‘Every night I prayed I’d wake up as a girl’
Growing up transgender, Charlie Craggs, 28, became suicidal. Here, she shares her journey to becoming the woman she always knew she was
wallowing down my first hormone pill with a glass of pink champagne, I felt a huge sense of elation and gratitude. At 23, I had been on an emotional lifelong journey to reach this celebratory milestone. I was four when I first told my mum that I wished I was a girl – and every night I prayed I’d wake up as one the next day.
If there was a dress-up box I’d always reach for the girls’ outfits. I’d put tights on my head as I thought it was like having hair. I liked playing with dolls and all my friends were girls.
But it wasn’t until 10 years later, while watching transgender reality star Nadia Almada win 2004’s Big Brother, that I finally realised who I was.
Back then, unlike today, there were no other people in the media like her. Despite knowing what I could do to feel comfortable in my body – live as a woman – it took me a long time to accept it.
There’s a huge misconception that the decision to transition is made on a fun whim. But statistics show that only a very small percentage of transgender people regret their decision, despite the numbers often being exaggerated in the media.
For me, transitioning from a man to a woman was a last resort. If there had been a pill to stop my deep-rooted feelings and urges to be a woman, I would have taken it.
Nobody chooses this life for themselves because it’s so hard. Everything becomes tougher – you can lose family, you may never find love and you might believe your dream career is impossible. At my all-boys school, I was completely ostracised. Even the nice boys told
me, “Sorry, I can’t talk to you because I’ll get bullied too.” I’m a totally different person now, but it’s hard to shake off that feeling of being a loser.
I didn’t see a doctor about my feelings until my late teens. Even then, it wasn’t straightforward.
The first GP I met looked at me in disgust and told me to leave his office. I felt so ashamed. I cried constantly and tried to avoid ever going out.
Changes during puberty, like my voice dropping, growing thick facial hair and having legs that needed shaving, felt hideous to me. I was even embarrassed for my parents to find out I was hairy. I wore a school uniform but
I’d express myself by wearing make-up and
‘Nobody chooses this life – it’s tough’
jewellery and growing my hair longer. At weekends I wore girls’ clothes – wearing boys’ clothing made me feel physically sick. In my head I was a woman, but I didn’t look like one and I couldn’t get the help I asked for.
I needed doctors to refer me to a specialist clinic. Being prescribed puberty blockers would have prevented so much anguish.
I’m still fixing things now – I’ve paid over £10,000 and had multiple procedures just bringing my hairline forward to make it more feminine. My mum paid for me to have laser treatment to remove excess body hair – the kindest gift imaginable.
At the age of 21 I was finally put on a waiting list by the NHS. The two-and-a-half year wait until my first consultation was the hardest time of my life. I was lucky – the standard wait for a first consultation is four years – but it still felt like a prison sentence. I’m far from alone as 13,500 adults and 4,500 under-17s are on these same lists right now. During this drawn-out process I became suicidal and a decade of hating myself led to a breakdown.
Internalising the shame and self-hatred, I stopped doing all the things that made me feminine and even shaved my head. I changed everything that made me me. I became a shell of a person. I honestly believe that if I had been made to wait any longer, my suicidal thoughts would have been acted on.
During those two-and-a-half years waiting for a consultation, people laughed at me and took pictures of me on the streets. I knew I looked awful – a man dressed as a woman. I was also frequently pushed, hit and called names.
I was desperate to start taking hormone treatment and start feminising. I longed to blend into society.
I became so low I’d only leave the house for work, as an editor of a magazine, and then return home. I was lucky to have supportive colleagues. I stopped seeing friends, feeling too scared of being attacked and having to constantly defend myself.
Since then, I’ve had a lot of surgery and I’m thankful I look like a woman. But I still feel scared and can be reclusive. There was no scientific reason for that wait, there’s simply a lack of resources and funding for gender transitioning.
I didn’t have the money to speed up the process – I’m from a council estate – so going private wasn’t an option for me.
My dad is a macho bloke and our family is very religious but they were always supportive of me, for which I am grateful. They had to watch me dwindle as a person.
People can go to desperate lengths, like buying hormones online, and some friends who did that ended up with heart problems and strokes as a result.
When I finally started my medication, it wasn’t a magical fairy-tale ending.
The same day I took my first hormone, I changed my name to mark the fresh start. Yet I was attacked on my way home at the bus stop by a group of guys. They called me names, grabbed my boobs and hit me.
What hurt most was that no one else intervened or stopped to check I was OK. It made me feel I wasn’t even a human. The bruises heal but that trauma stays with you.
Life has become easier because I look like a woman now, not because society has had a change of attitude. Having multiple surgeries to become the person I’ve always wanted to be may seem scary to some but for me, even with the risk of death, it was worth it.
One day I’d like to have full gender reassignment surgery. It’ll cost me around £20,000 to go private, so I’ll be saving for a while.
Now, I love helping other people going through similar experiences.
Fighting for the transgender community led to me hosting a BBC Three documentary. I’ve also set up a travelling nail salon business called
Nail Transphobia for anyone who wants to chat about the community and to help people and businesses do better.
I may be the first transgender person my clients have had a conversation with, which can help break down barriers. I’ve even done Richard Branson’s nails – they were in very bad condition as he’d been rock climbing the weekend before.
It’s important to reflect and take a moment to be proud of ourselves. I hold my head up high now, rather than hiding my face to avoid attack.
I pray that support for the transgender community improves in the future. We don’t want special rights, we just want human rights.
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