If people could feel what it’s like to be the woman I am, they’d understand. When I connect to her, I shine. I love being a woman.
There were three parts to the wallpaper of my Body Map. The images on the left and right were halves of one picture, placed on either side of the centre image. In the middle, there’s a grandmother and a child — they look so safe, so peaceful. The child is completely at ease in the grandmother’s arms. That sense of safety, that calm connection, reminded me of how I felt as a child when I was loved and protected.
I’ve always loved children. I never had any of my own, but my nieces and nephews were precious to me. At Christmas, there would be big family gatherings, and for me, the kids were always the joy — giving piggyback rides, doing magic tricks, hearing them laugh. That kind of joy isn’t in my life now.
My niece and nephew are grown, far away, and I really miss that contact. The little girl in the Body Map is loving and warm, but she also represents what I’ve lost. I’m a grandma kind of person. The image of the grandmother and child feels like home — everything I yearn for, and everything I still love.
My mum and dad both loved children. Mum worked with them, and the neighbours’ kids adored her. When she went into aged care and no longer had that contact, she really missed it. I see that in myself too.
Eight years ago, I stopped hiding and came out as a woman. It changed everything — especially how people saw me around children. For safety, I’ve learned to camouflage myself. I’ve been threatened and attacked because of transphobia.
Before I came out, I ran kids’ camps for thirty years, dressing as a clown sometimes, and the children loved it. But after being reported for wearing a dress at a party, the organisation said they couldn’t have “someone like me” around kids. They said there’d be a public outcry. It broke my heart.
Later, I joined a Red Tent women’s group and was elected to the national executive. Their promotional material said anyone identifying as a woman was welcome. But when they posted my photo online, anti-trans groups around the world piled on. Within days there were over a hundred thousand hateful comments. The trolling became so bad it spilled into my real life. I stayed up helping moderate the comments, but it destroyed me. Eventually, I resigned to protect the organisation.
After that, I started changing into a dress only after leaving home, afraid of being seen. I eventually told my neighbour I was trans; she was kind. But her mother told me she loved me — “but not him.” I never knew if she meant her son or son-in-law, but she added that he thought I was a sick pervert who shouldn’t be around kids. I live on a street full of children. That fear sits in me still. The women in the centre of my map stand for love and care, but also for how fragile that love can feel.
The left side of my wallpaper feels deathly — a skull. It reminds me of artwork I once made of a chasm with a crumbling cliff. On one side, I was falling; on the other were trees and birds and safety. A friend promised to help me build a bridge to the safe side. I needed that. I’d been in an abusive share house and had gone through homelessness. Everything felt unstable. Sometimes I feel like I’ve reached the safe side, and sometimes I’m still clinging to the edge. Healing is slow.
The cuddling figures in the middle remind me of a time I went to a festival and joined something called a “Cuddle Puddle.” It was pure comfort — closeness, warmth, laughter. I’m not in a relationship now, but I miss touch. I’m still a sexual being, even if my body and health make relationships difficult, and being trans makes it harder again. I long for connection, maybe with women who understand non-traditional relationships — something kind and gentle and real.
Around the edges of the paper, I put sparkles. They shine even through the darkness, forming a bridge to the light. They’re the moments of happiness that keep me going. Green is for life — the times I chose to keep living. Red stands for the women’s groups I loved, the ones I used to travel four hours each way to reach. The first time I went, the woman at the door asked, “Are you lost?” Some people weren’t sure what to make of me. But the organiser introduced me to everyone, told them I was welcome, and when I shared my story, we all cried. That acceptance meant the world. I still make that eight-hour round trip because those women see me for who I am.
The gold on my wallpaper is about money — the security I need for housing and my health. I need new teeth; I have none on top now. The little girl looking out is me. I need people to meet my eyes — to see me, really see me. I crave heart and soul connection. She isn’t scared; she’s safe, saying, “Big Em, I love you.” I have moments when I feel that safe, but not enough of them yet.
Sometimes my body feels like an empty shell. When I’m fully in my woman self, I feel strong. The pink feather down my spine is my strength — my superpower. It holds me up. Coming out has brought a lot of pain, but being connected to my womanhood is what keeps me alive. When I suppress that, I get anxious and depressed. When I let her shine, I thrive.
The green in my body means I’m choosing life. Hearts are scattered all over my map, not just where my heart sits — because love is everywhere. There’s a flower in my brain for my “soft thinking brain.” It’s how I see the world. One of the gifts of being trans is understanding both women who don’t understand men and men who don’t understand women. It gives me empathy. People who look at us and see only a problem miss the gift — our beautiful souls.
Sometimes I look in the mirror and feel sad because what I see doesn’t match how I feel inside. My body has let me down, but if I could take something to make me a man, I wouldn’t. I love being a woman. I love being safe and seen as part of the spectrum of how humans show themselves in the world. When I look at my Body Map, the first thing I see is the pink feather — my strength.
I know there are strong messages out there saying people like me aren’t real — that we’re wrong, perverted, or delusional. I once asked to join a paint-and-sip women’s group, and the art therapist said it wasn’t appropriate because there would be children. She told me to go to an LGBTIQ group instead, as though that’s the only place I belong. It hurt deeply.
As I grow older, I find more spaces closing off to me. I wonder, if I ever moved into a retirement village, would they see me as one of the girls? I hope they would.
Reflections on the workshop
The Body Mapping workshop was powerful. I love creative, hands-on work — it takes me deeper inside myself. The sessions valued my body and my being. My body is often a battleground, but in that space it was honoured. I felt safe, accepted, and free to listen to others share their truths. That, to me, is real living.
I travel long distances to attend services that are inclusive — four hours there and back for this workshop. I knew the Gender Centre was a safe place, so when I saw the Older Women’s Network NSW was involved, I was delighted. If the invitation had come from OWN alone, I might have hesitated, unsure whether I’d be welcome or whether my presence would make others uncomfortable. I never want to upset anyone — I just want everyone to feel safe. I need services and groups to say clearly: we welcome you.
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