My name is Kirk Taylor, and I’m a grateful believer in Jesus Christ who has found freedom from gender dysphoria, codependency, and a lifelong struggle with trying to control how others saw me.
I’ve had the privilege of leading our men’s recovery group for some time now. I don’t try to control it—I just try to facilitate what God’s doing. And honestly, I feel closest to Jesus in those moments—when I’m helping other men dig through their pain, not trying to fix them, just walking with them.
You might think recovery is only for those struggling with addictions like drugs, alcohol, or pornography—that’s exactly what I thought when I first started coming. For the first six months, I believed I was there to help other people with those problems.
But I quickly found out…I was the one who needed help. Those early meetings? They were all about me, and I didn’t even know it.
Some of the recovering alcoholics and addicts in that room had more peace, stability, and honesty than I ever had in my life. That was a wake-up call.
Because recovery teaches us something powerful: Our addictions—whatever they are—are symptoms of something deeper. You can quit your vice, but that doesn’t mean you’ve faced what’s driving it. And for me, that meant finally facing some things I had kept buried since I was five years old.
What It Was Like
For most of my life, I carried a deep internal conflict—a battle that began around the age of five. I didn’t have words for it then. All I knew was that something inside me didn’t match what I saw in the mirror or what I thought I was supposed to feel.
I was jealous of and attracted to the things around my sister—her clothes, the way she dressed, the attention she got. Later it was the girls my age—how they looked, how they carried themselves, the way people responded to them. I’d find myself daydreaming about what life would be like if I were like them. Of course, I never told anyone. That silence led to isolation.
When no one was around, I’d look through the old Montgomery Ward, JCPenney, and Sears catalogs—not for what most boys were looking at, but to imagine what it would be like to be one of those models. All the while, I had no attraction to men—I was, and always have been, attracted to women—yet I envied everything about femininity itself. That created a lifelong tension I didn’t know how to explain.
I tried to blend in with the guys. BMX bikes, motorbikes, dirt tracks, racing on First Avenue—I did everything I could to appear normal. But I always made sure no one ever saw what was really going on inside my head.
School was another struggle. By the end of my sophomore year, I couldn’t handle it anymore and dropped out—only to come back later, finish my senior year somewhere new, and graduate.
But the turmoil never stopped.
“For most of my life, I carried a deep internal conflict—a battle that began around the age of five.”
As I got older, I learned to compartmentalize. I hid it from girlfriends, and later from my wife. Until one day she came home early and found me dressed. I was busted—and strangely, relieved.
She was in cosmetology school at the time, so she helped me with makeup, and one Halloween we even went out together. She made me look so convincing that no one realized I was a guy in a dress—and for the first time in my life, my anxiety dropped. I thought, If I could just live this way, maybe I’d finally be happy.
But what I didn’t understand then—what took another twenty years to learn—was that even if I had transitioned back then, it wouldn’t have solved the deeper problem. Because my pain wasn’t about gender. It was about identity, shame, and self-acceptance.
I built a life—work, marriage, responsibilities—all while burying that part of me under layers of control, performance, and perfectionism. On the outside, things looked fine. Inside, I was falling apart.
It wasn’t okay to talk about these things back then—and truthfully, it still isn’t easy now. But not because of society’s judgment—because no surgery, makeup, or clothes can change the person you see looking back at you in the mirror. We can alter the surface, but deep down, we still see the same person staring through our own eyes. Until we accept that person, we can’t truly change.
“We can alter the surface, but deep down, we still see the same person staring through our own eyes.”
See, when you live in secrecy that long, you become an expert at pretending. You manage perceptions. You shape-shift to fit what others expect. And in my case, I wore the mask so well that no one suspected anything.
But living that double life—even when it’s about identity and not behavior—eats away at your soul. It’s like a house that looks perfect on the outside but has termites eating the foundation.
Eventually, it cracks.
For me, those cracks showed up as anxiety, anger, and control. I tried to manage everything and everyone around me—not out of love, but out of fear that failure would expose me. That’s what codependency really is. It’s not just needing people—it’s trying to control outcomes to protect your image. And I was a master at it.
The Turning Point
By my mid-forties, I was spiritually bankrupt. I believed in God—I never doubted His existence—but I didn’t know His character. I thought He loved people, but that I was somehow disqualified.
In 2014, at age forty-seven, I had just gone through my third divorce. I was done hiding. So I told the truth.
I went public with my gender-identity struggle—not to make a statement or take a side, but because I couldn’t keep living a lie. I started hormone therapy—estradiol and spironolactone—and began dressing in public. I even came out on social media. I thought, This is me finally becoming my true self.
And for a moment, it worked. I felt relief—no more secrets, no more anxiety from hiding. I became a kind of local celebrity, and for the first time, people saw me. I had more friends than ever, but deep down I knew something was still off.
Because while my appearance changed, my problems didn’t. My relationships were still messy. My self-worth was still fragile. And when I looked in the mirror—really looked into my own eyes—I still saw the same person staring back. No makeup, surgery, or clothing could fix what was broken inside.
The truth was, I didn’t like myself. And even after transitioning, I still didn’t like myself. The anxiety about hiding was gone, but the emptiness remained. That’s when I started realizing: the real struggle isn’t with what we see on the outside—it’s with who we are on the inside.
“Even after transitioning, I still didn’t like myself.”
Then came February 2016. I was with a woman I cared deeply for. She was sitting on my lap, doing my makeup, putting mascara on me before we went out. And as I looked into her eyes, something snapped inside me. I thought, Oh my God…I can’t do this anymore. This is crazy.
I started shaking—physically shaking—and in that moment, everything changed.
I stopped. I quit dressing. I dumped the hormones. And for the first time, I admitted something was seriously wrong with how I’d been living.
That relationship ended not long after, but the desire to transition was gone. Still, I was afraid—not afraid of going back, but afraid of when the urge might return.
Then, in October of 2016, someone invited me to Antioch Christian Church to hear Pastor John Seitz preach. That day changed everything. His message was rock solid—full of truth and grace. I walked out with a brand-new NLT Bible in my hands, and I couldn’t put it down. I started at Genesis and read all the way through, cover to cover, in seven weeks. I was desperate to understand why I had struggled with gender dysphoria for over forty years—and how, in one February night, it could suddenly stop.
And through that search, I began to see God differently. Maybe He had not been waiting to reject me after all. Maybe He’d been waiting for me to come home.
That season was messy. There was confusion, loneliness, and a lot of rebuilding. But something new was happening: honesty. Not the polished, controlled version I used to show people—the raw kind that invites healing.
That’s where my recovery truly began—not in a meeting, not in a workbook—but in my first real, honest conversation with God.
“Maybe He had not been waiting to reject me after all. Maybe He’d been waiting for me to come home.”
Entering Recovery
In January 2017, Pastor Mark McCoy asked me to be part of a pilot program for a new recovery ministry. I had no idea why he wanted me there—or why I needed to be. But I said yes.
When I first walked into recovery, I thought it was for “those people.” You know—the ones who drank too much, or used drugs, or looked like they’d hit rock bottom. That wasn’t me, at least not on the outside.
But spiritually? I was as bankrupt as anyone in the room. And in those early months, I realized recovery isn’t about what you’ve used—it’s about what’s using you. For the next six months, those guys listened to me cry practically every week. I felt sorry for them, thinking I was somehow better because I didn’t drink. One night, I even admitted that out loud—that I looked down on people who struggled with alcohol. I thought they’d be furious. Instead, they laughed.
They were nothing but kind and respectful. That’s when I realized that the people who truly have recovery are often the most reliable, honest, and grounded people you’ll ever meet.
My addiction wasn’t to a substance—it was to control, approval, and the illusion that I could manage my image and still find peace.
But peace doesn’t come through control. It comes through surrender.
That’s what the first three steps taught me:
- I was powerless to fix myself.
- There was a Power greater than me who could.
- I had to make a decision to let Him.
It sounds simple, but for someone who’d spent a lifetime managing everything, Step 3 was the hardest thing I’d ever done. Turning my will and my life over to the care of God wasn’t a workbook line—it was a daily death of ego and self-protection.
“Turning my will and my life over to the care of God wasn’t a workbook line—it was a daily death of ego and self-protection.”
But little by little, God started softening me. He began rebuilding things from the inside out. And as I kept showing up—week after week, month after month—something began to change. The man who used to perform began to participate. The man who used to hide began to heal. And the man who used to live in fear began to live in truth.
It was during that season that I began to give myself grace—and acceptance. For the first time, I started believing that maybe I could actually be saved. That there was a place for me in Heaven. I went from despising who I saw in the mirror to at least giving that man a chance. I wasn’t fully at peace yet, but I no longer hated myself. And that was the first real freedom I’d ever known.
The Last Few Years—How I’m Changing Now
The last several years have been the most transforming years of my life. Not because everything has been easy, but because God has been teaching me how to live free—not just forgiven.
Early in recovery, I used to think freedom meant feeling better. Now I know it means becoming different. And that’s a much deeper process.
When I first came into leadership, I didn’t plan on it. I wasn’t trying to be the guy up front—I just kept showing up, and when nobody else volunteered, I said, “I’ll help.” But what I didn’t realize then was that leadership wasn’t about teaching others how to recover—it was about God using other people to finish recovering me.
Over time, something shifted. I stopped needing to prove that I was “okay.” I stopped needing to be the smartest voice in the room. And I started learning to listen—not to respond, but to understand.
I discovered that when I’m sitting across from another man who’s struggling—whether it’s with lust, anger, addiction, or control—that’s when I feel closest to Jesus. Because that’s exactly where He met me. Not when I was strong, but when I was broken.
“I started learning to listen—not to respond, but to understand.”
Spiritual Maturity and Boundaries
As I’ve matured in recovery, one of the biggest changes has been learning boundaries. Before, I tried to rescue everyone. If someone was drowning, I’d jump in and drown with them—thinking that was love. Now I’ve learned to throw a life ring instead.
Love doesn’t mean losing yourself. It means showing up in truth and grace—but letting God be the Savior, not me.
I’ve learned that saying “no” isn’t unkind. Sometimes it’s the most loving thing you can do. And I’ve seen firsthand that when you stop trying to control people, God has room to work in their lives.
From Reaction to Response
One of the biggest shifts in me has been emotional sobriety. For years, I was driven by reaction. If I felt hurt, I defended myself. If I felt disrespected, I fought back or withdrew. Now, through prayer and the tools of recovery, I’ve learned to pause—to ask, “What’s mine in this?” before I act.
That pause has changed everything. Because in that space, God speaks. He gives clarity where there used to be chaos. He replaces fear with faith.
I don’t always get it right—but I get it right more often than I used to. And that’s growth.
“In that space, God speaks. He gives clarity where there used to be chaos.”
Sponsorship and Service
Sponsorship has been one of the greatest gifts of my recovery. It’s humbling to realize that the very things I used to be ashamed of are now what God uses to help others. When I sit with a man who thinks he’s too far gone, I can look him in the eye and say, “You’re talking to someone who thought the same thing—and I’m still here.”
Leading others has made me more accountable. You can’t talk about surrender every week without being challenged to live it. And every time I share, God shows me another layer of what still needs to change in me.
A New Kind of Confidence
Today, my confidence doesn’t come from how I look or what people think of me. It comes from knowing who I am in Christ. I’m not defined by my past. I’m not limited by my mistakes. And I’m not trapped by old patterns—unless I choose to be.
There was a time when I believed I couldn’t change, that I was too far gone. But now I know better. I know that change is not only possible—it’s promised when we surrender. So when I face moments where the old habits or thoughts try to creep in, I don’t say, “I’ll never change.” I say, “I haven’t changed yet…but I know I can, and I know God will finish what He started.”
That mindset keeps me steady—not in fear, but in faith. Because I’ve learned that real recovery isn’t about staying the same and calling it peace; it’s about becoming who God designed you to be, one surrendered day at a time.
“I’ve learned that real recovery isn’t about staying the same and calling it peace; it’s about becoming who God designed you to be, one surrendered day at a time.”
Where I Go from Here
As I look at where I am today, I realize that my story isn’t about what I’ve overcome—it’s about what God continues to do through me. The old life was about surviving. This one is about serving.
I don’t need to go back and fix every chapter of my past—those pages are written. What matters is what I do with the pages that are still blank. Leading men in recovery has become one of the greatest honors of my life. Every Thursday night, when I walk into that room, I know why I’m there. Not because I have all the answers—but because I remember what it felt like to have none. When I see a man show up broken, confused, scared to be honest.…I know exactly what that’s like. And I get to look him in the eye and say, “You’re not alone. God’s not done with you yet.”
That’s what keeps me coming back—not obligation, but gratitude. I’m a different man because of this ministry. I’ve seen the power of what happens when truth meets grace. When men stop pretending and start participating in their own healing.
Living with Purpose
As I move forward, I’m not chasing perfection; I’m chasing purpose. My heart is to use what I’ve been through—every struggle, every lesson—to point people toward hope. Whether that’s in recovery, through teaching, or through the content I create online, my mission is the same:
to show that God can redeem any story, no matter how complicated it looks.
I’ve learned that when you walk in honesty, you don’t have to hide behind explanations. You just live truthfully and let the fruit speak for itself. That’s what I want my life to be—fruit, not noise.
I’m not looking back in shame anymore. I’m looking forward in confidence. Because the man I see in the mirror today isn’t pretending. He’s walking with God—imperfectly, but intentionally.
“I’ve learned that when you walk in honesty, you don’t have to hide behind explanations.”
The Road Ahead
I know there’s still more growth ahead—more refining, more surrender, more trust. But I welcome it now. The same process that used to terrify me has become the thing that anchors me.
I’ve learned that peace doesn’t come from comfort—it comes from alignment. When I’m aligned with what God’s doing, even the hard days have purpose. And that’s what recovery has become for me: not a program, but a way of living in alignment with truth.
So where do I go from here? Wherever God leads. Whether that’s mentoring more men, expanding ministry, or sharing my story with a wider audience—I just want to be faithful with what I’ve been given.
Because when I think about the years I spent hiding, I realize that God never wasted a single one.
He used every broken part of my story to build compassion, to teach patience, to shape character, and to remind me that freedom doesn’t come from becoming someone else—it comes from finally being who He created you to be.
Conclusion
When I look back at my journey, I see three chapters:
- Who I was – the man trying to manage the unmanageable.
- What happened – the moment of surrender and truth.
- Who I’m becoming – a man walking in grace, living out his purpose, and helping others do the same.
And if I could leave you with one thought, it’s this: You don’t have to rewrite your past to have a future—you just have to surrender the pen.
The same God who rescued me is still writing my story. And I’m grateful to keep turning the pages.
