I didn’t really get the problem with gender ideology at first. I’m liberal-minded about most things. ‘Live and let live’ has generally been my motto. I believed in inclusion, kindness and not causing unnecessary offence. I knew some adults chose medical treatments or surgery to resemble the opposite sex. That seemed to me a matter of personal autonomy. Adults can do what they wish with their own bodies. What I hadn’t realised — and I feel slightly embarrassed admitting this — was that I’d misunderstood what was being claimed. I thought “transgender” meant a form of self-expression. A man who liked wearing women’s clothes. Someone changing their name. Gender non-conformity. What I hadn’t grasped was that some activists weren’t just asking for tolerance. They were asserting that declaring yourself the opposite sex made you the opposite sex. Not metaphorically. Literally. And that this wasn’t just cultural. It had legal consequences. It meant men who said they were women were demanding access to women’s sports, prisons, domestic violence shelters and hospital wards. It meant the rewriting of healthcare language — “pregnant people”, “bodies with cervixes” — to avoid saying “women”. It meant children struggling with identity being affirmed onto medical pathways with lifelong implications. And also redefining same-sex attraction. Lesbians called ‘bigoted’ for not wanting relationships with men who identify as women. Gay men accused of prejudice for saying they’re not attracted to female bodies. I’d also overlooked how deeply this had spread into public institutions, schools and workplaces. And how easily disagreement was framed as cruelty. Speaking up felt risky — because others were being publicly humiliated for doing so. None of this is abstract. Because sex is the basis on which safeguarding works. On which data is collected. On which cancer screening programmes run. On which fair sport and single-sex spaces depend. It’s written into law — including the Equality Act — because material differences matter. If sex becomes a ‘feeling’ rather than a biological category, those protections become unstable. And once reality becomes negotiable, everything does. Once I saw it, I couldn’t unsee it. But I needed to be sure. So I read. Books, research papers, policy documents. When I finally spoke publicly, there was backlash from all directions. Many women thanked me, while some feminists criticised me for speaking too late. Others were angry about a past interview I’d done with the parent of a transgender person, accusing me of promoting harm. It takes courage to speak when you know your reputation, friendships or livelihood may be on the line — when you know raising your voice could strain, or even end, relationships you value. Once I understood what was at stake, staying silent was no longer an option. I lost my livelihood simply for saying I didn’t like the phrase “pregnant people”. That alone tells you something is deeply wrong. It shouldn’t be this way. I don’t expect praise for admitting it took me far too long to understand what was happening. Or to say so publicly. I can only be honest about what I believed then and what I understand now. But it does take courage to admit publicly that you got something wrong. All I hope is that by acknowledging I wasn’t paying enough attention, another woman (or man) might feel emboldened to do the same. Because, as many of us know first-hand, there can be professional, social and financial consequences to speaking out. And I won’t pretend I understood something before I did, simply to make myself more acceptable to those who got there sooner. Which is why I will never judge another woman for how long it takes her to find her voice. Because every voice matters. Whenever it is raised.