"Find joy in the things that brought you shame," - Dani Coyle, Artist, Photographer and Intersex Advocate.

"There were no supportive, community ran resources available to me, not a single one. If they could have pointed me in the direction of literally one intersex person to speak to, it could have spared me a decade of trying to figure out whether it was possible to be intersex and happy. We desperately need to change society’s perception of what it is to be intersex: a difference, not a disorder."

There was nothing abnormal about me growing up – my childhood was decorated with all the things you would expect, and I had been very happily raised as a girl. I played with Barbies, I stuffed and wore my mum’s bras and made routines up to Atomic Kitten (RIP) and the Spice Girls. Like any other person, my body started to change as I was going into secondary school, but not in a way that was expected.

I now know that my body produced more testosterone than a ‘normal’ girl’s would, which led to various physical changes that were unwanted and kept hidden. The one that was impossible to hide though was my voice, which dropped almost overnight, and led to bullying at school. I was angry, confused and in denial. I knew telling anyone about the changes I’d been going through would shatter my world. I kept everything to myself, too ashamed to talk to my parents, knowing that once I did, everything would all become too real. I didn’t want people to treat me differently and a part of me hoped that if I ignored the problem it would go away.

Those four years, from when I started experiencing bodily changes to the point where I found the courage to share this information with my mum, were the hardest and loneliest of my life. Doctors were as confused as we were. In the beginning, they were unsure what was ‘wrong' with me, giving me one diagnosis then changing it the next time I saw them. Their uncertainty made me feel even freakier; the ‘hush-hush’ atmosphere fuelled my feelings of shame. I was eventually diagnosed as intersex, and although I had known something wasn’t right for a long time, having the doctors confirm it hit me hard. This thing which I had buried and dealt with alone for almost half a decade was now out and under the microscope (so to speak).

This point in my life is all pretty hazy and I think I’ve blocked out large chunks of it as a coping mechanism. I remember having (and occasionally still have) huge amounts of confusion and anger: ‘why me?’; ‘This isn’t fair’; ‘I hate myself’; ‘Why am I not normal?’. I thought my body was disgusting, something to laugh at. I thought I could or would never be loved. It upsets me that the hurt and shame I felt during that time could have been avoided with representative LGBT+ sex and development education in schools and greater awareness and normalisation of intersex bodies.

For those who aren’t aware, ‘intersex’ is an umbrella term that refers to people who have one or more of a range of variations in sex characteristics that fall outside the traditional concept of ‘male’ or ‘female’ – for example, they may have variations in their chromosomes, genitals, or internal organs like testes or ovaries. Sometimes these differences are identified at birth, while other people might not discover they are intersex until puberty or later in life (like me).

Intersex people make up about 1.7% of the population, which is roughly as common as twins, so it’s almost certain you will know an intersex person, whether they know it themselves or not, and yet when Mum and I asked if there were any support groups that I could attend we were told no, that there weren’t enough of us in England to make one.

At 14 I consented to two surgeries – one to remove the internal testes in my abdomen which had started to show signs of cancer and another purely cosmetic on my pussy to make my pubescent body appear more ‘fuck-able’ to cis-men in the future. Moral issues arise when surgeons perform these kinds of surgeries on infants that are too young to provide consent, often on newborn babies (known as Intersex Genital Mutilation or IGM). These surgeries can not only be physically traumatic but also cause exponential mental trauma, especially if the person grows up not identifying with the gender that was assigned to them. Although I don’t regret having my surgery, I regret the motives that governed them. I consented due to desperation and a lack of knowledge or resources about anything that wasn’t binary or heteronormative. At 14 you’re not able to vote, have sex, get married, drink or do anything of consequence, yet at 14 I was coerced into consenting to an irreversible surgery because those I trusted provided me with no other choices.

On top of that, there were no supportive community ran resources available to me – not a single one. If they could have pointed me in the direction of literally one intersex person to speak to, it could have spared me a decade of trying to figure out whether it was possible to be intersex and happy. If I was raised in a world which didn’t ostracise and mock those who fall between the binary, being different wouldn’t be such a traumatic, shameful or hidden thing.

We desperately need to change society’s perception of what it is to be intersex: a difference, not a disorder. We need a more diverse range of people working in social sectors, because how else can we expect to provide the appropriate support? We need intersex people with intersex life experiences helping other intersex people, trans POC helping other trans POC, and queer people helping other queer people, because otherwise our needs will be overlooked, misunderstood or treated insensitively. Many current health service practices are archaic and fail our marginalised youth. I know this from experience.

Although many intersex people don’t align themselves with the LGBT+ community, I’ve found solace and acceptance within it and I think our shared experiences of shame, stigma and otherness makes the intersex experience inherently queer. The accepting and loving nature of this community has played a huge part in my self-acceptance. It’s not something I’ve found in any part of the mainstream world, and there’s something so liberating about it.

The sense of freedom and power I feel when surrounded by other societal outcasts is electric. Queer spaces are exciting because they break all the rules – those who can’t dress like that, can; those who shouldn’t act like that, do. The world at large is so obsessed and involved with the gender binary that once you abandon it for a while you start to wonder why you ever thought it was so crazy for a man to wear a skirt.

Seeking happiness and acceptance is a journey and develops with small victories as well as big ones. For example, coming out was big, but feeling comfortable enough with my own body to go to a nude spa for my birthday (I live in Berlin, and this is a very German thing) felt just as empowering. Giving yourself time and permission to go to therapy, doing things that make you happy, being uncompromising with your boundaries – these are all steps, however small, in the right direction.

Turns out there are a lot of things about being intersex that I love, things I wouldn’t swap for all the years of torment. I love the purpose and direction it has given me, I love receiving all of the positive messages on how I’ve helped other intersex people come out and be proud, I love not being ‘normal’. Learn to love the things you’ve always hated most about yourself and find joy in the things that brought you shame – it’s the ultimate middle finger to a society which penalises difference and imperfection.

This article was originally featured in Issue 2 of Ash Magazine.

Dani was interviewed by Charlotte Ruth (@charberto)

Images by Elizabeth Claire Herring.