About The Author
Handy to know who wrote the thing
Sarah McClark is a self-published author whose writing is deeply informed by lived experience. As a transgender woman herself, she understands the dating world from the inside out—not as an abstract concept, but as something navigated daily, with all its contradictions, risks, joys, and quiet negotiations.
She transitioned in her early to mid-twenties, though the knowing came much earlier. By the age of seven, she already understood—quietly, instinctively—that she was a woman. Not as a theory, not as language, but as certainty. The words came later. The truth did not.
Her life unfolded through two puberties. The first arrived uninvited. It reshaped her body in ways that felt alien and irreversible, each change reinforcing a growing sense of dissonance. It was not merely uncomfortable—it was disorienting. A process that was supposed to signal growth instead felt like erosion, pulling her further away from herself with every passing year. This was a puberty she endured, not one she participated in.
The second puberty was chosen. It came with its own form of pain—physical, emotional, hormonal—but this time the pain made sense. It aligned with expectation rather than resistance. Sore muscles, tenderness, exhaustion, emotional volatility: all of it carried a strange relief. This was the kind of discomfort she had always assumed puberty would bring. Not punishment, but transformation.
Where the first puberty felt like something happening to her, the second felt like something happening with her. For the first time, change did not mean loss. It meant arrival.
Experiencing two puberties does not cancel one another out. They coexist in memory and in the body. But only one of them felt like becoming whole.
Her goal in writing is twofold. On the one hand, she wants to offer guidance and recognition to other trans people who are trying to make sense of dating while carrying identities that are often misunderstood or fetishised. On the other, she aims to provide clear, grounded insight for people who are interested in dating trans women and trans people more broadly, but who may lack the language, awareness, or context to do so thoughtfully.
She chose to begin with How To Date A Trans Woman because it aligns most closely with her own experiences. The book primarily focuses on transgender women and transfeminine or non-binary people, not as a limitation, but as an intentional starting point rooted in authenticity rather than abstraction.
I always wanted to write a book. Choosing between tech and love seemed like an impossible choice, so why not both? I decided to start writing what’s closest to my heart, and that’s How To Date A Trans Woman.
Crossing the threshold of thirty marked a clear shift in how Sarah viewed dating. Having experienced relationships in her mid-twenties as well as in her early thirties, she observed firsthand how intentions, expectations, and emotional stakes evolve over time. Dating is never static; it reflects where you are in life, not just who you are attracted to.
I’ve screwed around with many people in my mid-twenties. Discovering who I was, how and who I wanted to fuck, it was a fantastic time. I stopped counting after I reached fifteen partners, and shortly after that switched to seeking love rather than just affection.
For Sarah, this transition was neither moral nor dramatic—it was organic. What once felt like exploration gradually gave way to a desire for depth, stability, and shared direction. This shift heavily informs the perspective of the book: dating is framed not as a single goal, but as a continuum of needs that change as people grow.
For the past three years, Sarah has been in a committed relationship with her non-binary partner. Their journey adds another layer of insight to the narrative. Coming from a heterosexual marriage, her partner first discovered that they were not straight but lesbian, and later that the non-binary label resonated most accurately with their internal sense of self. This shared process of self-discovery has shaped their relationship into one grounded in empathy, reflection, and mutual growth.
Together, their experiences span a wide range of identities and transitions within the LGBTQ spectrum. This breadth allows Sarah to write not only from personal memory, but from ongoing dialogue—about identity, desire, boundaries, and what it means to love someone while both of you are still becoming yourselves.
Sarah McClark is a self-published author whose writing is deeply informed by lived experience. As a transgender woman herself, she understands the dating world from the inside out—not as an abstract concept, but as something navigated daily, with all its contradictions, risks, joys, and quiet negotiations.
She transitioned in her early to mid-twenties, though the knowing came much earlier. By the age of seven, she already understood—quietly, instinctively—that she was a woman. Not as a theory, not as language, but as certainty. The words came later. The truth did not.
Her life unfolded through two puberties. The first arrived uninvited. It reshaped her body in ways that felt alien and irreversible, each change reinforcing a growing sense of dissonance. It was not merely uncomfortable—it was disorienting. A process that was supposed to signal growth instead felt like erosion, pulling her further away from herself with every passing year. This was a puberty she endured, not one she participated in.
The second puberty was chosen. It came with its own form of pain—physical, emotional, hormonal—but this time the pain made sense. It aligned with expectation rather than resistance. Sore muscles, tenderness, exhaustion, emotional volatility: all of it carried a strange relief. This was the kind of discomfort she had always assumed puberty would bring. Not punishment, but transformation.
Where the first puberty felt like something happening to her, the second felt like something happening with her. For the first time, change did not mean loss. It meant arrival.
Experiencing two puberties does not cancel one another out. They coexist in memory and in the body. But only one of them felt like becoming whole.
Her goal in writing is twofold. On the one hand, she wants to offer guidance and recognition to other trans people who are trying to make sense of dating while carrying identities that are often misunderstood or fetishised. On the other, she aims to provide clear, grounded insight for people who are interested in dating trans women and trans people more broadly, but who may lack the language, awareness, or context to do so thoughtfully.
She chose to begin with How To Date A Trans Woman because it aligns most closely with her own experiences. The book primarily focuses on transgender women and transfeminine or non-binary people, not as a limitation, but as an intentional starting point rooted in authenticity rather than abstraction.
I always wanted to write a book. Choosing between tech and love seemed like an impossible choice, so why not both? I decided to start writing what’s closest to my heart, and that’s How To Date A Trans Woman.
Crossing the threshold of thirty marked a clear shift in how Sarah viewed dating. Having experienced relationships in her mid-twenties as well as in her early thirties, she observed firsthand how intentions, expectations, and emotional stakes evolve over time. Dating is never static; it reflects where you are in life, not just who you are attracted to.
I’ve screwed around with many people in my mid-twenties. Discovering who I was, how and who I wanted to fuck, it was a fantastic time. I stopped counting after I reached fifteen partners, and shortly after that switched to seeking love rather than just affection.
For Sarah, this transition was neither moral nor dramatic—it was organic. What once felt like exploration gradually gave way to a desire for depth, stability, and shared direction. This shift heavily informs the perspective of the book: dating is framed not as a single goal, but as a continuum of needs that change as people grow.
For the past three years, Sarah has been in a committed relationship with her non-binary partner. Their journey adds another layer of insight to the narrative. Coming from a heterosexual marriage, her partner first discovered that they were not straight but lesbian, and later that the non-binary label resonated most accurately with their internal sense of self. This shared process of self-discovery has shaped their relationship into one grounded in empathy, reflection, and mutual growth.
Together, their experiences span a wide range of identities and transitions within the LGBTQ spectrum. This breadth allows Sarah to write not only from personal memory, but from ongoing dialogue—about identity, desire, boundaries, and what it means to love someone while both of you are still becoming yourselves.
