I knew something was off when I started growing facial hair at 12 years old. Small chin hairs, but still noticeable to everyone. I’d poke and prod them at first, not out of shame but curiosity and wonder. The more body hair I grew, the more intrigued I became. I thought it was neat that my body changed in this way! I soon found out not everyone would agree with me. My grandmother would tell me not to pick at it or I’d get spots and scars. Other girls in my class soon whispered about me being a man. I vividly remember a girl at my old school, rudely asking about the hair also growing on my knuckles, laughing a bit when she noticed. I didn’t know how to answer at the time. I was just as confused as she was! Eventually, I wanted to tweeze every one of those hairs out of shame. Now they’re something I’ve come to embrace.
I felt like I didn’t belong anywhere.
I always knew my body was different. It wasn’t just the changes I encountered, but how people treated me because of it. I remember learning my now ex-friend was the one calling me “Sasquatch Legs” behind my back. Of course, that nickname followed me throughout high school. Other people around me soon became violent and verbally hateful when seeing just how different I truly was. Pressure from my family to maintain my femininity by wearing makeup and dresses once puberty hit became a central theme in my high school years, marked by arguments and rebellion. Growing up, I was always taught that a woman should be hairless, blemish-free and always present herself femininely. I had bouts of acne, a hairy face (not to mention my even hairier legs) and a dislike of dresses and makeup. It became clear that society’s definition of a woman didn’t fit me at all.I was constantly told by everyone, including my own family, that I had to maintain my body so I could meet these high standards. It only made me feel worse about myself. I felt like I didn’t belong anywhere, too hairy to be a visible and accepted woman, yet I knew I wasn’t a man, despite everyone seeing me as such.I was quickly taught two things during that time of my life: My body was different in a way people didn’t like, and I was the one at fault for not changing it.
Society saw me as a “broken woman.” For a long time, I believed them.
That shame and guilt followed me for a long time. I felt othered in a way I didn’t have words for. Even when I shaved, wore makeup, and put on a dress in an effort to belong, I was still seen as a man. Society saw me as a “broken woman,” and for a long time, I believed them. It seemed no matter where I went or how much effort I put into fitting in, it wasn’t going to work. I wrestled even more with my gender identity. I had cycled through labels I thought made sense, yet none seemed to fit. They all seemed to come with an assumption: that I was raised as a woman who had feelings of dysphoria due to the body and gender assignment I was given. That is a real experience for some people, but wasn’t mine. In my case, I never fit into society’s view of being a woman to begin with, despite my knowing deep down that I am one. I realized that I was at a unique crossroads. Society kept saying I didn’t fit into women’s spaces enough to be seen as one. Yet I didn’t feel a hundred percent comfortable calling myself a man, despite my very masculine features. I knew I had a gender: a very masculine woman, one who didn’t want to give up her masculinity to be seen as woman enough. I didn’t want to compromise on my identity. I desperately hoped I could give it a lens that would make all these years of uncertainty, confusion, and isolation finally fall into place.
I finally had a way to describe my experiences.
Eventually, I stumbled on the term that’d fundamentally shape everything I’ve known about myself: intersex.There was a label for people like me who have variations in their sex characteristics! I sobbed in relief as the term clicked in my brain, filling in all those years of shame and confusion with a new sense of clarity I needed. I could look at my life from a new lens with a better understanding of myself. I finally had a way to describe my isolating yet unique experiences.Over my high school years, I had cycled through terms that I used to describe my gender identity. What I was missing was the idea that I could be intersex, too. Being intersex encompasses a separate set of experiences related to physical variations in sexual characteristics. Finding the label was life-saving. It clarified the line I didn’t know I was walking, trying to know myself through my gender identity but also my body’s sexual characteristics. Still, I didn’t know how I fit as an intersex person. I had no medical diagnoses to explain my traits at the time, but everything about my body clicked—I just knew I belonged. That satisfied me for a while, but eventually I wanted concrete answers.
My features were seen as an issue to be solved.
At 18 years old, I was finally given a word that described my variation specifically. PCOS (Polycystic Ovary Syndrome).Those three words rang in my head like a bell. I felt relieved, but I also left the doctor’s office confused. Confused as to how to take care of myself, wondering just how deep this all went. I was told what my condition was and had a brief explanation: I have hyperandrogenic PCOS, meaning I have higher-than-typical levels of testosterone and/or other androgens (masculinizing hormones). This is why I grew facial hair at 11, barely menstruated, and struggled so hard with being accepted. It soon became very clear to me that my doctor at the time was hoping I’d “fix” what he thought was “wrong” with me. My masculine features were seen as a glaring issue to be solved. My doctor thought he had the solution and suggested I start estrogen to maintain my hormone levels. I refused immediately. Of course, my doctor asked me, “Why won’t you go on hormones? It’d be good for you. You’re just being stubborn!” I had been on estrogen-based birth control prior to my diagnosis and knew it wasn’t right for me. Taking it left me with awful periods to the point where I couldn’t leave my bed. That time of my life was exhausting, and I didn’t want to go through it a second time. I brought up health concerns with taking estrogen, but deep down, I knew it was more than that. Estrogen is a feminizing hormone. I didn’t know how to articulate it at the time, but I’m not someone who’d want the changes estrogen would give me. I was comfortable in my identity as a masculine woman.
I am not broken—my PCOS makes me feel whole.
Now that I am involved in the intersex community, I’ve become more at home in my body. I don’t feel like some “broken woman” or just someone made as the punching bag for jokes. With the intersex community behind me, a space where I’m accepted and seen as I am without any need to conform, I can say how I actually feel. To everyone who mocked my facial hair growing up:To my old doctor, who tried again and again to push estrogen-based HRT onto me, even going as far as to mark me as “non-compliant” when I refused for the final time:To society that deemed me a failed specimen in need of fixing: I’m an intersex masculine woman with PCOS. I refuse to change my body, just so I can fit within the rigid and restraining expectations of how you think a woman should be. I am not broken. If anything, knowing I have PCOS has made me feel more whole than I’ve ever been—facial hair and all.
At interACT, we believe intersex youth deserve to be heard and paid for their labor. That’s why we compensate every young person who shares their story. If you believe in resourcing intersex youth leadership and uplifting their voices, please consider making a donation today. Your support helps ensure youth like Tendaji can keep telling their stories and shaping the intersex futures.
Tendaji Phoenix is an interACT Youth Advocacy cohort member with hyperandrogenicPCOS who uses he/she pronouns. He is an aspiring cybersecurity analyst from Los Angeles. She likes discussing the tech world and listening to lofi music.
