Dani Stewart began her transition to living publicly as a woman in 2015
The CNN news editor had lived nearly 50 years wearing "the mask of masculinity"
Revealing her transition to family and colleagues weighed heavily on Stewart
Editor’s Note: First Person is a series of personal essays exploring identity and personal points of view that shape who we are. The latest contributor is Dani Stewart, a CNN news editor.
It was September 2015 and I was about to tell my co-workers something huge. I was filled with tremendous anxiety, as I had been before telling my sister, my dad and my kids. “Where do I start? What do I say first? What will they think it means for them?” Questions so loud in my head, I had trouble walking, focusing on sounds and things around me.
I decided to start at the beginning.
The early messages
“Congratulations, it’s a boy!”
With four words, my trauma began. The concept of my gender was the first thing my mother learned about me, likely only a second after hearing my first cry. When doctors speak those words, they’re correct for most babies. They weren’t, in my case.
From my earliest memories, I received little messages that told me I was different: I didn’t like getting dirty. I wanted to be inside listening to music, or with my sister and mother. I was fascinated by Barbie. But I was constantly steered outdoors, “where boys belong.” My parents dressed me like a boy, so I wasn’t a girl, right?
I didn’t know why I was different, but whatever it was, it wasn’t acceptable. I learned to fake acting like other boys so I wasn’t shunned or beaten at school. I knew my thoughts and emotions resembled those I saw displayed by other girls, but I didn’t have the language to explain what was different or why.
We moved from San Francisco to rural Missouri when I was 10, and the bullying turned to gay bashing with horrible names and frequent beatings.
As a preteen, I made friendships with boys I didn’t know were gay. We played like girls played, pretending to be old Hollywood actresses like Ava Gardner and Audrey Hepburn. We were as fabulous as we imagined their lives had been, showing up to a Hollywood premier in a Bugatti Royale, complete with chauffeur.
I found comfort in these friendships, but not because I was gay. I had huge crushes on girls, never once on a boy. We were bonded by our mutual “otherness.”
Wearing the mask of masculinity
As I grew older, I got better at making the “mask of masculinity” fit. I continually improved my public and private façade, but even that created anxiety.
I was 27 or 28 when I was first exposed to the concept of transgenderism. I think it was a PBS documentary. I didn’t understand the difference between cross-dressing, drag queens and being transgender at the time.
A couple of years later, I better understood the differences, but “transgender” still didn’t quite fit. I had seen only transgender women who were attracted to men. I felt like I was the only person like me in the entire world.
It was another few years before I disclosed my secret to anyone. I met a lesbian who described feeling different from a young age. I shared my story, with which she identified. This chance disclosure to a stranger repeated itself a couple of times, but I still hid it from anyone close.
By my early 30s, I had two failed marriages and four sons. “Are you sure you aren’t gay?” a girlfriend asked one day. I froze – was I caught? “Why would you think that?” I asked. It was true that I was the one crying at the end of the movie while she sat on the other end of the couch, dry-eyed. It wasn’t the only time she asked me. Women see subtle social clues that men don’t, especially when they’re intimately close. She knew something was different, but I still wasn’t ready for honesty.
I was 37 and working as an assignment editor at an Oklahoma TV station when I came out to a lesbian photographer at work. We became instant friends. She introduced me to her friends, and I felt like I had finally found my people! “My girls,” as I called them, would eventually grow from a small group of lesbians in Oklahoma to both lesbians and straight women around the world. These women loved me fiercely. With them, I could be myself, unmasked. I began experimenting with light makeup and going to lesbian bars. It was incredibly freeing to be seen as a woman, but I still wore the mask of masculinity in public.
For casual friends and co-workers – the ones who saw the mask – I was a source of negativity. I was living miserably, and just a few months after arriving at CNN in June 2013, I was ready to crack.
I saw a doctor in the summer of 2014 because I wasn’t sleeping, and was referred to a psychiatrist, and later a therapist. Up to this point, I had buried my dysphoria, terrified that acknowledging it automatically meant a transition, which meant losing my job, family and becoming homeless. I felt trapped, without options.
I’d never created a plan or attempted suicide, but I was very aware of the pills on my counter, enough of which would send me off to a never-ending slumber. According to a 2014 study by the National Gay and Lesbian Task Force and National Center for Transgender Equality, a whopping 41% of transgender people admitted to attempting suicide. It’s astronomical, compared to the 1.6% of the overall U.S. population who report a suicide attempt.
Through therapy, I realized that those frightening things weren’t automatic, and that I really did have options. By the beginning of 2015, I took the first step. I gave myself permission, and began working on the second step, a timeline.
Coming out to family
When I came out to my dad in August 2015, I was 48 and had started hormones four months before. We lost my mother in April. My sister had known for years, and we were both worried about how dad would handle the news. I began by telling him that I hoped the difficult news would bring us closer together. Fear of being a disappointment had fueled my secrecy since childhood, which had put a wall of separation between us.
Dad’s response was something I never expected, but now realize I should have. I should have given him credit for all the loving things he had done for his family, all the sacrifices he had made. He told me he was shocked, but that he loves me and that wouldn’t change. “Everyone is different,” he said. “I know that, and I only want you to be happy.” He instantly accepted me, without condition, and told me – showed me – just how much he loves me.
My sons, now 17, 19, 26 and 28, have each had different reactions. What would they think it meant for them? I didn’t want them to wonder if my being transgender was hereditary. Two aren’t sure what to think yet, the other two are incredibly supportive. One close family member told me she didn’t think she could call me Dani. Despite knowing her love for me, it stung a little.
I don’t speak to my first ex-wife. My second was shocked, but very supportive, much like my ex-girlfriends. One joked, “That explains a lot,” when I told her. My fear was that they would each look back on our intimacy and either be disgusted or wonder what it meant – did this make them gay?
Coming out at work
A few weeks later, I walked into a huddle of my co-workers and asked them to stay as their meeting came to a close. I was trembling, but reminded myself of how I’d felt before telling Dad.
In the middle of the main newsroom at CNN headquarters I began, “I’m transgender and I’ve decided to medically transition.” I gave them a shortened version of this story. I told them I’d decided months before to transition, and that they had probably noticed I was now less stressed and easier to be around. That brought a chuckle. It was obvious to them, how trapped and bottled-up I used to be. I told them how hormones had, and would, change me.
I asked that on October 5 they begin using my new name and referring to me with female pronouns. I explained that I understood how difficult it is to begin thinkin