The first time I came out as non-binary I had no expectations. It was almost accidental, like I was imagining what I might say and then just… said it. I think I said “well, some people don’t feel like they’re a woman or a man… I think I might be like that.” But I actually don’t remember because when my friend smiled at me and told me that made sense to him, the rush of rightness was the only thing I could remember. We were sitting in the park eating cheese sandwiches and picking the mouldy bits off supermarket raspberries. And I was non-binary.

The second time I came out as non-binary I thought it was going to be hard. I’ve been with my partner for twelve years and I couldn’t help but picture myself when we got together. There were mini-skirts involved. But we’ve always talked everything through, so I just started the conversation: I’ve been thinking a lot about my gender identity.

It wasn’t so easy. It was always loving, and honest, and I always felt safe. But it wasn’t just one conversation. It’s every conversation we’ve had in the gulf of time since, and every conversation we will have for the rest of our lives.

He said something to me one day: “I never had to come out before this”. And now he does. Now every time he uses they instead of she to refer to me, he’s outing himself, just a little bit. That’s something I’d never really considered. So we talk about it – “Well, you know, gender and sexuality aren’t so rigid really…” – but then I realise that’s not the kind of chat you probably have when you’re trying to get a piano out of a lorry.

But then I hear him calling me they like he’s not even thinking about it and it sounds exactly like he’s saying I love you and my heart is so full.

The third time I came out as non-binary I was wearing a bin bag as a poncho and perching on my friend’s garden wall whilst she applied a home bleaching kit to my singing pink scalp. This was probably the easiest time yet, not only because we were both focused on what would turn out to be an extremely orange dye job, but because she’d been sending me increasingly unsubtle hints that she was ready to Talk About It. “I love this article,” she says, forwarding me a beautiful little essay about binders. She’s bringing up her trans friends in conversations where they’re barely relevant. She’s doing her best to tell me she’s gonna be there.

“I’m gonna start using they I think,” I tell her as she globs my roots.

“I was just saying, I wonder if Benny’s gonna come out as non-binary.”

I don’t think she even blinked.

After that, I lost count of how many times I came out. I did it little by little, conversations of opportunity. Whenever it comes up. To colleagues. To strangers. Finally after weeks of trying to get a brunch in the diary, to one of my best friends, who’s hearing impaired, and who was so nonchalant about it that I thought she might not have heard me. But she was just being extremely cool. Everyone was extremely cool, really.

I came to really love the coming out process. But it was also a bit like planning a wedding guestlist: trying to keep across who I’d told and who I still had to tell, and trying not to hurt anyone’s feelings. Eventually I decided I’d done all the face-to-faces necessary (with a couple of very important exceptions) and sat down one night to do the rest.

Actually, I poured myself a drink, ran a bath, and sat in some sort of bath bomb soup for an hour and a half whilst I crafted out messages to everyone who didn’t know. My group chats were peppered with confessions:

Hi friends, this feels dumb to send as a message but hey ho #millenniallyfe, I just wanted to tell you guys, if you have not picked up on my dumb jokes I have started identifying as non-binary and using they/them instead of she/her. It is not a big deal and don’t stress about getting anything wrong, I am chill and happy and nothing has really changed. OK BYE.

And then the sparkly pink heart emoji.

So I did it. And it felt good. It felt really good.

And the notable exceptions I mentioned above? My parents. Two of the best and geographically furthest away people in the world. I love them deeply and they are terrible at talking on Skype, so I knew I had to go home, all the way across the world, to Australia, and have that conversation face to face.

So I did. And I recorded it. Because I’m a radio producer and a recording device is a beautiful breastplate of emotional armour.

I’m not going to leave this on a cliffhanger. They were cool about it. They were loving, and kind, and understanding. But I still think you should listen to it, in just a few weeks time, because it’s the culmination of a massive journey for me. And because you never know when someone in your life might want to have that conversation with you.

Caitlin Benedict is a radio and podcast producer for the BBC. They present the BBC podcast NB and show up on BBC Radio 4’s The Film Programme to reveal their ignorance of the cinematic canon.

How It Feels is a weekly blogs series which aims to shine a light on people’s stories, covering subjects where voices are rarely heard. If you want to get involved, please email ukblogteam@huffpost.com