TRANS &

How Jesus Helped Me Transition

I knew I was a boy from early childhood, though I can’t explain how. I do remember at around five, parading in front of my family with a toy truck piece stuffed in my pants, proudly showing off my “penis.” Everyone laughed. My family would say I was meant to be a boy, but I changed my mind just before birth. Even as a child, that annoyed me. Why would I choose to be a girl?

Iwas always drawn to boys, their games, and their company. Football behind the school, collecting player cards. But I never quite belonged. The girls noticed I didn’t want to play with them, and the boys saw I wasn’t “really” a boy. And I was rubbish at football. From a very young, I knew what it felt like to not fit in anywhere.

I grew up with my mum and grandmother in a small village in Croatia. Gran was devoutly Catholic, so we were at Mass every Sunday. I never understood much about catholicism and couldn’t really comprehend what I felt to be true in my heart - God exists. It was easy for me to read in the Bible Jesus saying that He is God and believe it. Yet I struggled to connect with what I was feeling.

I was fourteen when I realised I was trans, thanks to a few trans guys posting about their transition online. I didn’t think of myself as trans then, rather I finally understood what was going on inside me. I was finally able to put the language to my experience. This was a profound moment in my life that brought me feelings of my burden being lifted. I was able to understand something that was bothering me for as long as I could remember, something that was boiling under the surface and causing me confusion and discomfort that started developing further into low moods, anxiety, isolating and avoidant behaviours. Puberty caused me a lot of pain as it was accentuating the disconnect I was becoming aware of. I started to change and it felt like I was being removed further away from myself. Not myself as a child or as I have known myself; but as a boy I recognised, who very much wanted to be alive and be seen. This disconnect was a great oppression on my mental health, and to a point on my soul. Mirrors weren’t reflecting back what was overwhelming in my soul, so I had to look inward to see myself. There, I felt I did exist, and I experienced the pain of being constrained, blocked away from view. I was there, but I wasn’t.

Alongside myself, this is where I encountered that presence I identified with God, I was taught about. Going inward felt more like falling outward, into unimaginable open space, and there I was, and there God was, and He saw me without the constraints of my body. He saw me exactly as I saw myself. He also wasn’t making a fuss about it. I would just stay there, feeling ok. I was at peace. Feeling God acknowledge me removed the shame and fear I was feeling. I wasn’t a boy trapped inside a woman’s body, something I had heard years ago on TV that scared me. No, I was simply just a boy. And I had a Father in Heaven who got it and who supported me.

Discovering God in this manner made it difficult to align Him with the Catholic Church which was in a period of horrible controversy, condemning gay people, all the sexual abuse scandals, rich in gold, in the middle ofa global recession back then. It didn’t feel right to associate myself with a Church like that. What I was seeing went against what I was experiencing about God inwardly. So I stopped.

For the next few years, I started presenting as male in some groups in my life. I had nothing to do with the Church, and I didn’t think much about God. All I could focus on was bridging the disconnect between the me I now knew and the me who was perceived by others and seen in the mirror. I started my social transition: cutting my hair short, wearing unisex clothes, and telling a few friends. They didn’t really get it, but they didn’t abandon me either. Still, being known by God wasn’t enough when society refused to acknowledge me. The constant explaining, the assumptions, the microaggressions, it wore me down. I started drinking, smoking cannabis, and numbing myself. Gender-affirming care felt impossibly far away. I didn’t know how to “be a man,” so I copied what I saw: drinking, aggression, rebellion against the society that didn’t see me.

At seventeen, I told my mum. She didn’t react well. There were a lot of tears, a lot of confusion. It took three years before she was ready to really listen. Part of her process was to drag me to a psychiatrist, two priests, and even a Catholic spiritual retreat. Ironically, the psychiatrist was the least helpful, clinging to outdated ideas and asking, “What would God say?” But I already knew. God wanted me alive, not crushed under the constant discomfort.

The priests surprised me. They didn’t fully understand, but they didn’t judge me. They listened. For someone who first encountered God in the quiet of my soul, having that recognition from His representatives meant more than I expected. It confirmed what I already knew: God was on my side.

The following years were messy. I dropped out of college, struggled with work, and kept bouncing between trying to fit in and isolating myself. I met other trans people who helped me navigate transitioning, but faith had faded into the background. I was in survival mode. Externally, I was making progress, but internally, my mental health was getting worse. The constant fight to be seen, to be treated with basic respect, was exhausting.

Eventually, I hit rock bottom. Out of sheer desperation, I picked up the Bible again. I read the Gospels, and something reignited in me. Jesus wasn’t distant. He was still there, in the margins, with people like me. I told Him, out loud, “If you’re still around, I’ll follow you.” And it turned out, He was.

Not long after, I ended up in the hospital for suicidal ideation. Strangely, it was exactly what I needed. The staff respected my gender identity, called me by my chosen name, and gave me space to just be. It was the first time in a long while I could breathe. I started going to Mass again, even if I lacked a real support network. Coming out of the hospital, I tried to rebuild my life by living with family and working, but avoiding the deeper conflict between my faith and identity only led me to break down again.

That’s when God sent Michael and Seamus into my life. Two Irish, gay, Catholic men who would change everything. They were loud, opinionated, faithful, and unashamed. They showed me that God wasn’t just quietly seeing me from a distance. He was alive, active, and very much on my side. Their friendship gave me a new mission: to make sure other LGBT+ people knew they were loved by God, too.

Living with them was intense. We were poor, suffering, yet alive in a way I hadn’t been before. We moved to Međugorje, a pilgrimage site in Bosnia, to deepen our faith. The pushback from conservative Catholics was brutal. We faced suspicion, hostility, even outright rejection. But through that, I learned what carrying the cross really meant. I was still a mess, still figuring things out, but now I had people who believed in me, even if they didn’t fully understand transness yet.

One woman told me, “We don’t have the authority to change our bodies.” She meant tattoos, but the implication was clear. However, we can always ask God! That’s what I did. I prayed, not for permission, but for clarity. I needed to know if God truly saw me, loved me as His son, and supported me in my transness. Prayer became a space where I could wrestle with these questions. Sometimes I’d cry, sometimes I’d rant, but I always left feeling more secure in who I was. The big question remained: would God help me transition?

In 2019, we moved to London with no plan but faith. That’s when we met Father Keith, chaplain to LGBT+ Catholics in Westminster. He offered us shelter in his parish. For me, this was an answered prayer. While we found some stability, I learned that transitioning through the NHS meant waiting five years. I didn’t have five years. But I had God. I kept praying, trusting He could provide what I couldn’t afford.

When COVID hit, our little ministry grew. I started helping in the sacristy, got into painting and sport, and kept talking about being trans and Catholic. Slowly, life began to move forward. In 2021, through donations from kind people who heard my story, I was able to start testosterone. By 2024, after years of saving and community support, I had my top surgery. None of this would have been possible without the people God placed around me, the friends who carried my story when I couldn’t.

Now, at 28, I live mostly free from dysphoria. For the first time, I exist fully as myself. I love being alive. But the scars of waiting so long for gender-affirming care remain. Every time a news article debates my right to exist, every time someone uses my story to argue against trans people, it crushes a part of me. The rise in transphobia, especially after going public about my surgery, is a constant battle. Yet, I remain committed to healing, to forgiving, to existing in a Church and society that still struggles to see me.

My faith and transition are intertwined. God’s justice, His plan for my life, includes me being trans. Following Jesus taught me not to chase institutional approval, but to stay rooted in Him. It’s not always easy. The temptation to walk away from the Church is strong. But my relationship with God is personal. He’s the one who kept me alive. He’s the one who helped me transition. How could I ever deny that?