The Scars I Carry

Living in a body that was never allowed to grow, by Claire Abernathy

When people talk about detransition, the conversation often revolves around identity, ideology, or political controversy. But few want to talk about the body. The daily, physical realities we live with after irreversible medical interventions. The scars I carry are more than skin deep. They are reminders of the body I was never given the chance to grow into, of the choices I made too young to understand, and of the losses I live with now.

I began medical transition as a child. At an age when my peers were learning about puberty from textbooks, I was being prescribed hormones that would arrest mine. Testosterone gave me a new voice and a new body, but it also gave me long-term complications that no one warned me about. Not one doctor mentioned pelvic floor dysfunction. Not one warned me about urinary incontinence, or how vaginal atrophy could make menstruation and sexual intimacy painful, even years later. These are the things no one wants to talk about. But I live with them every day.

Debilitating pain is now a regular part of my cycle—sharp, stabbing internal cramping that feels almost foreign in a body that was chemically suppressed and surgically altered. The atrophy caused by years of testosterone has left my tissues fragile and dry, making even basic intimacy or medical exams uncomfortable, sometimes unbearable. I’ve cried in silence, ashamed of what’s become of my body, trying to explain symptoms to doctors who either don’t understand or don’t want to engage with my history.

One of my greatest fears now is pregnancy. Not infertility, though that’s a concern too, but the question of whether my body will be able to carry a child safely if I do become pregnant. Will the pelvic floor issues cause complications during labor? Will the atrophied tissue recover enough to support the changes of pregnancy? I don’t know. The truth is, neither do most doctors. No long-term studies were done on children who medically transitioned and then detransitioned. We are the data.

I grieve the loss of my ability to breastfeed. I had a double mastectomy as a teenager, believing it would bring me peace. But now, as I imagine the possibility of one day holding my own child, I wonder how I’ll feed them. Formula shortages have already shown us how vulnerable that system can be. Donor milk is hard to come by, expensive, and not always accessible. What happens if I can’t give my baby what they need because of choices I made before I was old enough to drive?

The grief is layered. There’s the regret, which is complex, personal, and often made taboo by activists who insist detransition is rare or irrelevant. There’s the fear for my future, the shame of having to explain my body to new doctors, new partners, and possibly, one day, to my children. There’s the loss of trust in the adults and institutions who were supposed to protect me, and trust in my own ability to make safe decisions for myself.

I share this not to shock or provoke, but because silence helps no one. I know I’m not alone. There are others like me: young women, often same-sex attracted, often neurodivergent, who were fast-tracked onto a medical path without being given the space to grow into their bodies, or even cursory questioning of what they truly needed. We were praised for our bravery, called stunning and strong. But now, as we deal with the aftermath, we are ignored, mocked, or treated like political inconveniences.

I don’t want pity. I want honesty. I want conversations that acknowledge the complexity of regret, the permanence of these medical decisions, and the very real physical costs we’re left to manage. I want better care for detransitioners. Real, evidence-based care that doesn’t begin and end with a political agenda. I want people to know what can happen when a body is not allowed to grow.

Because these scars are mine. I didn’t choose all of them—but I carry them, every day.

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