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The following guest post is by detransitioner Michael Kerr, who writes about the individual process of detransitioning without support, compared with the managed process of transition. You can follow Michael on X at https://x.com/Michaelwk20 and his support group Detransition Pathway UK at https://x.com/DPUK26. Michael will be speaking at the Rethinking Youth Gender Medicine conference in London 5/6 July about detransition and why he founded the website. You can buy tickets to the conference here and read more about Michael’s story here.

What is it like to detransition?

by Michael Kerr

Since detransitioning, many people have asked me the same question: “What is it like to detransition?”

At first, it seems like an easy question to answer. It is hard, far harder than it was to transition. But the word hard does not fully capture the reality. Detransitioning is not just a physical process; it is emotional, psychological, and often deeply isolating. It can feel like losing a sense of certainty you once held, while trying to rebuild your identity without the support that once surrounded you.

There is also a sense of contradiction within the experience. You may feel relief in stepping away from something that no longer felt right, while at the same time grieving the time, trust, and parts of yourself that feel lost. These emotions can exist side by side, making the process even more complex to navigate.

To understand why detransitioning can be so difficult, it is important to first understand the support systems that exist for those who transition.

Before transitioning, individuals are typically referred to a gender clinic. Within these clinics, there is a structured pathway of care. There are assessments, follow-up appointments, and access to a range of professionals, including therapists, endocrinologists, and surgeons. While not everyone will receive every intervention, there is at least a recognised system in place. There are guidelines, oversight, and a sense that the process is being managed.

For many, this structure provides reassurance. There is a feeling that decisions are being made with professional input, and that there is a safety net in place if questions or concerns arise. Even when the process is challenging, it is rarely something you face entirely alone.

However, when someone chooses to detransition, that structure often disappears. 

There is no clear pathway.

No defined process.

And in many cases, no professional guidance at all.

What once felt like a supported journey becomes something you are expected to navigate alone, often without even a clear starting point.

This lack of structure is reflected in the absence of data and funding. While significant resources have been allocated to transition-related services, there is little to no publicly available data on funding for detransitioning support. This is not just an administrative gap, it points to a deeper issue. When something is not measured, it is often not prioritised. As a result, detransitioners remain under-researched, underfunded, and largely overlooked

The gaps in support become even more apparent when seeking help through the healthcare system. Many people are told by their GP that gender clinics are the appropriate place to receive specialist care. Yet, when detransitioning, those same clinics may not offer the help that is needed. This creates a situation where responsibility is unclear. GPs may feel unequipped to manage detransition-related care, while specialists may not have established protocols to follow. The result is a fragmented system in which individuals can be left without meaningful support from either side.

For some, this experience can feel like being passed between services without ever being fully seen. You may find yourself explaining your situation repeatedly, only to be met with uncertainty or a lack of clear answers. Over time, this can erode trust in the very systems that once felt reliable.

For many, this lack of recognition reinforces a difficult reality: detransitioners often feel like the forgotten patients within the system. 

My own experience reflects this. When I made the decision to detransition, my gender specialist was surprised and did not know how to support me. I had questions, important, personal questions about my health and my future:

How long will it take for my hormone levels to return to normal?

Am I infertile?

What lasting effects will remain?

If I take testosterone, will the blocker I am on prevent it from working? 

Each question was met with the same response: “I don’t know. I will need to ask a colleague and get back to you.” 

Hearing this repeatedly was deeply unsettling. These were not abstract concerns; they were questions about my body, my long-term health, and my future. The lack of answers made me feel as though I had stepped outside of a system that once guided me into a space where no one seemed prepared to help.

For seven years, I had been medicating my body under supervision. Suddenly, that supervision was gone.

There were no hormone checks. No structured medical oversight. No therapy to help process the trauma that existed before transitioning—or the trauma that followed.

This absence of care was more than a gap in services; it felt like a loss of safety. The support systems that once existed had disappeared, leaving me to manage complex physical and emotional changes on my own.

The psychological impact of this should not be underestimated. Detransitioning can involve confronting difficult questions about identity, trust, and decision-making. Without proper support, these questions can become overwhelming. Access to therapy or counselling, independent of any ideological framework, can be crucial in helping individuals process their experiences and move forward in a healthy way. 

In 2024, the Cass Review highlighted many of these issues, including the lack of services available for detransitioners. It recommended the development of better support pathways and improved data collection to understand how many people detransition and what care they need. While these recommendations acknowledged the problem, progress since then has been limited. 

There have been calls for input from both professionals and detransitioners, but for many, these efforts have not yet translated into meaningful, accessible support. For those currently going through detransition, the need is immediate—not something that can wait for future policy changes.

It is this absence of services that ultimately led me to take action.

I founded DetransPathwayUK, a support network dedicated to helping individuals who have detransitioned, are considering detransitioning, or are questioning their current path in relation to gender identity. The aim is simple: to ensure that no one has to go through this process alone.

Support should not end when someone changes direction. People deserve access to guidance, accurate information, and a community where they can speak openly about their experiences without fear of being dismissed or ignored. They also deserve healthcare systems that are prepared to support them, regardless of the path they choose.

If you need support, you can reach out via our website:

www.detranspathway.com

We are also looking for individuals willing to share their stories. Lived experience is essential in building understanding, improving support systems, and ensuring that those who come after us are not left navigating this path alone. Resources are available for parents as well, recognising that detransitioning can affect not just individuals, but families too.

Detransitioning is not just a personal journey—it is a gap in healthcare that needs to be acknowledged, understood, and addressed. Until meaningful support systems are put in place, many will continue to face this process alone, navigating uncertainty without the guidance they deserve. 

No one should be left without support simply because their path has changed.