Every year on Earth Day, something in me stirs. It’s a quiet pull toward sunlight, toward green, toward fresh air that doesn’t carry the weight of walls and wires. I’m not religious, but I’m deeply spiritual. And spring, for me, feels like a sacred reopening. The trees bud. The dirt warms. And I, too, begin to feel alive again.
As a transgender woman, the world often feels hostile and artificial. Indoors, I spend too much time doomscrolling headlines, reading about laws meant to erase people like me, and watching the news recycle panic and pain. But outside, in the woods, near water, under clouds, I feel real. I feel like I exist.
If you follow me on social media, you’ve probably noticed the shift. This time of year, my feed fills up with shots of moss, trees, and flowers cracking through pavement. Even my selfies are different, less mirror, more sunshine. I’m outside more, and it shows. The light just hits different. I chase it with my camera, looking for the perfect play of shadow and bloom, for movement in stillness. I don’t just take photos because they’re beautiful. I take them because they help me feel beautiful, too.
Nature, quite literally, reminds me I’m still here.
And this isn’t just poetic rambling. Science backs it up.
Why Nature Matters, Especially for Trans People
Transgender people live under a weight that’s often invisible to those outside the community. It’s the weight of chronic hypervigilance, worrying about being stared at, misgendered, harassed, or legislated out of existence. According to a 2022 report by The Trevor Project, over 70% of transgender youth experienced symptoms of anxiety, and more than half considered suicide in the past year. Adults fare similarly. And those numbers only tell part of the story.
While access to gender-affirming care, supportive communities, and legal protections are essential, there’s another kind of care that’s often overlooked. Ecotherapy is the healing power of simply being outside.
A growing body of research supports what many of us have instinctively known: nature heals. Exposure to green spaces reduces cortisol levels, improves mood, boosts immunity, and even promotes neurological healing in cases of trauma and PTSD. For transgender individuals, who often experience compounded trauma from systemic discrimination, these benefits are profound.
But it’s more than just “go outside, you’ll feel better.” It’s about being outside in ways that feel safe, meaningful, and connected to something bigger than the daily grind of survival.
Forest Bathing and the Art of Slowing Down
One practice I fell in love with is forest bathing, or shinrin-yoku, a Japanese form of mindfulness that involves slowly walking through nature while tuning into your senses. It’s not exercise. It’s not hiking. You’re not counting steps or chasing peaks. You’re simply being, noticing the way the leaves shimmer, how the wind smells after rain, the texture of bark under your fingertips.
Studies have shown that forest bathing can lower heart rate and blood pressure, decrease anxiety, and improve concentration. For trans folks dealing with dysphoria, internalized shame, or the constant emotional drain of social surveillance, forest bathing can offer a moment of unguarded presence. A moment where the trees don’t care how you’re dressed or what name you use.
It’s not about escaping the world. It’s about reconnecting to a world that doesn’t demand you prove your existence.
Gardening as Self-Affirmation
Gardening, too, has deep roots in healing. The act of digging, planting, and nurturing is one of the most literal affirmations of life you can perform. Transgender people, especially those recovering from rejection, homelessness, or trauma, can find a powerful sense of agency and transformation in gardening.
Whether you’re growing herbs on a balcony, tending flowers in a shared community space, or planting vegetables in your backyard, gardening fosters patience and reward. It reconnects you to cycles of change and growth. It teaches you to care, gently and consistently, for something vulnerable without judgment.
For many trans people whose bodies have been policed, legislated, or denied recognition, gardening can be a way to reclaim intimacy with physicality. You can sweat, get dirty, breathe deep, and feel powerful in your skin, regardless of how others see you.
Photography, Queer Gaze, and Nature’s Invitation
When I’m out with my camera, I don’t think about being watched. I think about watching. I get to be the observer, the one framing beauty, not the object being framed or scrutinized. It shifts the dynamic in a way that feels deeply empowering.
Nature photography, especially, can become a practice of queer seeing. You look for what others miss. A tangle of vines shaped like a heart, moss reclaiming stone, the way light filters through leaves like stained glass. You learn to trust your own vision. You claim space, silently and without apology.
This act of noticing, of capturing the overlooked, is itself an act of survival. It says, I see. I matter. This beauty is mine, too.
Camping Alone: A Return to Myself
Lately, I’ve been thinking about going camping alone. Not in a crowded campground packed with RVs and campfire karaoke, but something quieter. Something wild. I want to pitch my tent beneath trees that don’t ask questions, brew coffee as the mist rises off a lake, and fall asleep to the sound of crickets instead of sirens.
I’ve never done a full solo camping trip before. Like many trans people, I’ve had to be careful about where I go and who might be nearby. But something about this year, this spring, feels different. I’m not chasing danger. I’m craving presence. I want to strip life back to what matters: shelter, fire, breath, and sky.
Camping alone is more than a getaway. It feels like a kind of pilgrimage. Out there, without distractions or performance, I can listen to the version of myself that doesn’t need to explain who she is. She just is. She builds a fire. She reads by lantern light. She stares into stars and feels, maybe for the first time in weeks, completely real.
Of course, I’ll prepare. I’ve been researching safe spots, queer-friendly public lands, and gear I can carry without wrecking my back. I’ll bring a GPS tracker. I’ll leave my plan with a friend. But I’ll also bring my camera, my journal, and a quiet intention: to remember what it feels like to exist without filters.
There’s power in solitude. Not loneliness, just space. Space to hear yourself think. Space to cry if you need to. Space to laugh at nothing and know it’s okay. Camping solo isn’t for everyone, but for me, it’s starting to sound less like an idea and more like a calling.
Maybe this Earth Day, it’s not just about returning to nature. Maybe it’s about returning to ourselves, with nothing in the way.
Safety and Accessibility: Finding Your Green Space
Of course, not all outdoor spaces feel safe for everyone. Some trans people, especially those of color or with visible gender nonconformity, may feel uneasy in rural or unfamiliar areas. That’s valid.
But nature isn’t limited to national parks or isolated trails. Healing green spaces can be:
- A local park bench under a tree
- A botanical garden with entry by donation
- A rooftop garden or apartment balcony with potted plants
- A cemetery (yes, really—quiet, green, and often empty)
- A bike path or walking loop around a lake
Choose what feels safe and accessible to you. Go alone if that feels peaceful. Go with a trusted friend if you need backup. Go with headphones if the world is too loud. There’s no wrong way to meet the Earth halfway.
Community Gardens and Collective Care
For trans folks who feel isolated, community gardens can be game-changers. These shared spaces often exist in cities, offering plots to residents for a small fee or sometimes free. They come with the bonus of building gentle social connections.
Growing alongside others can create a slow, natural way to bond without the pressure of coming out or sharing your life story. You get to exist in the doing: weeding, watering, and watching things grow. The plants don’t need an explanation. Neither do you.
Some LGBTQ+ centers or nonprofits even sponsor gardens specifically for queer and trans people. If one doesn’t exist near you, maybe Earth Day 2025 is your call to help start one.
The Bigger Picture: Regeneration, Not Just Resistance
There’s a deep spiritual truth in watching something green fight its way through concrete. Resilience isn’t just about surviving. It’s about regenerating. It’s about thriving in unexpected places.
As transgender individuals, we often talk about resilience like it’s a scar, proof we endured harm. But what if we thought about resilience like a seed? Quiet, hidden, bursting with possibility.
Nature isn’t just our backdrop. It’s our collaborator. It teaches us to adapt. It reminds us that change is natural. It promises that winter will pass. Always.
Earth Day: A Call to Reconnect, Not Escape
Earth Day doesn’t have to be about big gestures. You don’t have to organize a protest or plant a forest. Sometimes, the most radical thing you can do is simply step outside and feel alive.
So this year, I’ll do what I always do. I’ll grab my camera, lace up my boots, and go wandering. I’ll look for light that feels like poetry. I’ll breathe like I mean it. I’ll thank the Earth, not as a savior, but as a companion.
And maybe, if you’re reading this, you’ll find your own green space. Maybe you’ll stand in the sun and feel yourself begin to thaw. Maybe you’ll remember that you belong here, not just in the fight, but in the living.
Because trans bodies, like the Earth, were never meant to be erased. We were meant to bloom.
Further Reading and Resources
- The Trevor Project Mental Health Reports
- American Psychological Association: The Therapeutic Power of Nature
- Shinrin-Yoku: The Art and Science of Forest Bathing by Dr. Qing Li (affiliate link)
- Trans Nature Walks: A growing number of meetups across the U.S. (check LGBTQ+ center calendars)
- Community Garden Directories: Look up your city’s parks department or nonprofit listings
The Bottom Line
There’s nothing soft about choosing joy in a world that wants to steal it. There’s nothing naive about believing that walking among trees might save your life. And there is nothing small about finding moments of peace where you can, especially when your very existence is politicized.
This Earth Day, may we all return to the green. May we grow roots. May we breathe deep. May we remember that survival isn’t the end goal. Thriving is.
Let’s step outside and into ourselves.
