Aunt Gave Me Herbal Hormones Secret Nights in Heels Were Exposed

There’s something about midnight that makes the world feel a little softer, a little more forgiving. The street outside is hushed, the neighbors asleep, even the ticking clock in the kitchen sounds gentler somehow. And that’s when I always do it—when the house exhales and the silence gives me room to breathe. (Crossdressing Story)

I stood there in our kitchen, barefoot on the cool tile floor, a vanilla-scented apron tied around my waist—Brooke’s apron, actually. It still smelled like her. Lightly sweet, with a hint of citrus and cedarwood from her perfume. I always tied it tight, cinching it like armor, as if the strings themselves gave me permission to be someone softer.

That night I’d gone a step further. Her red heels—patent leather, a little scuffed at the toe—clicked gently as I walked from the oven to the counter. I was getting better at balancing in them. The first few times, I wobbled like a newborn deer. But now? I liked the way they forced my posture to change—hips slightly forward, back straighter, more... graceful. At least in my mind.

And the lipstick... God, the lipstick. Ruby Flame by Estée Lauder. It wasn’t even mine. I had “borrowed” it from her makeup bag weeks ago, but the color had found a home on my mouth long before I ever dared to put it there. The first time I wore it, I remember looking in the mirror and whispering, “There you are.” It sounds silly saying that out loud, but if you've ever tried to quiet a piece of yourself for long enough, you'll understand why something as simple as red lipstick can feel like a revolution.

The oven beeped—my cue. I opened the door, a warm wave of cinnamon and nutmeg wrapping around me like a hug. I bent slightly to pull out the cupcakes, careful not to scuff the heels, the apron falling just enough to brush my knees. The heat flushed my face and I smiled to myself. This—this was mine. This little ritual, this space. My sanctuary in silk and sugar.

And then I heard the key turn in the front door.

Time stopped. My hands froze mid-air, holding the tray of cupcakes, the smell of warm spice still thick in the room. I blinked once. Twice. Maybe I imagined it.

But then the door creaked open.

Brooke.

Panic didn’t even have the decency to creep in. It slammed into me. I stumbled back, almost dropping the tray. My heart punched against my ribs. In that moment, I was more exposed than if I’d been naked.

She walked in carrying her bag, talking into her phone, saying something about the airport delay—but then she saw me.

I wish I could explain the sound of silence between us. How it filled the space like a vacuum. She didn’t speak. Her mouth opened slightly, her eyes trailing from the heels to the apron to the unmistakable smear of red on my lips. She looked like she had walked into a stranger’s home.

“Ethan?” she said, voice thin.

I tried to speak. Nothing came. My throat was dry, my lips suddenly sticky with shame and heat and regret.

“I... I didn’t know you were coming home early,” I whispered, as if that somehow justified the heels on my feet or the mascara on my lashes.

Her eyes didn’t soften. They narrowed, but not in anger. In disbelief. Confusion. Something in her seemed to recoil.

“I... I don’t even know what I’m looking at right now,” she said, stepping back.

“It’s just me,” I said. “It’s still me.”

But she was already turning away. No shouting. No drama. Just silence, a shake of her head, and the sound of the door closing behind her like a final note at the end of a song.

And me? I stood there in the kitchen, the cupcakes cooling on the counter, my hands trembling. My reflection in the oven window stared back at me—red lips, wide eyes, apron tied too tight, heart breaking open inside a borrowed pair of heels.

I sank to the floor, the cold tile biting through my stockings. I didn’t wipe the makeup off. Not yet. I just sat there, face in my hands, chest tight. And I cried. Not because she saw me like this.

But because I had finally seen me.

And now… I wasn’t sure I could go back. I didn’t sleep that night. Not really.

I curled up on the couch with a blanket over my legs, still wearing the apron, though the heels were gone. I’d kicked them off when I collapsed onto the kitchen floor, and now they sat by the door like guilt waiting to be worn again. My face still carried the remnants of makeup—smudged mascara under my eyes, a faded kiss of red staining the edge of my upper lip.

The quiet was different now. Not soft and safe like it had been earlier that night, but hollow, sharp. Like silence with teeth.

I kept replaying it—her face. The way Brooke looked at me like I was someone else. Like the man she married had been replaced by... I don’t know. A stranger? A disappointment?

And that’s what scared me the most. Not the fact that she saw me in a slip and lipstick, but the possibility that maybe, deep down, she never really knew me at all.

The truth is, I’ve been doing this for years.

It started small. Just... curiosity at first. Borrowing one of her scarves, trying on a pair of her old flats she left by the closet. But it didn’t feel like dress-up. It wasn’t play. It was peace.

There’s a strange kind of comfort that comes when the clothes match the way you feel inside—like breathing into your real skin for the first time. I never wanted to be anyone else. I just wanted to be more me than the world allowed.

And the kitchen—God, the kitchen was the only place that understood me. Baking felt like home. There’s a kind of therapy in sifting flour, in the rhythm of cracking eggs and folding batter. It's controlled, precise, but forgiving. You mess up? You try again. There's no judgment in sugar and butter.

But now, that sanctuary felt... poisoned. Tainted by shame and fear and the sting of rejection.

Around 8 a.m., I heard the knock.

I didn’t move at first. Just sat there in yesterday’s clothes, yesterday’s lipstick, barely even a person. Another knock.

“Ethan?” a voice called.

A familiar voice. Sharp, confident, tinted with just enough sass to cut through any funk.

Aunt Cheryl.

I opened the door a crack, expecting the usual smirk, maybe even a joke. But the second she saw my face, her eyes softened.

“Jesus, kid,” she said, stepping inside before I could object. “You look like a Hallmark card on fire.”

I tried to laugh. It came out broken.

She looked me up and down, then spotted the red heels by the door, the cupcake wrappers on the counter. Her eyes narrowed—not in judgment, but in recognition.

She walked over to the kitchen and picked up the lipstick tube still sitting near the sink. Turned it over in her fingers. Then looked back at me.

“You were beautiful last night, weren’t you?”

I didn’t answer.

She crossed the room in three strides and pulled me into the tightest hug. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t gentle. It was Cheryl—strong, warm, slightly perfumed with hairspray and lavender.

“Okay,” she said, pulling back. “You’re coming with me.”

“Where?”

“My place. The salon. We're gonna get you cleaned up.”

“Cheryl, I’m not—”

“No arguments. I saw the look on your face, Ethan. You weren’t just playing dress-up. That wasn’t a costume. That was a cry for help.”

I hated how right she was.

I hated even more how much I needed someone to say it out loud.

“I’m not trying to become a woman,” I said, half-whispering.

She looked me dead in the eye. “I didn’t say you were. But whatever you are, it’s time we take care of that person. Because hiding’s not working for you anymore.”

And just like that, she walked into the kitchen, rummaged through my cabinets, and started making a smoothie like she owned the place.

“Protein, bananas, a little spinach—don’t argue, it’s good for your skin,” she muttered, tossing in some kind of herbal supplement from her purse.

I sat there in a daze, still in Brooke’s apron, watching my aunt swirl green sludge into a blender like it was the most normal thing in the world.

And for a second—just a second—I felt something warm return to my chest. Not joy. Not relief.

Hope.

That maybe, just maybe, this broken version of me wasn’t beyond repair. The blender was still buzzing when I looked down at myself—same apron, smeared mascara now dried stiff under my eyes, a soft blush-colored robe that Cheryl had pulled from my bedroom, tossed at me like a nurse preparing a patient for surgery.

“You looked like a haunted cupcake this morning,” she’d said as I changed. “Now you just look tired. Better.”

She wasn’t wrong.

I sat at the small kitchen table, chin resting on my hand, watching Cheryl move around like she owned the place. She always had that energy—commanding, unbothered, like everything she touched belonged to her for a moment.

When she finally placed the smoothie in front of me, it was green. Suspiciously green. Like “I’m-going-to-regret-this” green.

“What’s in it?” I asked, sniffing it warily.

She winked. “Magic. And spinach. And some calming supplements I’ve been taking myself.”

“Is it going to make me grow boobs?”

“Only if you’re manifesting them, sweetheart.” She laughed, but there was something about the way she avoided my eyes that made me pause.

I took a sip anyway. Thick, earthy, not as terrible as I expected. She sat across from me, chin in hand, watching me drink like it was the Eucharist.

“You gonna tell me what’s really in this?”

She shrugged. “Just some plant-based hormones. Mild stuff. I swear, it’s not a transformation potion. It’s just... good for nerves.”

My heart caught on that word. Hormones.

“You drugged me?” I asked, setting the glass down slowly.

“Relax,” she said, rolling her eyes. “It’s not like I slipped you estrogen in your coffee. It’s herbal. Natural. Hell, I’ve taken it myself. Look, I wasn’t trying to mess with your head—I just thought... you looked like you needed some kind of grounding.”

I stared at the glass. Then at her. Then back at the glass.

And the weird part? I wasn’t angry.

I should’ve been. Maybe a few years ago I would’ve been. But in that moment, sitting there in a robe and drying eyeliner, I realized something strange: I had felt calmer lately. More open. Less like I was clenching something invisible all the time.

Was it placebo? Was it the smoothies? Was it just... being seen for once?

I didn’t know.

What I did know was that something inside me was shifting. Not in a dramatic, movie-montage kind of way. But like a door inside me had opened half an inch—and the air coming through felt warmer than I remembered.

That afternoon, Cheryl dragged me to her salon. Said I needed “emergency maintenance.” The place was empty—it was her day off—but she opened the door anyway, flipped the lights on like we were sneaking into some forbidden temple of glitter and hairspray.

It smelled like product and peppermint tea. The mirrors were massive. Unforgiving.

I sat in the chair like I was about to be judged.

Cheryl stood behind me, resting her hands on my shoulders. “You ready?” she asked.

“No,” I whispered.

She smiled. “Perfect.”

We started small. She cleaned up my brows—subtle, nothing too archy. Then came the toner, the moisturizer, and something called “color correction” that I had no idea existed but apparently changed my entire face.

She handed me a lip tint—peach, not red. Something soft. I applied it with trembling fingers. Watched as my reflection shifted just enough to look... closer. Closer to what I always imagined but never quite believed.

“There’s a girl in there,” Cheryl said, standing behind me.

I didn’t correct her. Not because I suddenly believed I was a woman. But because... there was something in there. Some version of me that wasn’t chained to the idea of being one thing or another.

And she was right. I could see her now.

She wasn’t dramatic or loud. She didn’t have a name yet. But she looked back at me in the mirror with eyes I recognized—eyes that were tired of hiding, and quietly ready to be known.

When we got back to my place, I made dinner—still in the robe, a soft breeze blowing through the open kitchen window. The red heels sat quietly by the door. I didn’t put them on. Not yet.

But I noticed something as I plated the pasta—my movements had changed. Gentler. More intentional. Like my body was slowly learning how to belong to me again.

I took a sip of the next smoothie Cheryl made the following morning.

Did I ask what was in it?

No.

Because for the first time in a long time... I wasn’t afraid of becoming something new. It had been five days since Brooke walked out.

Five days of silence. Five days of second-guessing everything from the way I tied my apron to the lipstick shade I left smudged on the rim of a coffee mug. Five days of Cheryl’s smoothies and soft affirmations, her way of pulling me gently but relentlessly into myself.

I didn’t text Brooke. Not because I didn’t want to. God, I wanted to. I just didn’t know which version of me she’d be texting back.

Then came the sixth day.

It was early evening. I had just finished prepping dinner—something light, lemony pasta with roasted garlic and parsley. It made the kitchen smell like summer. I was still in the robe Cheryl lent me, but I’d changed the belt for a lavender sash I found buried in the back of our closet. It felt softer against my skin, the silk whispering as I moved.

I had just set the table when I heard the front door open.

No knock. No warning.

Brooke.

I froze. My hand on the dining chair, breath held like I was underwater.

She walked in holding a bag, clearly expecting an empty house. But when she saw me—there, in the robe, barefoot, hair loosely tied up, face bare but calm—she stopped cold.

Her eyes flicked over me in that way people do when they’re trying to decide if they’re dreaming or just disappointed.

“I needed to grab my charger,” she said quickly, like she was trying to minimize the weight of the moment.

“It’s... on the nightstand,” I replied, my voice barely above a whisper.

She took a step inside, but didn’t move toward the bedroom.

Instead, she looked around the kitchen. “Smells good,” she said. Flat. Distant.

“I cooked,” I said, like that wasn’t obvious.

“I see that.” A pause. “Is that my robe?”

I hesitated. Then nodded. “Yeah. I like how it feels.”

She crossed her arms. “Jesus, Ethan. What is happening to you?”

It hit me like a slap—not the words, but the fear in her voice. Not anger. Fear.

“I’m not changing into a different person,” I said, gently. “I’m just... letting go of the version of me I thought you needed me to be.”

“I didn’t ask you to become this,” she snapped, her voice rising.

“No,” I said, “but you didn’t ask who I was, either.”

She went quiet.

The kind of quiet that makes you feel like every breath is borrowed time.

“I didn’t marry a man who wore lipstick and heels in the kitchen,” she said, finally.

“I didn’t marry a woman who walked out without saying goodbye,” I said back, and I hated how sharp my voice sounded. But it was the truth.

She sat down—at the table I’d just set, next to the plate I’d meant for her. She looked exhausted. Like she hadn’t slept much either.

“I feel like I don’t know you,” she whispered.

I sat too. Across from her. Close, but miles apart.

“I know,” I said. “I didn’t want you to know this part of me. I was ashamed. I thought if you saw it, you'd leave. And I guess... I was right.”

She blinked. Once. Slowly.

“I didn’t leave because of the clothes,” she said. “I left because it felt like a lie. Like you were pretending to be something around me, and someone else when I wasn’t looking.”

That gutted me. Because she was right.

“I was,” I admitted. “But not to hurt you. I was pretending because I didn’t think I had permission to exist out loud.”

There it was. Truth, raw and bleeding on the table between us.

She looked down at her hands. Picked at her cuticles the way she always did when she was overwhelmed.

“Cheryl’s been helping me,” I said. “She’s been... helping me figure out who I am, without shame.”

“She’s always been good at making people feel bold,” Brooke said, her voice softer now.

“She gave me supplements,” I blurted, not sure why. “Herbal stuff. Said they’d help with anxiety. Might be hormonal. I don’t know. But I feel different. Not feminine, exactly. Just... softer. Calmer. Like I can breathe again.”

She looked up, finally meeting my eyes.

“And is that what you want?” she asked. “To change? To be... someone else?”

“No,” I said. “Not someone else. Just... more me. Less armor. Less hiding.”

The silence stretched between us again, but this time it didn’t hurt as much.

She stood up, slowly, and I rose with her. We faced each other like two people not sure whether to hug or say goodbye.

“I don’t know how to be in this with you,” she admitted.

I nodded. “I don’t either. But I’m willing to try.”

She walked toward the door. Paused. Turned back.

“I’ll call you,” she said. “Just... give me some space. I need to catch up.”

And then she was gone again.

This time, though, the door didn’t slam.

And I didn’t fall apart.

I just stood in the doorway, looking down at my lavender sash and bare feet, the pasta cooling on the table behind me, and whispered, more to myself than anyone else:

“You’re doing okay. Don’t stop now.”

It was Cheryl’s idea, of course.

“You’ve been hiding in your little cocoon too long, sweet pea,” she said, sipping her caramel iced coffee like she was delivering gospel. “It’s time we freshen you up and take you somewhere that smells less like garlic and emotional breakdowns.”

She meant the salon. Her place.

I hesitated.

“I’m not ready,” I said, even though part of me desperately wanted to be. “What if someone sees me? What if they—”

“What if they think you’re fabulous?” she interrupted, raising a single, immaculately penciled brow.

I gave her a look.

She smirked. “Okay, what if they stare? Let them. You’ve spent your whole life worried about shrinking. Let’s try the opposite for once. Expand.”

I didn’t say yes. But the next thing I knew, I was in the passenger seat of her car, clutching a tote bag that held a soft knit top I liked, my lightest concealer, and a pair of leggings I’d only ever worn at home.

The salon was quiet that morning. Just two stylists and a woman getting her roots touched up in the corner. Cheryl had made sure of it. She told them we were doing “a private session,” which in Cheryl-speak meant “don’t ask questions, don’t make faces.”

The first thing I noticed when I walked in was the smell—bleach, hairspray, and a hint of vanilla. The second thing was the mirror.

God, the mirrors.

They were everywhere. And they didn’t lie.

My reflection looked nervous. My posture was apologetic. I kept tugging at my sleeves like they were supposed to shield me from being seen. But Cheryl didn’t give me time to hide.

She plopped me into the big chair, tied a black cape around my shoulders, and handed me a tiny espresso.

“Hydrate and caffeinate, darling. We’re creating art.”

She started with my nails.

Now, I’d painted them before. Alone. Once in the garage. Once at 3 a.m. when Brooke was asleep. But this was different. This was someone else doing it, out in the open, with bright lights and tiny files and little cotton balls soaked in acetone.

I expected to feel embarrassed.

Instead, I felt... cared for.

The gentle pressure of her hand holding mine. The way she tapped my knuckles and said, “Relax, you’re clenching like someone’s proposing.” The warmth of the towel she draped over my wrists as the polish dried—soft pink, with a barely-there shimmer.

When she moved on to my face, she switched into full glam mode.

“Your cheekbones are criminally underused,” she muttered, dabbing a brush into contour powder. “You could cut glass if I angled this right.”

I laughed. Actually laughed. It felt so good it startled me.

We were just finishing up when it happened.

I heard a voice behind me. A low, curious whisper.

“Is that Cheryl’s nephew in heels?”

The air changed. I felt it before I even fully registered the words.

I didn’t turn around. I didn’t have to. The voice belonged to one of the junior stylists—young, barely twenty, probably didn’t mean anything cruel. But it landed anyway. Like a stone thrown through a glass version of me.

My stomach twisted. The old panic rose—tight in the chest, hot behind the eyes. I thought about bolting. About peeling off the makeup and going back to my empty kitchen, where the only eyes were mine and the oven light.

Cheryl must’ve seen it on my face. She put down the brush and rested a hand on my shoulder.

“You okay?” she asked, quiet now. No sass. Just softness.

I nodded. I wasn’t. But I nodded anyway.

“Do you want to leave?”

I thought about it. God, I wanted to say yes.

But then I looked at my reflection.

My skin glowed. My brows were clean. My lips had a soft cherry tint that somehow made my eyes look brighter. I didn’t look like a joke. I looked like someone who was finally making sense.

“No,” I said. “I want to finish.”

So we did.

Cheryl didn’t say another word about the whisper. Neither did I. But I could feel her pride in the way she fluffed my hair one last time and said, “There she is.”

I didn’t correct her.

Not because I suddenly had all the answers about who I was.

But because, for the first time, I wasn’t trying to disappear.

That night, I got home and looked at myself in the hallway mirror. I touched the edge of my lip, traced the shimmer on my nails.

And I whispered, just loud enough to hear:

“I see you.”

Then I smiled.

Small. But real. It was stupid, really. The way everything came out.

One little bottle. That’s all it took.

Brooke had stopped by again. Said she was “dropping off a few papers,” but I knew it was an excuse. She stood in the doorway a bit too long, her eyes lingering on me longer than they had the last time. Her gaze caught the shimmer on my nails, the soft way I moved now, even the faint color in my cheeks that hadn’t been there weeks ago.

“You look… different,” she said, like she wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or an accusation.

“Is that okay?” I asked, gently.

She didn’t answer.

Instead, her eyes drifted to the kitchen. To the counter. And there it was—Cheryl’s little blue bottle of supplements, the label turned just enough to read “Mood Support – Phyto Balance Blend.” Innocuous to most people. Not to Brooke.

She picked it up.

“What is this?”

I shrugged, trying to sound casual. “Just... stuff Cheryl’s been giving me. Herbal. Natural. Calms me down.”

Her expression hardened. “You’ve been drinking this?”

“Every morning. Why?”

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