Today is the last day of living a dream I’ve had growing in my heart: being a transgender housewife.

While my wife was away leading a summer workshop, I took the week off work to take care of our home—and to do it as a transgender housewife, living fully as Michelle. Not just for a moment here or there. But intentionally, with space carved out to really live it.

This wasn’t about sex or fantasy. This was about comfort. About tapping into a version of femininity I’ve always longed to try. It was my way of honoring both my wife and this part of me I’ve only recently started letting breathe.

Reality Check: I Didn’t Live as a Transgender Housewife 24/7

Let’s be real. I didn’t live as Michelle full-time. My girls were still home most of the week, and they were absolutely my first priority. That meant balanced meals, quality time, structure, and making sure they felt safe and loved. Housework came second. Michelle came third.

But I did make time for her.

I built a routine: activities with the girls, scheduled quiet time (thanks, video games and Disney+), and a consistent bedtime. Once they were asleep, I became Michelle. I also had three days where my mother-in-law watched them—including one overnight. Those were my full femme days.

Sunday: Starting the Transgender Housewife Journey

The first day was focused on reclaiming order. Things slowly migrate over time—clothes in the wrong rooms, tools left wherever they were last used. I didn’t start deep organizing yet. I just picked everything up and made sure it was in the correct room. Intentional chaos-sorting, I guess?

Also, laundry and dishes? Completely caught up. There wasn’t a single dirty plate or sock in the house by bedtime. That alone felt like an accomplishment worth celebrating.

Monday: First Full Femme Day as a Transgender Housewife

After dropping the girls off with my mother-in-law, I came home and transformed. Breastforms, shapewear, jeans, a coral top, cardigan, wedges. Full makeup. I felt like I was stepping into a part of myself that had been waiting.

I kept moving items to their proper spaces, just like Sunday. Still not organizing yet—just setting the stage. And then around lunch, I got this sudden, overwhelming urge.

I went out. In public. Fully dressed.

It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t on the schedule. But it was time. And I did it.

I’ve already written about that experience here, but in short: it was terrifying. And exhilarating. And massive. My first time being seen like that—and surviving it. I came back shaky and proud and more alive than I’ve felt in a long time.

Tuesday: Catch-Up and Clean-Up

This wasn’t a Michelle day—my girls were home—but I still got a lot done.

I tackled the “cat bathroom,” which had turned into a disaster zone of half-finished home projects and donation piles. I sorted tools, scraps, and supplies. Took a full load of recycling to the center. Made room in the garage for the leftover project pieces. Then I deep cleaned two other bathrooms—drawers, cabinets, floors. Everything.

It was sweaty, intense work. But I was proud. And even if I wasn’t fully presenting, I still felt like Michelle underneath it all.

Wednesday: A Big Day of Confidence, Fear, and Femme Joy

This was one of my planned femme days. I had specifically built the week around being able to go out while the girls were staying overnight at their grandma’s. I had also been building a thrifting list for over a week—things I wanted to try to find and add to my tiny wardrobe.

I got dressed: shapewear, forms, makeup, a new top, and jeans. Then I hit the drive-through for coffee. Being called “ma’am” over the speaker? Incredible. Hearing it before being seen? That meant even more.

From there, I went to both Salvation Army and Goodwill. I found nearly everything I’d hoped to find—plus a few cute surprises.

Then I went to the mall.

It’s hard to describe how terrifying it was to walk up to the doors. Past dozens of people. Being seen. Being noticed.

I could feel eyes on me as I walked through the mall. I’m pretty sure some looked. I didn’t hear any comments, but I felt them.

Inside Victoria’s Secret, I’m pretty sure the associate clocked me. But she was sweet. She complimented my makeup. Asked if I needed help. Treated me like anyone else.

It meant the world. I left with Love Spell lotion and perfume—and this quiet sense that maybe I did belong. (I wasn’t there for anything naughty, ya pervs!)

But after that? I crashed. I tried to eat lunch in the food court, but the crowd was too much. I felt…proud?Ashamed, exposed, happy, scared, small. I drove home, had leftovers, and, honestly, cried a little.

Eventually, I got back to work. I cleaned my office. Reorganized the library. Got rid of a desk my wife and I had been talking about for months.

That night, I went out again. Still dressed. I had made a reservation at a quiet sushi restaurant and told them ahead of time that I was transgender and hoping to be seated somewhere private. They were incredibly kind about it. I was tucked in a low-traffic booth.

No drama. No stares. Just nigiri and peace.

I ended the night watching Emily in Paris in a soft sleep shirt. And I fell asleep as Michelle—emotionally drained, but completely at home in my own skin.

Thursday: Emotional Recovery

Thursday, I hit a wall. Mentally. Emotionally. I was overwhelmed. And the weather wasn’t great.

So I didn’t push it.

I picked up the girls, and we just stayed inside. Pajamas. Disney movies. Snacks. No chores. Just soft, quiet connection. And I needed it more than I realized.

Friday: Rockabilly Realness & Transgender Housewife Wins

Dropped the girls off at my mother-in-law’s early. Came home. Got dressed in a new rockabilly dress—blue with white polka dots and the perfect sleeves for my arms. Did my makeup. Slid on wedges. I felt good. Confident. Feminine.

Hit the drive-through for breakfast and coffee. Another “ma’am” at both. Another internal squeal. (Do I have the voice down!?)

Then it was time to get to work. I deep cleaned and organized the kitchen, pantry, and living room. Labeled bins. Reorganized the spice drawer. I organized her mason jar and canning stash—gave it all a proper place so it’s easy to see.

I thought about her constantly while I worked. About whether I was overstepping. But I think she’ll appreciate it.

It wasn’t just about cleaning. It was about showing love through the details. Through care.

What I Didn’t Finish as a Transgender Housewife

I didn’t touch the garage, attic, or kids’ rooms. Surface-level stuff like mopping and sweeping didn’t get done either. And honestly? That’s okay.

What I did was more than enough. And for once, Michelle didn’t just exist in the quiet moments. She lived a real life.

What Being a Transgender Housewife Meant to Me

Usually, Michelle only gets a few hours at a time. Just enough for some creative projects—writing, blogging (hello!), drawing, or programming—then back in the closet. Literally.

But this week? I lived as her.

And it changed something.

The week wasn’t perfect. I cried. I panicked. I doubted myself. I felt shame. But I also felt joy. Peace. Authenticity. Pride. I wasn’t playing a role—I was living as the version of me I’ve wondered about for a long while.

Even just existing while dressed—folding towels, planning meals, scrubbing the toilet—felt like a revelation. It made the ordinary feel extraordinary.

It wasn’t a performance. It was presence. And that presence healed something.

I also saw my wife more clearly. Not just as a partner, but as a powerhouse. She does so much for our family, quietly and constantly. And stepping into that role gave me a new layer of respect I didn’t even realize I was missing.

Tomorrow, My Wife Comes Home

She’ll probably notice the house is cleaner. Not all of it right away, but eventually. I’m not going to walk her through a checklist. I’ll let her discover it naturally.

When she asks (and when the time is right), I’ll tell her the truth.

That Michelle did all this.

That it wasn’t just about housework. It was about love. About showing up for her in a way that still felt like me—just…me as Michelle. That my feelings for her don’t change when I’m dressed like this. If anything, they feel even deeper. More intentional. That even as Michelle, I’m still her partner. Still hers.

And yes, I’m going to finish the rest of the house.

💜 This is part of a 3-part series where I finally got to live out my crossdressing housewife fantasy. Wanna read the whole thing?
Crossdressing Housewife Fantasy? I’m Living It Next Week
Living as a Transgender Housewife for a Week—And Loving It
I Told My Wife I Was a Transgender Housewife


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