My Afghan colleague shook her head and smiled. “What’s the matter? It doesn’t matter!” I’d just spent 10 minutes stutteringly explaining something I thought was about to derail my life in Kabul: I was transgender.

In 2011 I’d only come out to a handful of people in the UK, and taken tentative steps to socially transition from female to male. When the chance came up to go to Afghanistan with an NGO for six months, it seemed like a great option. I’d have to live as female in Kabul, but at least no one would know me. When I got back, my gender-clinic referral letter, which I still had to wait months for, would be waiting on the doormat.

I soon got used to draping the kind of scarf usually worn by Afghan men over my head. As a foreigner, you always stand out, so “foreign” as opposed to male or female became my primary identity. When driving, I usually wore a pakol, a men’s flat, round hat – safer, at least from a distance. One morning, we were pulled over at a checkpoint where two police officers tried to get a read on me. Eventually I was told by an English-speaking officer: “They like that you’re wearing that hat. That’s why they’re letting you go.”

As the months passed, I became more uncomfortable playing the female role in Afghan society. I wasn’t particularly restricted, but I felt I was being dishonest to my friends and colleagues. When some of us took a day trip to a rural valley outside Kabul, I wore a baby blue salwar kameez I’d had made by a local men’s tailor, who didn’t mind measuring me for an outfit worn exclusively by men.

A week later, I came out to my boss as trans. I needed someone to know who I really was, and his reaction blew me away. He was happy for me to transition at work. If anyone had a problem, whether an international or Afghan team member, they could take it up with him.

One week I worked as female, the next week as male. This meant taking on different roles and working with different kids. After a week passed without dissent, then another, I realised that living as a male wasn’t controversial. There are precedents for social transition in Afghanistan. During Taliban rule, when a family had no sons to carry out public responsibilities, a daughter could live as a boy. It was a pragmatic solution, albeit usually temporary.

I’ll always treasure my Afghan colleague’s acceptance. After a little more explanation, we drank glasses of strong green tea, then got on with the day’s work.