It was magical; the concrete surface, no barrier to vigorous slide tackles and glorious goalkeeping. To be victorious was vital. But amongst this feeling of freedom through football was always a sense of not quite belonging, compounded by that question: “Are you a boy or a girl?”

Standing there with the boys, in the dress I hated wearing, with bruised shins and short, ruffled hair, I’d reply sheepishly: “I’m a girl.”

Primary school, for the most part, was a joy for me. Lots of football, friends and fantastic teachers. But there was always that constant niggle of not quite fitting in with the boys or the girls. The boys focused on the footie, so that was easier, but the girls focused on the boys and that really didn’t make sense to me. I didn’t know how I identified, but I knew I was different. What I didn’t know then, was that being different was OK.

Secondary school was a shock. There, the boys didn’t accept me as one of them and I didn’t feel like a ‘normal’ girl so I isolated myself. I was bullied every single day.

“Oi, manhead,” I’d hear from across the classroom. “Are you a dyke?” I’d be asked as I wandered through the school corridors. I grew my hair and started wearing skirts to school. It was the days of Section 28 and you just had to try to fit in.

Eventually, all the sport I played paid off and I became physically strong, strong enough that the bullies thought it wiser to leave me alone. I cut my hair short again and ditched the skirts. And slowly my confidence to be myself followed.

But what if I had left primary school with confidence in who I was and where I fit into the world? What if I had left with the skills to challenge gender stereotypes and the courage to be open, positive and assured about being LGBTQIA+? I certainly would have been more likely to thrive in those early years. And maybe, when I went into teaching myself, I would have been able to come out earlier, saving myself the valuable energy and time expended hiding.