‘I feel like a thief, pinching time from my career . . . and my wife and children’

Former Roos legend Danielle Laidley has revealed she used to feel guilty and selfish “sneaking moments to explore myself, to dress and look the way I feel inside”.

Back to the start: Perth, 1973

I live in Balga, in the hardscrabble, sunburnt flatlands north of Perth.

I’m six years old, and I don’t know it yet but this is the first place I will remember in life. Happy vignettes are few and far between.

The lady with the red lipstick is surrounded by other ladies her age, young, or youngish. It’s daytime, hot, and I don’t know why these women are here. This lady at the centre of everything is attractive, blonde, and she seems cosmopolitan, chic, though I don’t yet know these words.

A young Laidley loved her long blonde hair.

From inside a deep bag she takes out a range of nail polishes and holds them up to the light, displaying each colour for the ladies. I see the women sampling, admiring the new paint jobs they’ve just given their fingertips. I hear them laugh and titter and swap gossip.

I watch it all from the corner of the room, silent and unseen, and while I don’t know what any of this is exactly, I know it is exactly what I want.

I wait until near the end of the display. The lipsticks and eye shadow and nail polish and blush and foundation cover our coffee table, so I inch closer.

Closer still. Close enough to touch. I swipe a bottle. Stick it in my pocket. Stand calmly. Walk down the hallway and – I’m not sure why – turn straight into my mother’s room.

I try to copy what I remember from the demonstration out in the lounge. With my dominant left hand I draw the tiny brush from the bottle – like a sword from a stone – and delicately

stroke the first fingernail on my right hand with paint. I do a toenail, too. Bright red. Rose red. Coca-Cola red. A thick red layer, firming and shining before my eyes.

I breathe deeply and I sigh.

Life often feels hostile to me, but not right now. Right now I feel only calm. I feel warm. I smile.

Married with a secret and feeling torn: Early 1990s

This thing inside of me that I let out once in a while – it used to be fun. It used to feel like natural exploration – justified curiosity – but that begins to change now. I sneak moments to explore myself, to dress and look the way I feel inside, but they are fleeting and few and far between, and I feel guilty taking them at all. I feel like a thief, pinching time from my career with the West Coast Eagles and my wife and children. I feel torn. I feel selfish. Can you feel selfish when you don’t really know your true self?

On a Friday morning in the spring of 1991, I bring a chair into the corridor of our house. I place the chair below a manhole in the ceiling, which is smudged a little with my dusty fingerprints. I reach an arm inside. I find a black plastic bag, inside of which are my skirts and tops and shoes and makeup. The manhole is my hidey-hole.

I have a few precious hours to myself today, and I’m planning to use them well. I’m going to finally indulge a desire that’s gone unmet for years now. I’m going to do something I’ve only dared to dream.

Laidley had only dared to dream of going out in public as her true self until, one day, she finally did it.

I find the outfit I like most, the makeup that looks just right, blow a kiss into the mirror and walk out of my front door. I walk down the pathway to my car, open the door, get inside, turn the key and drive off down the street. It is the first time I’ve been in public as myself.

I’m going to the Subiaco markets. I’m headed there on a mission, to walk among the people of Perth as they buy their fruit and vegetables, and eat their lunch in the food court, but I’m petrified just driving down Wanneroo Road.

I cruise into the city, trying to turn away from every pedestrian. I go through traffic lights and reach a stop sign. This is when I feel most vulnerable, when I throw all my willpower at the passing traffic to clear –Hurry up! Hurry up! Hurry up! – in case someone pulls up beside me.

I look up at the car sitting next to mine, and there in the driver’s seat, waiting to turn, is one of the directors of the West Perth Football Club. This is a man who knows me, and knows me well. He would know my car, too. Is he there 20 seconds, or 20 years? I’m not sure.

He doesn’t spot me, but from this moment on when driving dressed as me, I will never pull up directly alongside another car.

Eventually I park. I walk into the market, finally but fear envelops every step. I do one lap and I get out of that dizzying space as fast as I f--king can. It’s a success and a failure. A thrill and a defeat. An awkward first step but a step all the same.

The word transgender doesn’t exist for me. I’ve heard about cross-dressing as a sexual fantasy. But this is not a fetish. This is about feeling calm and comfortable and self-aware. It’s about feeling right. Unfortunately I just feel afraid and the fear is visceral. I have the most overwhelming urge to get home, now.

At home I get changed, get washed and get settled. I pack my clothing and makeup away in my hidey-hole. I curse my craziness and shake my head at my recklessness. I sigh and reflect and go to bed.

‘My trans identity grows inside’: Prahran clubbing in 1992

I’ve been speaking to my trans friends now and then since we met that night after the Panasonic Cup, since we found each other at Chasers and went back to their house in St Kilda East.

I talk to them on the phone – there’s no email in 1992 – and we chat openly about footy and family and what it feels like to be your feminine self. They are the only people in the world I can do this with, and they’re responsive even when I go on and on and on about this f--king sport I play, this industry I work in and the things within that system that weigh me down.

They are my counsel, not my hook-up. When I talk with them it’s like I’m letting go of the struggle for a little while.

I arrive at the address they’ve given me expecting a home but it’s a club in Prahran. Three Faces. The security guard recognises me.

“Sure you want to come in here?”

Laidley’s trans identity grew as she sought the counsel, friendship and support of other trans women. Picture: Alex Coppel

I spot the girls and retreat to a little sanctuary with them, out of sight in a darkened corner, and settle in for the night.

I am uncomfortably comfortable. We sit and laugh and talk. They ask me questions, too. Are you attracted to men? I’m not. As my trans identity grows inside, my attraction to women extends a little to transgender women, but cis males? I don’t find that form interesting or attractive at all. The girls respect that.

They ask me about my life outside footy and they make no assumptions. A trans person probably feels imprisoned by their partner, right? They’ve gotta feel boxed in by their kids, yeah? Nah. I love my wife. I adore my children. The girls understand these seeming contradictions and complications.

I catch the red-eye flight home the next morning and sleep the whole way there. All I can think about when I land in Perth is going back east, seeing the girls again, asking more questions and having more fun. I’m 25, and I know I’m done with this town.

Originally published as ‘I feel like a thief, pinching time from my career . . . and my wife and children’