This is a funny, irreverent wander through the madness of modern gender — written from the vantage point of a trans person who somehow ended up in the middle of the whole circus with the clearest view in the room. From late‑night sock bulletins to beard‑certificates, milk lumps, south poles and bathroom‑tile teeth, it’s a look at all the tiny rituals everyone else performs without noticing. And beneath the humour sits a quieter question: why is the only person who didn’t write the script the one expected to act it out?

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Is it me, or do a lot of transgender people feel like the lone voice of balance and reason when it comes to modern life and the so‑called gender war?

Since the 1970s the world has changed beyond recognition. There aren’t 2.5 TV channels anymore — in fact, you don’t even need a TV. We “communicate” in the most bizarre ways now. Take the humble SMS, or whatever messaging app you use. A ping goes off at 11pm, just as your body has decided it needs rest, and suddenly you’re answering it because it feels rude not to.

An instant message is basically someone hammering on your front door at 11pm, shoving a note through the letterbox, and sprinting away. The note reads:

“Quick bedtime bulletin: those Christmas bed socks are spot‑on — warm and cosy. See you at 9am, bright and breezy xxx.”

A work colleague, no less. Something that could easily have waited until morning, delivered with three kisses — one for hello, one for thanks, one for “sorry for messaging so late.” Or maybe they see me as a mum figure. Who knows. Either way, it’s 11:15pm and I’m replying because that’s what we do now.

And social media? It’s basically erecting a giant billboard in the middle of town and plastering your personal life on it. Then your “friends,” who are absolutely useless in a natural disaster or when you’re bleeding from the ears, gather round to say “that’s shit” or “cute pic babe.”

Some new tech is great — if it’s a tool. Yes, I like AI. No, there’s no 1970s comparison.

But then, being transgender, you end up sat right in the centre of a gender war. Men versus women. Radical this versus radical that. Everyone hell‑bent on becoming the supreme gender. And for what? What’s the trophy? What’s handed to the victor at the end of this ridiculous contest?

Gender double standards. Hypocrisy. And yes, I’m talking to a lot of cis people here.

Tiny things flag up. Huge things slap you in the face. As a trans person, you sit there thinking: what the actual hell is everyone doing?

The amount of stuff loaded onto each gender is enormous. A thousand tiny rituals you HAVE to notice if you intend to pass. And looking back — and forward — I can see both sides have their own catalogue of bizarre behaviours that reinforce the gender they think they “naturally” are.

People say gender is the natural expression of biological sex. Seriously — it isn’t. Gender is the handed‑down baggage each sex straps to their back because, as the saying goes, “if the shit fits, wear it.” I’d go further: the people who cling hardest to gender expression often seem the least comfortable in the gender they’ve acquired.

Why is a beard treated as the ultimate sign of masculinity? What is it inside someone that makes them feel less of a man without it? Surely they felt masculine before — but compared to whom?

Then the ultra‑low‑cut tops — the “bike‑park” neckline. The need to show off these two milk lumps on the front of the chest as proof of femininity. If someone already felt feminine and desirable, wouldn’t warmth win over exposure? Apparently not.

Men wearing shorts in sub‑zero temperatures — why? To prove toughness? If that’s the game, why not go all the way and wear a short skirt, let the frozen air really test your commitment, and see how long your south pole lasts before it snaps off.

And eyelashes — when did eyelashes become a competitive sport? Everyone suddenly walking around with fans attached to their eyelids, batting them like they’re trying to take off. Who decided that longer lashes equal more woman?

And the teeth. The glowing, unnaturally white, “Turkey special” teeth. Teeth aren’t meant to be that colour. No human in history has had teeth that shade of bathroom tile. Yet here we are, bleaching away individuality because someone said it looks “better.”

All of it — the beards, the lashes, the shorts, the tops, the teeth — it’s baggage. Handed down. Reinforced. Repeated. A costume that hides the actual person underneath.

And there I am, a trans person, stood metaphorically bare, wondering why I have no place to pee, let alone simply exist, unless I pick a costume and wear it convincingly. Why, when my hormones match or exceed those of a cis woman, when I feel whole and complete inside myself, do I still have no “home” in society unless I adopt a gender package someone else designed?

Because the system demands it. Because everyone else is playing the game and doesn’t want to look at how strange the rules really are. Because if they did, their own veil would slip, and they’d feel exposed too.

Which brings me to acquired gender.

If a baby grew up without being squeezed into pink or blue, without being nudged, corrected, praised, punished, shaped — what would that baby become? What would a group of such babies become? Would they drift toward neutrality? Would they invent a new script? Would they even care?

And if both sides of the gender war are slowly adopting each other’s traits — women becoming more assertive, men becoming more emotionally open — doesn’t that mean everyone is, in a way, transitioning? Moving? Shifting? Becoming something else?

So maybe the question isn’t whether I’m trans. Maybe the question is whether I’m simply the only one who noticed that everyone else is too.

Or maybe I’m just a lone voice in a room full of “normal.”