The Platform and the Promise

Some journeys begin not with certainty, but with heels, bold makeup, and a quiet breath of courage.

I remember the morning I walked into the Bolton campus for my interview. The sky was grey, the kind that makes everything feel suspended—neither hopeful nor hopeless, just waiting. I didn’t expect to get the job. My search had stretched on for years, and I’d grown used to the silence that followed applications, the polite rejections, the doors that never opened. Being transgender added another layer of uncertainty. There are still so many people who don’t understand, who don’t want to. So I kept my expectations low, not out of defeat, but out of self-preservation.

But I went anyway.

The first person I met was a gentleman named Danny. I told him I was there for an interview, and he said he’d contact Mark, who would be conducting it. I stood there, heart steady but cautious, rehearsing fragments of my story in my head—what to say, what to hold back, what might be too much.

Mark came downstairs a few minutes later. He had a calm presence, and when we shook hands, I felt a flicker of possibility. He led me to a room called Oak. I noticed the name on the door and smiled quietly to myself. Later, I’d learn that all the rooms on campus were named after trees. But in that moment, Oak felt symbolic—strong, rooted, enduring. I wondered if I could be those things too.

We sat down, and the interview began. I handed Mark my CV, which he scanned with polite focus. Then he asked me to tell him about myself. I started speaking, careful but honest. I talked about my work history, the years I’d spent trying to find a place again, the long pause in my career that hadn’t been my choice. And then came the moment I’d been bracing for.

I took a breath. A deep one. The kind that steadies you before you step into vulnerability. I looked at Mark and says, “I’m transgender.” I remember thinking, This might end the interview before I even get the chance to show what I’m capable of. I watched his face, waiting for the flicker of discomfort, the shift in tone, the polite withdrawal.

But it didn’t come.

Mark didn’t flinch. He didn’t change. If anything, he leaned in slightly, as if to say, Go on. And so I did. We talked more—about my skills, my hopes, the years I’d spent searching. I told him I’d been looking for work again for at least five years, with no luck so far. But I was still here. Still trying.

He explained that the role would be based at their Manchester campus. That wasn’t a problem—I could get there by train. He also mentioned that it was a volunteer placement, but that didn’t bother me. I was ready to work, even if I wasn’t sure yet whether I’d be any good. There was a possibility it could lead to paid employment, and that was enough.

Before I left, Mark said he’d be in touch within a couple of days if I’d been successful. I walked out of the Oak room not knowing what would happen next, but something had shifted. I’d spoken my truth, and it hadn’t closed the door. That alone felt like a quiet victory.

I waited for Mark’s call, hoping—praying—that I’d been seen for who I truly was. Not dismissed as a freak, but recognised as a woman with something to offer. And Mark kept his word. He called and offered me the placement.

I can’t describe the joy I felt. It was overwhelming. He gave me the address and explained that travel costs would be covered, and that I’d start on Monday at 9:00 a.m. I thanked him—deeply—for giving me a chance no one else had.

I called Peter straight away. I told him I’d been offered a placement that might lead to a full-time job, and suggested we go to Manchester on Sunday to find the address. I didn’t want to risk being late on my first day. Peter knows how much I dislike lateness, so we went together, found the building, and made sure everything was ready.

On Sunday evening, I laid out my clothes: smart black trousers, a white blouse, a black jacket—and the heels I’d chosen with care. Then I had an early night. Sleep didn’t come easily. I was excited, but also dreading the first day. Meeting new people has always been difficult for me. You never know how they’ll react. But eventually, I drifted off.

Monday morning arrived. The big day—my first day at work in a very long time. The uncertainty was still there, but I followed my usual routine. Showered, dried off, did my hair, and applied my makeup in bold colours. Maybe I should have toned them down, but that’s never really been my style.

I got dressed, went downstairs, slipped on my heels and jacket, and stepped out the door. There were still flickers of doubt, but I walked to Bolton train station, bought my ticket to Manchester Piccadilly, and waited on the platform with the other commuters. When the train arrived, we all boarded—and I was on my way.

Next stop: Manchester. And, hopefully, the beginning of my new career.

When I got off the train, I made my way to the address Peter and I had found the day before. Every step felt like a new chapter unfolding beneath my feet. I arrived at the building, signed in, and took the lift to the top floor, where the office was. My heart was thumping like a drum.

I introduced myself to a member of staff and explained that Mark had sent me—I was the new starter. I was then introduced to Dr Chris, who showed me around the building and introduced me to the rest of the team. I’d be working with Sam, who hadn’t been there long herself, but we hit it off straight away. In fact, everyone was easy to get on with. There was a warmth I hadn’t expected.

I don’t think I’ve said what the company actually does—it’s a higher education establishment, so I knew I’d be meeting lots of people in this role. That thought both excited and unsettled me. But I was there. I’d made it.

After about three or four weeks of volunteering, Mark came to the Manchester campus and asked if we could speak privately. We stepped into one of the classrooms, and I braced myself. I wasn’t sure what he wanted to say—was I being let go?

But Mark offered me a full-time job. Not only that—he offered me the role of Office Manager.

I couldn’t believe it. I’d not only been given a job, but one better than I’d ever expected.

That was over twelve years ago. Since then, I’ve held several roles at the company, each one shaping me in different ways. My current role is in IT support, which suits me best. I’ve watched students graduate, seen teachers come and go, and through it all, the company has supported me—especially during my illness. I believe deeply in what the company stands for.

Now, I have just over five years until retirement. And when that day comes, I honestly don’t know what I’ll do without company in my life.

 

As I stood on the platform that Monday morning, dressed in my black trousers, white blouse, bold makeup and heels, I felt ready. Nervous, yes—but ready. I was finally stepping into the world again, not just as a worker, but as myself. And yet, beneath the excitement, there was a quiet ache. My mum still wasn’t speaking to me. I hadn’t told her about the interview, or the placement, or the heels I’d chosen with care. That part of my life was still held in silence. It would take something far more serious—an illness I hadn’t yet faced—for that silence to break. But that’s a story for the next chapter.