I came out as trans after completely losing my eyesight

Every night before I go to sleep, I pick out my clothes for the next day.

Textures are one of the main things that guide what I wear – I like silky, smooth fabrics, shirts and blouses, cotton, and soft things.

Apparently, I look good in red, so I often opt for red dresses and blazers. I like fitted clothes because I want to show off the curves on my 51-year-old body.

Then after I wake up, I get dressed, apply Charlotte Tilbury moisturiser all over my face, an Urban Decay foundation and a small amount of make-up that my wife, Clare, helps me put on. She applies a little bronzer, some eye shadow, blusher and a bit of lipstick.

She helps me with this because I’m completely blind (I’ve tried doing this myself, but the result was a bit clowny!)

In fact, I lost my sight right before I felt comfortable enough to come out as a transgender woman.

I’ve always had questions about my gender, but didn’t have the words in my early years to express it. So I secretly donned my mum and sister’s clothes, terrified of being found out.

That cycle of shame kept me from experimenting throughout my adolescence and much of my adulthood too.

Losing my vision was a gradual process. It was something I knew was inevitable, having suffered from arthritis and glaucoma as a child, which quietly robbed me of much of my sight. I could make out shapes like red post boxes, but features and details were fading.

By my university days when I was around 20, I was using a white cane – not easy when you want to be out on the town.

Around the same time, I used to get called ‘madame’ in the gents’ toilets because of my eclectic style. I was into the eighties glam rock scene and often had silk shirts on with an armful of bracelets and bangles.

I guess you could say I was more Kiss than miss. But clothing helped me express something – even then – without fully knowing who I was as a trans person.

At university, I met my wife and we had three children. I still didn’t really have the courage to explore my gender identity.

Blindness came suddenly and without warning. It was a Monday morning in July of 2012. I was 40 years old.

I opened the bathroom cupboard to get the toothpaste out but as I did, the corner of it hit my left eye, which was my good one.

The pain was immediately unbearable and I quickly felt warm, sticky blood in my hand. My kids heard the screaming and thought I was messing about.

My legs buckled and nausea washed over me. In one fell swoop, I couldn’t see anything anymore. 

Later that day, I had emergency surgery but they couldn’t save my vision. When I woke up, I knew that that was it.

Recovery was really tough. Alongside that, I couldn’t see it, but my whole face changed. My eyes became squished.

Within a year of the surgery, I used false eyes for a period to lift my face – they were hazel and looked pretty natural – but they were uncomfortable. People saw them and assumed I could see, which wasn’t very helpful, so I stopped after about 18 months.

Not long after the accident – around September 2012 – my tidal wave moment came with my transness. My dad had recently died, but on top of that, something was bubbling to the surface and too difficult to ignore. 

I had always felt ‘other’ – as so many fellow disabled folks do – but I knew there was something else. Something deeper.

So I came out as trans to my family and it wasn’t easy. I lost so much by doing it.

My wife and I separated, and my mother was unsure what it all meant. But after a few conversations, she fully supported me. Mum showed me I was her daughter, and she was a fierce, wonderful ally.

After everything, I was the woman I had always been inside. Sarah. I had run for too long, so I had my first appointment at the Gender Clinic in April 2013. 

At the same time, I began experimenting with what I wore and I felt lucky that I was working at the University of Nottingham where my boss was very supportive. Some of my female colleagues were eager to help me try new clothes and jewellery.

But being blind and finding a style that helped me feel confident was not easy. Buying clothes, trying make-up, and learning how to affirm my womanhood was made so much harder.

As a result, I made some dodgy wardrobe choices. I went bra shopping with a friend and I got a bra with a load of padding. Even my boss had to say it was a bit much – it was huge apparently!

But eventually, I began to find what I liked or what made me feel comfortable, and it got easier. At my Christmas party in 2013, I wore a fantastic dress and I was accepted as myself. I was dancing with my colleagues and being the woman I always had been. 

Then, three years after coming out, I met Clare online. She is amazing and helped me get through losing my wonderful mum. We got married in July 2017.

We live in Oxford and have a cat, while I work in diversity. I am living how I was meant to and I am content.

Just because I can’t see the woman I am now, I can still picture who she is. It took a lot of experimentation, but a decade after my accident and coming out, I know who I am.

The clothes and make-up matter, but they are just an expression of the inward beauty. I’m not perfect, but through being at peace with myself and my personality, I see my glow.

And I’m happy.

As told to Imy Brighty-Potts

Sarah Stephenson-Hunter is an activist and public speaker who delivers talks on diversity and inclusion with her company, Simply Equality.

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