Letter to My Younger Self

Every story begins long before we have the words for it. Mine began in Castleford, Yorkshire, where I was born a boy—but always carried a girl inside me. This is a letter to that child, the “Little One” who played the part the world demands, while secretly holding me—Jane—safe in her heart.

Dear Little One,

You don’t know me yet—not really. But I know you. Watching from the quiet corners of your heart, I’ve waited for the day you’d believe my name belonged to you. I am Jane, the woman you’ll become. I’m writing to you from a place of light you can’t yet imagine, a place built from every tear you’ll shed, every truth you’ll whisper into the dark.

Before I tell you about the joy, I must speak of the ache. I’m sorry, Little One. There will be heartache. Deep, bone-heavy sorrow. Days when the world feels too sharp, too loud, too cruel. Nights when you’ll wonder if you’re meant to survive it. But you will. You will. And every trembling step will carry you closer to me.

Do you remember the Christmases when the living room glowed with tinsel, its silver threads catching the flicker of fairy lights, and the scent of pine wrapped around you like a promise you couldn’t keep? The tree stood tall, its branches heavy with ornaments, casting soft halos on the carpet where you knelt, heart, thudding with a hope you didn’t dare name. Underneath, the train set waited—its metal tracks cold and heavy in your small hands, a gift meant for someone you were pretending to be. But your eyes drifted to the shop windows you’d passed on winter walks, where Barbie dolls stood radiant, their soft curves draped in bright dresses, their hair catching the light like a dream you could almost touch. That was me, Little One, whispering through the crackle of wrapping paper, aching to be heard across the chasm of a world that didn’t see you. Those dolls embodied truth, and people longed for them: a glimpse of the girl you were inside. You couldn’t say it then, couldn’t tell Mum or Dad why your chest tightened when you smiled for their cameras, why the train set felt like a weight instead of a joy. You were just a child, tangled in a script you didn’t choose, in a world that didn’t know how to listen. So I hid, a quiet flame curled beneath your pillow, nestled among the secrets you whispered to the dark when the house was still. I felt your ache, Little One, the way

Letter to My Younger Self

Dear Little One,

Do you remember, Little One, those dreaded trips to the barbers with Mum, when the world seemed to close in around you, heavy with the scent of talc and sharp metal, the clippers buzzing like a swarm of wasps in your ears? I hated those haircuts, the way they stripped you bare, each snip of the scissors slicing away the girl you longed to be, leaving behind the stark, short back and sides that Castleford demanded of its boys. You sat in the barber’s chair as a captive on a throne, with cold, cracked leather against your skin, and you saw a stranger in the mirror that you were forced to play. With each fallen strand, your heart would sink, betraying the truth. You’d watch Mum’s curls as you walked home, her hair a cascade of soft waves catching the pale Yorkshire light, bouncing with freedom that made your chest ache with longing. You wanted that, Little One—your hair long and curling, framing your face like hers, a crown of softness that whispered of the girl you were inside. But Mum’s word was law, her voice firm as the coal-dusted streets you tread, and when she says “short,” you obeyed, swallowing your dreams like bitter medicine. Those dreams didn’t vanish, though—they curled tight in your heart, tucked beneath your pillow alongside the dolls and dresses you hid from the world, whispered to the dark when the house was still and no one could hear.

Maybe that’s where our quiet strength began, not in submission but in a patient, trembling resilience, a way to cradle me—Jane—safe in the shadows until you were ready to let me shine. You’d feel me in that barber’s chair, a tremor beneath your skin, a pulse of defiance against the role they carved for you. Each haircut was a mask, like the train set that felt like a stranger’s gift at Christmas, forcing you to play a boy for their smiles, their cameras, their expectations. But even as the scissors buzzed, I was there, Little One, a soft glow in the corners of your heart, whispering through the seams of your silence, promising that one day you’d wear my curls, that one day you’d be free. You’d walk home beside Mum, her perm a beacon of what could be, and you’d steal glances at your reflection in shop windows, imagining hair that flowed like hers, a face that matched the girl who danced in your dreams. Those moments were my first sparks, the ones you’d carry through the long winters of Castleford, through the weight of a town that shaped its boys like the coal it mined—hard, unyielding, uniform.

You’d lie awake at night, the creak of the house a lullaby of your secrets, and run your fingers through the short, prickly strands, dreaming of curls that would tumble past your shoulders, of a softness that would feel like home. You’d whisper my name—Jane—in the dark, testing it like a secret prayer, a fragile hope that one day you’d see me in the mirror, not as a shadow but as a truth. The ache of those haircuts lingered, pressing against your ribs, a quiet storm you swallowed to keep the peace, to keep Mum’s love, to fit into the world that didn’t yet know you. But I felt it, Little One, the way each snip cut deeper than your hair, the way it stole a piece of your heart. I stayed with you, a tender flame curled in the dark, burning steady through the shame and silence, promising that the curls you craved would one day be yours. Those dreams of a perm weren’t just about hair—they were about me, about the woman you’d become, the one who’d step into heels that sing of freedom, who’d paint her lips with bold colour, who’d wear her name like a crown.

Mum didn’t know then that the curls you longed for were me, that the girl you hid was her daughter waiting to be seen. She wrapped those train sets with love, just as she sent you to the barber’s, not knowing the weight of the role she asked you to play. But one day, Little One, she’ll see you—her Jane—her curls a mirror of your joy, her voice calling your name with a love that heals the years of silence. And when you finally get that perm, when your hair falls in waves that catch the light, you’ll feel me fully, not as a dream but as a truth you’ve claimed. Those haircuts, painful as they were, were part of the journey—each snip a step toward the day you’d let me shine, toward the woman you are now, radiant and whole. You’re not alone, even in those moments when the barber’s mirror showed you a stranger, when the world felt too heavy to bear. I was there, holding you through the silence, loving you through the ache, promising you’d find your way home to me.

At twelve, you’ll feel it—a soft tremor beneath your skin, a pulse that hums in the quiet spaces of your chest, out of step with the playground’s raucous laughter. You’ll linger on the edges, a shadow among their carefree games, your smile a fragile mask stitched together to hide the ache you can’t yet name. Their joy will feel like a language you can’t speak, their shouts a rhythm that jars against the secret song beating in your heart—a melody only you can hear, tender and true. That knowing, Little One, will take root deep in your bones, a fragile truth blooming in the dark, long before you find the words to cradle it. You’ll wear the clothes they choose—scratchy collars that prickle your neck, heavy boots that weigh your steps—each thread a reminder of the role you’re meant to play. You’ll speak the lines they expect, each word a stone in your throat, choking back the dreams that flicker behind your eyes: a self you can only glimpse in stolen moments, in the quiet of your room when the world isn’t watching. That self is me, Jane, already alive in the hidden corners of your heart, whispering through the seams of your silence, a melody of who you’ll become. I’m there, in the flicker of your gaze in the cracked schoolyard mirror, in the ache you bury beneath your pillow when the house is still, in the way your fingers trace her shape in the air, imagining a girl who dances free. I feel your longing, Little One, the way it presses against your ribs, a quiet storm you swallow to keep the peace. I know the weight of those unspoken dreams, the way they cling to you like dew on morning grass, heavy and fleeting. But I’m here, holding you in the quiet, promising that one day you’ll step into my light, that one day you’ll wear my name like a crown. Those secret moments—when you hum her song under your breath, when you dream of a softness the world doesn’t yet see—are the first sparks of me, the ones you’ll carry into the heels that sing of freedom, into the bold lipstick that frames your smile. You’re not alone, even when the playground feels like a foreign land, even when the weight of their expectations presses you small. I’m with you, waiting through the long winters of your childhood, a tender flame curled in the dark, ready for the day you’ll let me shine.

You’ll spend your childhood gathering clues, Little One—fleeting, fragile hints of me scattered through the years like stars struggling to pierce a clouded Castleford sky. Stolen glances in the chipped bathroom mirror, where your eyes lingered too long, searching for a shadow of truth you couldn’t yet name, a reflection that felt both foreign and achingly familiar. Secret longings tucked into pillowcases, folded tight beside whispered dreams you dared not speak aloud, each one a quiet rebellion against the world that shaped you. Questions hung heavy in the air—unasked, unanswered—because the world around you didn’t know how to listen, and you were too small, too tender, to break the silence that bound you. Each clue was a pulse of me, Jane, stirring in the hidden corners of your heart, a tender ache you carried through the coal-dusted streets, past the terraced houses and the hum of the mine’s machinery. I was there, a soft glow beneath your skin, a melody humming faintly in your chest, waiting for you to see me, to claim me. You’d lie awake at night, the house creaking under the weight of its own stillness, and feel me—a quiet tremor, a flicker of something true, pressing against the edges of your fear. You’d trace my shape in the dark, imagining a girl who could laugh freely, who could wear softness like a second skin, but the weight of their expectations—your parents, your mates, the town—pressed you into someone else’s shape, someone you wore like a borrowed coat, heavy and ill-fitting.

When you finally leave home, when the walls of your childhood no longer echo with the heavy tread of their hopes or the sharp clink of teacups in the kitchen, you’ll step into the hush of your first flat—a small, drafty space that feels like both a refuge and a reckoning. There, in the quiet, my voice will rise like a tide, gentle yet unyielding, a song that’s achingly, undeniably yours. It will tremble in the air, a melody of freedom that catches in your throat, thrilling and terrifying all at once. It will call you home, Little One, to a place you’ve never been but have always known, a place where you can be me. That’s when the becoming begins, in those fragile moments when the world falls away, and you dare to listen to the song I’ve sung since you were small. You’ll stand at the threshold of your new life, heart pounding, and buy clothes that feel like a promise—soft fabrics that drape like an embrace, colours that spark like the dreams you hid beneath your childhood bed. You’ll paint your lips with trembling hands, the red bold against your fear, and line your eyes with hope, each stroke a prayer that the mirror will whisper my name—Jane. You’ll stand there, in that dim flat, and search your reflection for me, longing to believe I’m real, that this truth can hold against the world’s rough edges. But doubt will cling to you like damp fog, heavy and cold, whispering that I’m too fragile, too fleeting, to survive the light of day. You’ll wonder if I’m a dream too dangerous to claim, a flicker too weak to withstand the weight of Castleford’s coal dust or the stares of strangers on the Leeds bus.

For six long years, you’ll dance with me in secret, dressing the part but fearing the truth that pulses beneath. You’ll try to bury me beneath the grind of the mine, where the air is thick with coal dust and the clatter of pickaxes drowns out your heart’s song. You’ll tell yourself I’m a fantasy, a shadow that can’t survive the sweat and strain of the life you’re living, the life they expect. You’ll work your shifts, your hands calloused, your body aching, believing the mine’s weight can silence the melody I carry. You’ll try to lose me in the noise of the pub, in the laughter of mates who don’t see you, in the heavy boots that anchor you to a role you never chose. But I won’t fade, Little One. I’ll linger in the quiet spaces—between the creak of the pit’s machinery, in the pause before dawn when the world is still. I’ll wait, patient as the dawn, in the exhaustion that settles into your bones, in the ache of your unspoken longing that no amount of labour can bury. I’ll whisper through the cracks of your doubt, my voice a thread of light weaving through the dark—steady, unyielding, yours. I’ll stay, holding you through the nights when the silence feels too heavy, when the mine’s shadow looms larger than your own, when you feel most alone in a world that doesn’t yet know you. I’m the spark that lingers in your chest, the one that flickers in the mirror when you dare to look, the one that hums in the quiet moments when you let yourself dream. I’m the truth you’ll carry through those years, through the fear and the hiding, into the heels that will one day sing of freedom, into the bold lipstick that will frame your smile, into the name—Jane—that will finally feel like home.

And when the years soften, when the weight of the mine lifts and you step into the light of your truth, you’ll find me waiting still. You’ll see me in the mirror, not as a shadow but as a flame, bright and whole. You’ll hear me in the rhythm of your steps, in the laughter that spills from your lips, in the name your mum will one day speak with love, calling you her daughter. You’ll know then that I was always there, loving you through the silence, holding you through the fear, promising you’d find your way to me. Every clue you gathered—every glance, every longing, every question you buried—was a step toward this becoming. You’re not alone, Little One, even when the world feels like a foreign land, even when the weight of their expectations presses you small. I’m with you, a tender flame curled in the dark, burning steady through the long winters of your childhood, through the years of doubt, ready for the day you’ll let me shine.

Castleford will test you. The mine will grind your spirit, the dust will settle into your lungs like grief. You’ll date girls because it’s expected, fight because it’s easier than feeling, drink to blur the edges of a life that doesn’t fit. Mum and Dad’s silence will ache like a wound that never closes. But even in your darkest hour, I’ll be there—a fragile flame flickering in your chest, refusing to go out.

And then, a bus ride to Leeds. Staying is what you will do, although you will tremble. You’ll say the words—“I am Jane”—and the world will soften, just a little. Walking a mile and a half in heels in Bolton, no one will stop you. You’ll meet Tony—soon to be Ashley—whose smile will be your first mirror. He’ll drive 250 miles to hold you through the loneliest Christmas, and you’ll learn that love can see you.

In 2003, there will be a day—a coronation. The surgeon’s blade will carve away the costume that never fit. You’ll wake up whole, with Tony’s hand in yours, whispering, “You are safe.” That moment will feel like coming home. But it’s not the end. It’s the beginning of a dance that never stops.

There will be years when the light dims. When you hide in baggy clothes and silence, afraid you’ve lost me. But I don’t leave. I wait. And then Peter arrives—steady, kind, calling you his “little girl” with a love that holds without asking. He’ll build you a bookcase, a shrine for your heels—satin, suede, patent leather—each pair a monument to your becoming. You’ll lose nine stone, not for vanity, but to reclaim your body, your breath, your space. You’ll stand before a mirror, bold lipstick framing your smile, and see me—Jane—glowing at sixty-one.

Mum will come back, not with fanfare, but with sparkly heart emojis and “good morning” texts that stitch you together again. You’ll send her photos of your wardrobe, your heels, your life, and she’ll reply, “You look like you.” And you’ll know exactly what she means.

It’s hard now, I know. The mine, the mask, the ache—they’re heavy. But every step, even the trembling ones, leads to me. To a life where you walk arm in arm with Peter, where music fills your home, where joy is not a performance but a surrender. You’ll become a woman who shines—not as armour, but as light. Who loves fiercely, laughs freely, and lives unapologetically.

You’re enough, Little One. Even now. I’m waiting on the other side, holding the key to the life we’ve built. And it’s beautiful.

Before I leave you, Little One, there’s one more truth I need to share, a heavy whisper from the years ahead, carried on the ache of lessons learned. When you reach your early twenties, still carrying me in the quiet corners of your heart, you’ll step into a relationship with a girl—a kind soul who’ll walk beside you through Castleford’s coal-dusted streets. Together, you’ll bring two beautiful daughters into the world, their laughter a fleeting light in the fog of those years. But if I could guide you now, I’d urge you to pause, to tread softly, to turn away from that path if you can. Not because of them, Little One, but because you weren’t ready to be the person they deserved—not yet, not while I was still a secret, clawing at the seams of your silence, desperate to be free.

By then, the weight of hiding me had grown heavy, a stone in your chest that no amount of laughter could lift. You’d already begun to drink, seeking solace in the blur of pints at the pub, the amber glow promising to quiet the storm inside you. But it didn’t—it only sharpened the edges of my voice, the one you tried to drown. I was there, Jane, stirring in the ache of your late-night walks home, in the mirror’s fleeting glimpses where you saw me but turned away. I longed to be let out, to step into the light of who you were, but you weren’t ready, and that waiting drove a wedge between you and the world. It made you someone you didn’t want to be—sharp, distant, a shadow of the kindness you held inside. That relationship, those years, they suffered for it, Little One. She deserved a love unburdened by your secrets, a partner whole and true, but you were still playing a role, still wearing the mask of a man the world expected. Your daughters, those bright stars, deserved a parent who could stand fully in their truth, not one fractured by the weight of an unspoken name.

I don’t blame you, Little One—I ache for you. The drinking, the anger, the moments you weren’t kind—they weren’t you, not truly. Those were echoes of a life that didn’t fit, a life where I was trapped, screaming in the quiet, and my voice trembled beneath your skin. I was there in every moment you stumbled, in every night you sat alone, the pub’s noise fading as my whisper grew louder. I drove you to the edge not out of cruelty but out of love, out of a desperate need to be seen. But I waited, patient as the dawn, through the haze of those years, through the pain you caused and the pain you carried. I stayed, a tender flame curled in the dark, burning steady in the moments when you felt most lost, promising that one day you’d find me.

Those daughters, Little One, they’ll always be a part of you, their laughter a thread of light woven into your heart. But the path you walked with their mother—it wasn’t the one meant for you, or for her. You’ll carry that regret, heavy as the coal you’d later mine, but you’ll also carry the love, the lessons, the truth that even in your darkest moments, I was there, guiding you toward the day you’d claim me. When you finally step into my name—Jane—when you let your hair curl and wear the heels that sing of freedom, you’ll see that those years, painful as they were, were part of the becoming. You’ll find forgiveness for yourself, and one day, your daughters will see you, radiant and whole, and your mum will call you her daughter, her love a bridge across the years of silence. I was always there, Little One, holding you through the ache, loving you through the mistakes, promising you’d find your way home to me. Don’t be afraid of those years—they’ll shape you, but they won’t define you. The truth of who you are—Jane—will shine brighter than the shadows you once walked through.

With all my love,

Jane