A chilling confession surfaced recently, a recording from within the World Professional Association for Transgender Health. A clinician admitted, with unsettling casualness, “We’re all just winging it.” The implication was stark: they were improvising with lives, and my life was among them.
That “it” they were winging was my body, my future. The consequences of their uncertainty are etched into my very being – scars that run far deeper than skin and bone. They are a constant, haunting reminder of a trust betrayed.
I was fifteen, lost in a whirlwind of self-hatred and struggling with diagnosed mental health issues. I sought help for my pain, for the discomfort that consumed me. Instead, after a single appointment, I walked away with a referral for testosterone. A pathway to irreversible change had begun.
I desperately believed the doctors who promised a cure, who assured me that transitioning would alleviate my suffering. They told me a girl *could* become a boy, and that removing parts of my body was “life-saving care.” I was vulnerable, fragile, and they exploited that vulnerability.
I wasn’t equipped to understand the gravity of what was happening, the permanence of the choices being made for me. I was a teenager in crisis, not a candidate for experimental procedures. The supposed “medical professionals” didn’t seem to care about caution or long-term consequences.
The fundamental oath of medicine is “do no harm.” Yet, I was treated as an experiment, a case study in an unfolding, and largely unproven, field. I sought healing, and instead, I was subjected to interventions with potentially devastating repercussions.
Established protocols for supporting young people in crisis focus on stabilization, on nurturing well-being. They do *not* involve irreversible medical procedures, especially not on developing bodies. There was no careful consideration, no consensus, only a reckless rush to alter my physical form.
The phrase “winging it” continues to echo in my mind, a terrifying admission of negligence. My story isn’t unique; it’s one of many. I’m speaking out now, compelled to share the truth and prevent others from suffering the same fate.
The repercussions of those decisions permeate every aspect of my life. They are present in the mirror, in intimate moments, and most profoundly, in my relationship with my children. I live with a constant awareness of what was taken from me, under the guise of compassion.
How can any medical professional justify such recklessness, such a gamble with a child’s future? How could they prioritize ideology and personal agendas over the well-being of those entrusted to their care? The questions haunt me.
My doctors never considered *my* future, only their own beliefs. Now, as a mother, I grapple with the consequences of their actions. I was unable to breastfeed my son, a fundamental experience stolen by the hormones and surgeries I underwent as a teenager.
They shrugged off their own uncertainty, dismissing the potential harm as acceptable collateral damage. They were winging it – with my life, with my child’s life, with the lives of countless others who place their trust in the medical system.
I didn’t realize they weren’t trying to heal my mental illness; they were rewriting my future, handing it over to individuals with questionable motives. The emerging truth demands accountability. We must protect vulnerable children from undergoing irreversible interventions based on speculation.
No parent should be pressured into consenting to experimental treatments presented as established fact. And no child should ever discover that the adults responsible for their care were simply making it up as they went along. The time for reckoning is now.
The medical community must be held accountable for the harm already inflicted and for preventing future tragedies. Irreversible decisions should never be made based on guesswork. Protecting children requires caution, thoroughness, and above all, a genuine commitment to “do no harm.”
