doesn’t invalidate me. It anchors me, although I truly wish that all these things were true.

I’m trans female. I use the term because I’ve changed my legal and medical status to match the gender I’ve always known inside. It’s not a costume I wear. It’s not borrowed language. It’s lived experience fused with science, law, and agency. My journey has had costs. Hormone therapy, pain, loss, decisions that came with grief and joy tangled together. It has also given me clarity. And I think we’ve lost that as a community.

The blanket term “transgender” has blurred lines that used to mean something. It has tried to be everything for everyone and in doing so, it has become meaningless. Non-binary identities, genderfluidity, self-ID, all wrapped into one word and fired at a society that was already unsure how to respond. No wonder people are pushing back. We stopped defining the edges, so now others are doing it for us.

This ruling is the legal system’s response to that ambiguity. It’s a ruling not against people like me (though it hurts me) but against the mess we’ve made of the conversation. And I can’t ignore that. We told the world all identities are equal and interchangeable, without asking what happens when law needs to draw a boundary. When protections need to be specific. When words actually mean something.

So now what?

For me, it starts with truth. If you’ve medically transitioned and changed your gender marker, say so. If you haven’t, don’t claim what isn’t yours. And if you’re non-binary, demand your own recognition instead of hiding behind the word “transgender” as if it can cover all bases. It can’t. It shouldn’t.

I’m not erasing anyone. I’m just asking that we stop erasing ourselves.

When I use the phrase “trans female,” I am being honest about who I am and what I’ve done to be here. Not a fantasy. Not a role. A reality. And in a world increasingly hostile to nuance, maybe the best act of defiance is to speak clearly.

That reality becomes even more important in a climate where voices like J.K. Rowling feel emboldened not only to influence policy, but to celebrate its impact from a place of privilege. The photo she posted after the ruling, sipping a drink on a yacht, flaunting her jewellery, wearing her wealth like a statement wasn’t just distasteful. It was misrepresentative. A victory lap dressed in pearls. She wasn’t surrounded by women affected by the ruling. She was alone, high above it all. Detached from the everyday lives this ruling impacts. The image didn’t speak for women, biological or trans, it spoke for someone who had the luxury of being untouched by the damage.

That’s not what advocacy looks like. That’s not what community looks like.

And here’s the other reality. Trans lives aren’t all the same. But when I say trans, I mean trans male or trans female. I mean people who have taken steps, medically, legally, socially, to transition from male to female, or female to male. MTF. FTM. People like me. People like Jess.

I’ve known my dysphoria since childhood. I carried it like a shadow, silent but relentless. Jess, my partner, discovered her gender journey later in life, and I’ll say this without hesitation. Her experience is no less valid than mine. Different, yes. But not less. And that difference is important, because our transitions are rooted in the realignment of gender with sexed biology. That’s not something you dabble in. It’s not an aesthetic or a vibe. It’s not theory. It’s life. And I think that’s the danger of the public narrative right now. It assumes we’re all the same. That we all want visibility. That we all want politics. That we’re pushing agendas. We’re not.

Me and Jess just want to blend in. That’s it. We want to go shopping, walk our dog, hold hands in public without being stared at. We’re probably the best advocates out there because we never meant to be advocates. We’re just visible, living and loving openly, and that in itself has become the quietest kind of protest. And you know what? The women we meet, the biological women, they don’t chastise us. They ask questions. They listen. They understand. Because we show up as who we are. With no script. No campaign. No ulterior motives.

Authenticity invites acceptance. When you stop trying to force others to believe in a version of you that even you don’t fully inhabit, people respond differently. Jess and I are proof of that. We’re not trying to disrupt womanhood. We’re just trying to be whole in a world that told us not to be.

The issue is that everything is being flattened now. The umbrella term transgender has become so stretched, it’s torn. It includes everyone, from those who’ve legally transitioned to those who reject the idea of gender altogether. And that’s a problem. Because it blurs what people like me and Jess have done. If you’re non-binary, claim that. Demand your own recognition. Don’t hide behind transgender and expect the same understanding. You deserve space, but it shouldn’t come at the cost of ours. Stop hiding behind the word transgender as if it can carry the weight of every identity. It can’t. It shouldn’t. It never could. Because when the law looks at who’s protected, who’s included, and who gets access to single-sex spaces, it needs to understand exactly who we’re talking about. When you flatten every experience into one umbrella term, you dilute those of us who have had to fight to change our legal gender, who have endured surgeries, who have gone through years of therapy, blood tests, and questions, and doubts, all for the chance to just feel right in our own skin.

So let’s start using the right words. Let’s stop allowing our identities to be overwritten by others who haven’t walked the same path. Trans male. Trans female. That’s who we are. And it’s time we said it. Loudly. Clearly. Without compromise.

So maybe this is the lesson. The court can draw legal lines, but it can’t define connection. Politicians can legislate identity, but they can’t reach into your life and take your truth. And as for those toasting from their yachts, let them. Real life is happening down here. And we’re living it.

Ask yourself this
Are we fighting for inclusion, or just avoiding precision? Who is really impacted by these laws, and who gets to celebrate from the sidelines?

And this
If our identities aren’t rooted in shared definitions, how can we ever expect shared protections? Is visibility enough if it doesn’t come with understanding? What if blending in isn’t invisibility, but the purest form of being seen?

And maybe this most of all
What happens when a movement forgets to define itself before asking the law to do it for us?