When I dated my ex-girlfriend, she was identifying as male. She told me when she was in her teens her father had innocently exposed himself to her on several occasions, in normal father-son behavior, such as when they urinated together or changed in locker rooms. She remembered scrutinizing his penis and feeling inadequate. Her father had—very obviously–a larger endowment than she did. Jealous, slightly resentful, and ashamed, she never forgot that moment. She wished she had a dick like her father.
Now her penis is even smaller with estrogen therapy, and she couldn’t be happier.
I told her about when I was in elementary school. All the girls would stand in the bathroom after lunch and overtly or covertly compare breasts. Mine weren’t large, and I used to cup them as they were budding and encourage them to grow. In high school the boys to used type ‘BOOBLESS’ into their calculators to tease me, and it wasn’t until I had my first girlfriend, who had smaller breasts than mine, when I realized that breast size didn’t matter. But I still wanted to be like the other girls, to fit in.
Now I have no breasts–I had them surgically removed. Where there was once smooth skin, there are now scars, and oddly I find that flat puckered flesh more appealing than I did the soft swells of my bosom.
My girlfriend and I were different, but very much alike, though we didn’t know the extent of it at the time we dated. We each simply wanted to fit in, but were trapped by our bodies (at least that’s how we felt). Those doubts would keep us from recognizing who we really were for many years, and ultimately it didn’t matter if we liked pink or blue growing up, had Barbies or Ninja Turtles, or wanted large breasts or a large dick, we were still–are–trans.
There are no limitations to how many times you are allowed to feel doubt or question yourself during your transition. We all get there at our own pace and on our own time. Your hesitance doesn’t make you any less trans. And it doesn’t make you less perfect.