This First Person article is written by Noah Yang, who lives in Richmond, B.C. For more information about First Person stories, see the FAQ.
It was my first year on testosterone. My name tag proudly said “Noah,” but my introduction didn’t quite match.
“Hello, my name is Malinda,” I awkwardly began before attempting to conduct a belay test for the patrons at the climbing wall where I worked.
The guests’ puzzled expressions — likely from seeing a man with short hair and a deep voice introduce himself with a woman’s name — made me laugh on the inside. It was a comedic reminder of how new my name still felt roughly two weeks after I changed it.
This moment was just one step in a journey that began many years earlier. And this is typical for many trans people: a lot of trans content in media is described as a journey, focusing on the challenges and struggles of that transition. It was the same for me initially.
Growing up, I had a short mushroom haircut DIYed by my father, wore “boy” clothes and had a natural affinity for hanging out with boys. It was easy to dismiss my feelings as just being a non-conforming girl. Being labelled a tomboy felt good enough at that age; I was just a kid who wanted to play with my friends.
High school ushered in a phase of conformity, where I effortlessly, and even thoughtlessly, slipped into a girly persona. I had long hair, wore dresses and had crushes on guys — I played the role convincingly, but beneath the surface, something felt off. Eventually, I found myself questioning who I truly was.
Then, in 2012, I stumbled upon the concept of bisexuality when I joined an all-girls ultimate frisbee team as a 16-year-old. Being bisexual resonated briefly until I realized the word lesbian better captured my feelings. For four years, I identified as a lesbian. A very butch lesbian at that.
It was in that phase when I was paralyzed on one occasion by a sudden discomfort with my own body during an intimate moment with my girlfriend. I couldn’t articulate it then, but looking back, it was my first experience with gender dysphoria. I ignored it, like many teenagers tend to do with their difficult feelings.
So, when I was in college a few years later and a partner casually told me, “You’re such a guy,” it triggered something deep within me. I can’t even recall what the context was but I loved hearing those words. The term transgender started to resonate with me, although embracing this identity meant confronting buried insecurities and navigating unfamiliar terrain.
I wrestled with some daunting questions: would my family accept me? My family wasn’t happy that I was dating girls, so how would they take my decision to transition? Could I find my place in a world often fraught with transphobia? What health complications might come with testosterone? And, funnily enough, could I find a girl while being a short, 5-4 guy?
Despite these uncertainties, I decided I had to be authentically me. I would rather take on the potential health complications of transitioning while being myself than live to 90 being someone else.
When I finally came out to my parents, it went badly. Their initial reaction was disbelief and confusion, quickly escalating to anger and denial. Our home became a tense and hostile environment. For a while, it felt hopeless, and I wanted to move out as soon as I could.
However, time has a remarkable way of healing wounds and reshaping perspectives.
With patience, unconditional love and mutual learning, we healed our relationship. It wasn’t easy. We had difficult conversations filled with frustration and misunderstandings. We even went to therapy together as a family of three.
After almost two years, my parents began to see beyond their preconceptions and fears. They listened to my experiences, educated themselves about transgender identities and opened their hearts to empathy and acceptance. At the same time, I became more patient and learned how to communicate calmly. I wasn’t always the chillest guy in town.
Today, they are not just my biggest supporters but also my best friends. They cheer me on in every aspect of my life. I received their full support, along with my grandmother’s, when I started testosterone in 2018.
In 2019, I underwent top surgery. This was the final step of my transition; it was the milestone that marked the end. And I found a girlfriend who is shorter than I am — not that heights matter.
My identity as a transgender man is now a quiet detail in my life, no longer defining but empowering. Some guys who complete their transition tend to just disappear. They’ve reached a point in their transition where they’re happy. Now, they just want to live out the rest of their lives.
And this is how my life has been ever since I recovered from top surgery.
I have no interest in bottom surgery. I’m happy with my body exactly the way it is.
I live my life as it is, and I have zero gender dysphoria. The only thought I have nowadays related to my transition is when I take my shirt off. I simply feel gratitude for top surgery.
So, today, I focus on what truly matters — my business, my relationships and my passions.
My transition story is not one of ongoing struggle, but one where I’ve reached a place of completion and peace. I fully enjoy my life, knowing that my path has led me to this place of profound fulfilment.
Today, I stand proudly as a man — confident, loyal and bold. The rest is in the past.
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