I also have an experience which, in retrospect, I think may have kickstarted my dysphoria. I'd like to share it, but it does involve sexual things, some of which are a little upsetting. So for those who have sexual assault related triggers, this is a
trigger warning. Nothing too gory or intense, but y'know, just in case!
Anyway! When I was in high school, I had a boyfriend who I cared deeply about, and who cared deeply for me. We had something of a story-book romance, or at least, as close as you can get when you're both 16.

I am looong since over it, haha.
He and I were travelling together, exploring, generally acting like two dumb babies in an indie romance flick. One night, he was drunk. I was not. He wanted to have sex, I did not. We compromised, sort of. Sort of. I agreed to lie on the bed naked, and told him that he could 'do whatever he wanted,' so long as I didn't have to participate. No bueno.
I sort of just ... idk, it was weird. I 'checked out' of my body as he inspected me, like I was some sort of sex doll, and he was making sure his product was structurally sound. He would look at me, touch me, and I would coldly, clinically, explain each part of me as though I were giving a gynecological lesson. ''Yes, that's my inner labia'' kind of thing. And it was fine, honestly, it was fine. I didn't feel scared. I didn't feel much of anything. I wasn't traumatized.
But my relationship with my body was more overtly uncomfortable after that. Almost like I never quite 'checked back in.' I'd always regarded my body distantly, with neither hatred nor affection, but after that night, I kind of lost any lingering attachment I might've had. I was just a collection of parts, perfectly functional, like a nicely constructed machine.
I've secretly held the hope that transition will make me feel more like myself, that after I have the body I want, I'll be able to look at myself naked with something other than cool disinterest and a touch of disgust. I'd really like to be able to present in myself, to be interested in intimacy. I'm profoundly afraid, though, that I'm treating my arm pain when really I'm having a heart attack. That is, that I'm addressing a symptom and not the underlying disease. What if there's ''something else'' that makes me like this? What if I'm just failing to see the real problem? It'd be a lot of money, pain, and stigma to find that I was delusional the whole time.
I've never told anyone this, either my worry or the event. Hope it wasn't overshare. The topic just resonated.