San Quentin, built in 1852, is home to some of this country’s most notorious criminals. It’s storied history is brimming with intriguing stories, from common street thugs to gangsters and serial killers. It has been a point of fascination for storytellers, activists and the public for years. It is also where I make my living.

In the 163 years guards have been keeping watching over prisoners at San Quentin, there has never been a guard like me. I am the prisons first, and only, openly transgender correctional officer. When I first walked through the prison’s gates and towering walls eight years ago I still went by Michael. Prison was intimidating then. I hadn’t yet come out.

Soon I will walk through those gates again, complete for the first time with the body of a woman.

Three weeks ago, I underwent Gender Confirmation Surgery, a procedure meant to irrevocably alter my male genitalia into that of a woman’s. Crudely stated, I turned my penis into my vagina.

My family and I arrived at the hospital just south of San Francisco a day before the procedure. We met with my doctor so that she could make sure that I was prepared for the big day. I was catatonic, in shock and worried. It was happening in less than 24 hours. What if I chickened out and disappointed myself? What if I made a mistake and was unhappy after the surgery? What if I died on the operating table? (The chances are small, but no surgery is without risk).

My doctor, Marci Bowers, is also transgender. She began her examination of my penis. I imagined at the time that she looked at my genitalia the same way an Italian Renaissance artist regards a lump of rock. All the raw material is there, but it takes a skilled hand to make it into something beautiful.

Dr. Bowers said my penis would give her ample material to work with. For cisgender men, hearing you are well endowed is a compliment. It isn’t for me. I, like other transgender women, don’t want to think about my penis, let alone hear how big it is. But in this context, it gave me comfort. The size of my vagina would be based on the the size of my penis, which is reversed and pulled into my body.

I didn’t sleep much the night before. It felt like Christmas Eve. I was tense with apprehension. I didn’t know what exactly tomorrow would be like, all that I knew was that I could not wait.

By morning, a sudden calm came over my entire body. I knew that in just a few hours my body — and my life — would be forever altered. Crying quietly, I looked at my sister, my mother and father all asleep. I could not believe that they were here with me to say goodbye to their son and welcome their daughter.

Nervous, I sat apart from my family in the hospital waiting room. My mother gave me that look she had used to soothe me since I was her baby boy : a calming face letting me know that it would all be OK. Only two guests were allowed in the surgery prep room, so my father had to wait outside while I met with a nurse, the anesthesiologist and Dr. Bowers. But I couldn’t bear my father’s absence. I wanted him there, I needed him there. I started to cry until we convinced a nurse to let my father in. Finally we were all together. A family.

The flurry of activity in the surgery room was overwhelming. A nurse put a needle in my arm, my heart began to race. They told me I’d get some oxygen. I don’t remember anything after that.

The first thing I heard was the roar of the world, sort of like when you emerge from under water. I started to panic. A nurse told me to stay calm and that the surgery had gone well. I blacked out.

I regained my senses more fully a few hours later. I’d planned to ask everyone how my tonsillectomy had gone, but I was too overwhelmed by anesthesia and the enormity of the moment to remember my lame one-liner.

When I finally worked up the courage to look between my legs, all I saw were bandages. But it is what I couldn’t see — what wasn’t there! — that excited me. I felt numb, but then the tears came. My penis, the very physical symbol of my suffering, was gone.

My new vagina was swollen, bruised and stuffed full of a catheter and medical packing material that would stop my body from closing my new opening. But it was beautiful, even in this state. It is was breathtaking, glorious. It was mine.

The power of what had changed didn’t fully strike me until a charming male nurse reached between my legs to change a bandage and briefly cupped my vagina. It was in no way a sexual act, he was doing his job, but my mind reacted. For the first time in my life, my penis wasn’t in the way. An amazing feeling of euphoria raced across my body. Things were right, and I wanted to feel it again.

It has been three weeks since the surgery. My catheter and the packing material have been removed. I’ve peed, naturally, even though it feels surreal. I spent years adjusting my male anatomy when I would sit down on a toilet and now I don’t have to do that. Old habits can be hard to break.

I now have a routine to care for my vagina. Three times a day for the next three months I have to insert a medical dildo into my vagina and hold it there for 15 minutes. It is painful, but if I don’t do it my vagina could close.

The sheer immensity of what I have accomplished so far in life — finding the courage to come out to myself, to friends and family and then the guards at San Quentin — is daunting. I know that I am strong enough to carry the weight and responsibility of womanhood. Yet I remain drenched in fear that I will fail.

San Quentin, its guards and 3,800 inmates, are waiting for me. In one month I’ll put on my uniform, my badge and my service belt before walking to my a guard tower or my post at the inmate visiting center. I’ve been doing that for eight years, three as a woman. Yet my soul has always felt incomplete. This will be different.

ILLUSTRATION BY SAM WOOLLEY

Mandi Camille Hauwert is a correctional officer at San Quentin State Prison in Marin County, California and is a regular contributor to Ratter. She also co-hosts The Queer Life radio show on KBBF 89.1 FM in Calistoga from 6-8 p.m. every Friday. Follow Mandi on Instagram.