As waiting lists for gender reassignment surgery stretch to five decades, New Zealand's transgender community is suffering.



We break down the journey, from birth to transition, during the four key stages, with four brave transgender people.



As told to Ashleigh Stewart.

THE EARLY YEARS - TRAA RIARN



Traa Riarn when he was 3 years old. Photo: DEAN KOZANIC



There's a photo of me from when I was about three years old.



My dress is all frills, my hair all ringlets and flowers, my white leather Mary Janes buffed and topped with frilly white socks.



My cherubic face is ecstatic, flanked by two similarly-dressed friends. One's holding a cake. The other is crying — maybe about not holding the cake.



I'm arguably the happiest in the picture.

DEAN KOZANIC/FAIRFAX NZ Traa Riarn was born a girl. He has just had his breasts removed surgically as part of the journey to change gender.

You would never know that even at that moment, frilly and ringleted and giggling, I was already feeling like I wasn't supposed to be a girl.

I was in kindergarten when I first realised I didn't identify with my gender.



Watching the boys play outside, with their rough and tumble, I felt so much more akin to them than the girls playing in the corner with their dolls.



I wanted to play with them, dress like them, be like them. I even tried following them into the bathroom.



At that point, people just assumed I was a little confused. I'll be the first to admit I was confused - but not for the same reasons.



The kindy teachers were kind, gently reminding me to use the females' bathroom. No one realised the issues ran much deeper than a misjudged cubicle.



Day in day out, I was forced into the frilly dresses, my parents trying desperately to hold on to the scraps of femininity that remained.



I'm sure any other girl would love the offers for free trips to the salon to get my nails or hair done. Not me.



In fact, my long, beautiful ringlets was one of the first things to go. Since I was about 10 I've had a short crop-type cut. Dressing like a tomboy prompted all the "he-she" and "tranny" taunts from people at school.



Then puberty hit. Periods were the worst.



I was disgusted, I just wanted it to stop. I just thought I'm a guy, and guys don't get this.

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It's well-known in our circles that being transgender and mental health issues often go hand in hand. I think my gender confusion led to the anxiety, depression and social phobia I've been diagnosed with.



I was 13 when the self-harming started. Well, it was the first time I remember doing it on purpose, to really hurt myself. It progressed from there. I've probably tried to kill myself about 10 times since then.



Before long, I was diagnosed as being in the midst of a major depressive episode. My parents yanked me out of school, enrolled me in counselling with the church and home-schooled me for three years.



I tried my best to live as a female. The feelings just wouldn't go away.



For two long decades I struggled.



It took me until I was 25 to come out to my parents, via letter no less.



I can't imagine what it's like for my Mum and Dad. For three decades they've had me as their little girl — their little Esther. But I couldn't let it go three decades more.



COMING OUT - EVID MCNEUR



Evid McNeur, 19, is agender so does not identify with either gender. Photo: STACY SQUIRES



I was so nervous I could barely hold myself together. My thoughts were jumbled, my hands shaking. Something tumbled out of my mouth about being confused about my gender, and not knowing exactly what I was. I couldn't tell you exactly what I said, but I can remember the reply as clear as day.



She laughed at me.



Sure, it was probably a bit out of the blue, and I hadn't exactly set it out very articulately, but it threw me off guard. Telling my mother that I didn't identify with my gender had gone differently in my mind.



I should clarify that it wasn't a malicious laugh — it was more in a bemused, 'oh how funny' kind of way.



This was followed by; "You aren't one of those transgender people are you?" and "Oh you don't want to change pronouns, do you? Because that would be too hard for me."



That got to me a bit, because she made it sound like the whole situation was a joke, an inconvenience.



It wasn't a joke to me.



I've never felt like a girl. I detest my birth name. When puberty hit, I just remember thinking "Oh please no god. I don't want a chest."



In intermediate I remember watching the boys playing outside, and I just yearned to be like them, dicking around in the playground.



I didn't know what all that meant. There was no education at school or at home, it was only through looking on the internet that I found out what being transgender is.



I don't identify with being male or female. I consider myself agender, a term relating to being a non-binary gender identity, or not having one altogether.



Over the years, I've moved towards an androgynous look. My hair is cropped short and I wear androgynous clothes and a binder sometimes. People assume I am either a young boy, or a butch girl. It suits me fine.



Coming out was a big deal for me. I'd told my twin sister first. We were at a bus stop. I was more nervous about having to actually articulate what was going on in my head than worried about her being accepting or not. I knew she would be.



And then, Mum laughed.



It took another couple of years before I could try again. This time I sent an email. I stressed that I was still their little kid, just not a girl or a guy. I would be Evid, and I wanted them to start using "they" or "them", instead of "he" or "she". I mentioned that I intended to look into starting hormones and getting a mastectomy. I described how scared I was about telling them, but how that was outweighed by the feelings I had felt growing up and realising this wasn't just a phase.



My Dad replied to the email, saying how he thought something was up. He said it would take a while to adjust, but they still loved me. Mum finally echoed that sentiment.

STACY SQUIRES/FAIRFAX NZ. Christchurch 19-year-old Evid McNeur is an agender who doesn't identify with either gender and prefers to dress androgynously.

It's been 14 months since then.

They haven't taken to the pronouns as I hoped they would. I understand that it doesn't make sense to them, all I want them to do is try without being prompted.



They've scoffed at my pronouns, rolled their eyes and sometimes made me feel completely invalid.



Early on, they even called me 'it' a few times.



We argue about it constantly.



I finally asked Mum about when she laughed when I first tried to come out. She gently explained that she thought I was joking.



I almost wished I was.



But it's not a choice. I don't wake up in the morning and think 'Hey, I might try being a boy today'.



In fact, it would be a whole lot easier if I didn't feel this way. But then, I wouldn't be me.



Luckily, I don't have to worry about "passing", like most other transgenders. It might be the biggest bullet I've been able to dodge.



"PASSING" - TABITHA CATHRO



Tabitha Cathro in action as a hairdresser. Photo: DEAN KOZANIC



I'm sure most parents take simple moments with their kids for granted. Things like lying in bed, taking stupid selfies. It's the stuff of parenting advertisements, illustrating what we all do every Sunday morning — right?



I'm not sure my attempt fit the bill.



Flicking back through the pictures, my heart sank with each new slide. My eyes settled on the receding hairline, the 5 o'clock shadow and the square jaw. The constant argument between the way you think you should look, and your actual anatomy is never-ending for a trans woman.



I feel like I've been stuck in this half-way limbo forever.



The process of "passing" traditionally refers to a transgender person's ability to be regarded as a cisgender man or woman at a glance. It often refers to a multitude of factors; the face, the hairstyle, the clothes, the mannerisms. Once you've "passed" as a transgender — you're there, you've made it.



But actually going through the process can also be one of the most traumatic periods of your entire journey.



I took my boys camping to tell them of my impending transition.



There were flashbacks of the psychologists, psychiatrists and exorcisms I was subject to after my devoutly Christian mother thought "something was up" when I was younger.



She didn't even know about the joyous prancing around in pigtails and full faces of make-up after my sisters had used me as their life-sized Barbie, as they often used to.

The response was better than I had hoped for, though a little lacklustre.

"I don't care," my 15-year-old replied.

Times have changed, I guess.



From then, I began dressing exclusively as a woman. After a couple of months on hormones, I began feeling like one too.



I was crying about everything. My chest hurt. I was shaving once a day — instead of the three times in the back room at work it used to be.



While the changes are exciting, it's also the time you feel the most vulnerable.



Most people aren't rude to your face but you can hear the comments when they walk past. Things like 'What is that?' or someone egging someone else on being like 'There's one for you!".



At the time, it really hurts. I know I don't look good — believe me, I wish I could speed the process up too.



Some people come in and say they want a lady to cut their hair. They don't know what to do when the receptionist points at me.



But the worst thing anyone's said to me was when a client at the salon called me a 'thing'.



Actually, his exact words were: 'Shut the f..k up, I'm not talking to something like you'. I'll never forget that.



Tabitha says "passing" has been like being stuck in limbo. Photo: DEAN KOZANIC



One of my regular clients was disappointed and told me he didn't agree with it. I'm still not sure why he needs to agree with anything.



People don't understand that it's a process. I can't speed it up any more than you can. Believe me, I've tried.



It's been so hard to find acceptance out there that there are very few of us who are socially able and functioning as members of society. A lot withdraw from the community out of fear, and the younger ones have so much baggage from growing up this way.



Then there are the days were someone walks up to you in the middle of the street and hugs you and tells you you're gorgeous. The world is a curious place.



My name on my birth certificate now reads Tabitha Giovanna Annalissa Cathro. The first name is one I loved, one that wasn't shared by a family or ex-girlfriend, and most importantly it can't be shortened to a boy's name. The middle names were because, well — why not? I may as well have names I like if I'm starting from scratch.



I haven't changed my driver's licence yet. Glynne Alexander Cathro, the brawny plumber, still stares out at me from that little piece of plastic.



But I want that to be the only place Glynne exists anymore.



I'm saving up for facial surgery— to get my chin, nose, jawbone and maybe my forehead done — to truly look like a female. Surgery will be the last phase in this whole ordeal, and it's one step I need to correct what should have been there since birth. I'm lucky to be in a position to start a savings fund. For many people, it's completely out of reach.



I'm not going to waste away on the waiting list here, though. I'm going to Thailand.



TRANSITIONING - MARIE HEARN



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Marie Hearn has recently returned from gender reassignment surgery in Thailand. Photo: MARTIN DE RUYTER



"What have you got in your shirt?" they yelled, pistols drawn and pointed in my direction.



Five minutes ago, I had been strutting through Suvarnabhumi Airport, ready for my return trip home, new acquisitions in tow.



My body was battered and bruised, and it kind of hurt to walk, but I was finally me, and I was happy.



That was until airport security surrounded me after I went through the scanner, demanding to see under my top.



Fine, I thought, hoisting it up. If they wanted to see my new bruised and battered boobs, they could.



It had been two days since diesel mechanic Dave entered the hospital in Thailand and Marie had walked out. This was truly Marie, not just the Marie who had been walking around in a skirt the past few years.



It was the final step in my journey, and one I would never get to take unless I'd looked abroad.



Joining the outrageous backlog for gender reassignment surgery in New Zealand was out of the question. By the time they got around to calling my number, I'd probably be dead. How could I live for 47 more years as someone I didn't want to be, when I had already lived 52 years of it?



Months of dead-ends with psychiatrists, doctors and plastic surgeons in Nelson went nowhere. At one point I paid $240 to sit down with a psychiatrist, only for him to not be willing to go any further as I hadn't been living full-time as a woman for 12 months.



What does that even mean? I've got female friends who wear track pants and not a bean of makeup on a daily basis. Can anyone tell me the dictionary definition of 'living like a woman'?



Though disheartened and dejected, I eventually found the most fantastic help at the sexual health clinic. A woman explained to me exactly what to expect in my transition, and that I would struggle to find a doctor to help me.



That's when I decided to go to Thailand.



About $12,000 later and I'm a new woman. Literally.





Marie Hearn at home, dressed as she wants to be. Photo: MARTIN DE RUYTER



The week before I left, I went around the workshop at work and told each of the guys individually. I'd been a mechanic for most of my life, and I still would be. I just wouldn't be a male doing it any longer. It seemed a ridiculous idea — that Dave Hearn, former soldier in the army and all-round bloke's bloke wanted to become a woman. Most were good about it. Some struggled. They still do.



It was a Thursday in late January when I flew into Bangkok, ready for the start of the rest of my life.



I went off to see a psychiatrist and psychologist, but that was the extent of the red tape. I hadn't been on hormones, because I didn't meet the criteria. No problem. I didn't meet the criteria as "living as a woman" either. No problem.



The only problem arose when the surgeon called in sick and the operation was moved to two days before I was supposed to depart for home. But it was all worth it when I walked out of that hospital as the woman I should have been since I was born.



The days after surgery were...uncomfortable. I can't even explain the feeling.



Sitting on an airplane for a half-day journey, 48 hours after major operation is about the only thing I'd change. That, and perhaps taking a support person with me.

But my story is far from over.

I've been living as Marie properly for a few months now. I love my makeup, and I love doing my hair. I love taking selfies when I'm dressed up.

The only place I struggle is at work. There's no place for wigs at a workshop, and makeup is a waste of time when it runs down your face after the first 30 minutes.



Dressed in my steel caps, overalls and high-vis— perhaps no one would realise I'm a woman. Some of the guys still treat me as a man too. I'm trying to get them used to calling me Marie.



I don't get weird looks or comments aside from the odd child pointing me out to a parent. But I'm like any girl, if I want to run down to the shops I won't put on my make-up or do my hair, I'll just saunter on down in a skirt and jandals.



At the moment, I'm feeling amazing. I'm done with surgeries for the time-being, aside from having laser hair removal treatment on my legs. I can't do anything about work. I'm enjoying just being me.



I only have one goal for the time-being.

Please, call me Marie.