Today, on the inauguration of Donald Trump—again—let it be known that I refuse to disappear. I refuse to be quiet. I refuse to be made into an afterthought, a scapegoat, or a footnote in someone else’s political agenda. I am a transgender woman, and no government, no policy, no toxic wave of anti-trans hatred will make me vanish. Trump may stand in the rotunda of the Capitol, pledging to “protect” America from people like me, but I stand right here, pledging to protect my own existence, my community, and my right to live my truth without apology. So, if there’s one message I want to broadcast on this day—this twisted echo of 2017—it’s this:
I exist. I am real. And I am going nowhere.
A History of Hiding
If you’re reading this, maybe you know exactly what I mean when I say I’ve spent a lifetime in hiding. Maybe the details are different—maybe you’re younger, older, maybe you’re a trans guy, maybe you’re nonbinary—but you get it. That intense, aching fear that if people saw the real you, they’d recoil. They’d mock you. They’d dismiss you as a joke or a menace. They’d label you a “man in a dress,” a “freak,” or some outdated slur that doesn’t even capture the complexity of who you are. For the first couple decades of my life, I swallowed those insults and walled myself off. Like so many trans people, I felt safer invisible than open to the barrage of hatred.
And truth be told, in many ways, it was safer—until it wasn’t. Because I can’t quantify the toll it took on my heart, my mental health, my relationships, my sense of self-worth. That sense of slowly suffocating under a persona that never belonged to me in the first place. It’s in these moments of reflection that I refuse to give up even a single inch. I only began my formal transition within the last two years—proudly, defiantly, and with an unflinching gaze fixed on my future. So when I hear that the administration is drafting policies to eliminate trans healthcare, demonize us as child predators, or silence our voices in schools, it triggers that old, suffocating fear. But it also triggers something stronger: an absolute refusal to retreat back into that locked closet.
A Defiant, Angry Declaration
Anger isn’t always negative. Sometimes, anger is the only logical response to injustice. If you’re reading this and thinking, “Wow, she’s kinda furious,” you’re not wrong. I am furious. And I want you to be furious, too—furious in a way that lights the spark of transformation. That fury is our first line of defense against complacency. Because let’s be real: trans people have always dealt with hostility. But these new policies proposed by President Trump 2.0 (or do I call him President Redux?) are more than just hostility. They’re systematically designed to erase us.
Don’t believe me? Listen to the rhetoric: “Gender ideology is the greatest threat to our youth.” “We will defend traditional values at all costs.” “There will be no place for men in women’s spaces, period.” On paper, these sound like bullet points from some outdated 1950s textbook, but they’re reality in 2025—especially on day one, in the form of newly signed executive orders and promised legislative proposals. We’re living in an era where my right to exist openly—my right to walk into a clinic for estrogen, my right to use a restroom that aligns with my identity, my right to be recognized as a woman on my documents—is up for debate.
Well, here’s my stance on that debate: Not on my watch. I will fight these policies with every breath I have. I will call local representatives, show up at city halls, join marches that circle the White House if needed, and speak up in ways I never have before. Because for all the talk about “erasing identity,” the only thing I want to erase is bigotry. And maybe, if enough of us shout loud enough, we can drown out the hate-fueled directives from those in power.
A Community under Threat
I’m not alone, and that’s the point: we are not alone. I might be focusing on trans people in the United States today, but trans folks across the globe feel the ripple effects of American politics. They always have. From Europe to South America, from Africa to Asia, trans communities watch how the U.S. approaches trans rights—whether it’s the legalization of gay marriage back in 2015, or the attempted bans on trans service members in 2017. And now, in 2025, the global lens is once again trained on Washington. This time, the rhetoric from the Oval Office is downright sinister, fueled by archaic nightmares of “gender conspiracies,” “culture wars,” and “family values.”
But trans folks are used to existing in the crosshairs. In fact, that crosshair existence is what’s bonded many of us. We know the quiet nod in the waiting room at the doctor’s office, the fleeting smile at the pride parade, the subtle solidarity in online forums. We know that sense of shared anxiety—and shared defiance. If you’ve felt that wave of fear spike in the last few months leading up to this inauguration, I hear you. My anger is part of that same fear. It’s the other side of the same coin. It’s the refusal to let that fear define us.
Ways I Will Resist
- Visibility as Resistance: I’m going to keep showing up, in person, at events and online in spaces that celebrate trans identities. If they want us hidden, we will be unmissable. If they want us silent, our voices will fill every corner of social media, the halls of the Capitol, local activism groups, and anywhere else we can find a platform.
- Legal and Political Action: I am reaching out to organizations like the ACLU, Lambda Legal, and Transgender Law Center. We know how to challenge discriminatory policies in court. I will encourage every trans person I know—and every ally who loves us—to donate, volunteer, and sign petitions. Let’s not underestimate the legal system, because we’ve seen pivotal victories before. This is no time to assume it’s a lost cause.
- Education and Dialogue: For those who are on the fence—those who’ve heard the lies about us but never met a trans person—I will continue to engage (when safe) in conversations. I’m not letting the other side hijack the narrative with “groomer” and “predator” scare tactics. We can’t cede the battlefield of public opinion. I will tell my story, show my humanity, and highlight the many ways trans people add brilliance, creativity, and empathy to our communities.
- Community Building: A big part of resisting is building strong networks. Whether it’s local community centers, online forums, or social clubs, we need each other. I’ll be dedicating time to forging connections that last. Allies, if you’re reading, we need you. Mentoring younger trans folks, doing supply drives for those who might lose access to hormones, or simply offering to watch each other’s backs—these actions might sound small, but they’re the glue that holds us together.
- Self-Care as a Form of Defiance: We cannot fight if we’re burnt out. So I plan to care for my mental health, carve out pockets of joy, and surround myself with people who love me for who I am. It’s easy to get lost in negativity; I will protect my spirit, so I can fight another day.
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Empathy for My Trans Siblings
To every trans person out there—from the freshly cracked egg who just realized their truth to the elder who’s been living in stealth for decades—you are valid. You are real. And I feel your fear, your anger, your exhaustion. The new wave of bigotry tries to make us question everything. But you are not alone in your frustration or your heartbreak.
For those of you in states with immediate threats—places that are passing laws to strip away your healthcare or deny you from using the “wrong” bathroom—I see you. And I’m so sorry you have to deal with that. I can’t wave a magic wand to fix it, but I can promise that I will stand with you. Whether that means pressuring governors to veto anti-trans bills or campaigning to flip state legislatures in midterm elections—whatever it takes, we’re in this together.
Allies, I’m calling on you to do more than wear a rainbow pin or post a #TransRightsAreHumanRights hashtag. Show up. Donate to trans relief funds. Write letters to your representatives. Join us in the streets if we march, sign your name if we petition, push back against your own friends and family if they parrot hateful rhetoric. Your tangible, vocal support saves lives, and I say that without an ounce of exaggeration.
My Personal Resolve
To say I’m early in my transition is an understatement. Two years in might feel like a lifetime to me, but in the grand scheme, I’m still finding my footing. My ID might still have the old gender marker, maybe my name change is still mid-process, maybe I’m not yet as far along medically as I hope to be. And that’s okay. But let’s be real: it also makes me feel incredibly vulnerable. I’m constantly waiting for that letter in the mail, that text from my clinic, that announcement that some new rule has come into play and I can’t get my medication anymore.
That’s my reality. But it doesn’t mean I’m powerless. And it sure as hell doesn’t mean I’m going to let them take away my estrogen or my dignity without a fight. If they want to pry those tablets from my cold, dead hands, they’ll have to, because that’s the only way I’m giving them up. This is my lifeline, my rightful medical care, my path to wholeness. Denying me—denying us—our medical care is cruel and unusual punishment. It’s an assault on our very identities, not just our bodies.
I can’t stress this enough: being trans isn’t some hobby I picked up on a whim. It’s who I am. It’s the alignment of my soul with my flesh. If you want to see a bunch of normal people with normal lives—going to school, paying rent, falling in love, adopting cats, writing blogs, building businesses—just take a look at the trans community. We’re as complex and diverse and nuanced as anyone else. We’re your neighbors, your friends, your coworkers, your teachers, your doctors, your baristas. That was true four years ago, and it’s true now in 2025. And it’ll be true in 2050, no matter how many misguided politicians try to pretend we don’t exist.
A Longer Struggle, But We Persist
Donald Trump’s inauguration—this unprecedented second coming—feels like a betrayal to so many of us. It might have felt like we were moving forward at times. We had small but significant victories under other administrations. We saw mainstream media start to embrace trans stories (even if with a fair share of stumbling). And we saw more and more trans folks coming out, standing tall, and demanding to be heard.
Then came this wave. And it’s easy to feel whiplash. It’s easy to think, Haven’t we been here before? Didn’t we do this fight already? But that’s the grim reality of civil rights battles: they don’t just end. Progress is rarely linear. We move forward, we get shoved back, we move forward again. It’s infuriating, but it doesn’t render our past victories meaningless. Because every step we took forward created a foundation of resilience. People know we exist now. People see us. They’ve marched with us, cried with us, celebrated with us. And that sense of visibility—that sense of community—doesn’t just vanish because one man returned to the White House with a vendetta.
What Comes Next
I’m under no illusions that this will be an easy four years. The trans community—and every marginalized group in this country—is bracing for a fierce fight. There will be court battles, there will be heartbreak, there will be nights spent worrying if it’s safe to keep living here. There will be people forced to flee their home states, or even the country, in order to protect themselves. If you find yourself in that situation, know that there is no shame in prioritizing your safety. That might not be an option for everyone, but for some, it might be the only choice.
But I also know we have each other’s backs. In the swirl of anger and defiance, there’s a deep well of empathy—for the single mom who is trans, for the trans kid who can’t access puberty blockers, for the trans senior who’s worried about losing supportive housing, for the nonbinary individual who’s repeatedly told “you can’t exist” by the new wave of so-called “family value” legislation. This empathy binds us. It reminds us that every single one of us deserves to live a life free from persecution.
The Bottom Line
I don’t know how many times I can say it, but I’ll say it at least once more: I exist. My trans siblings exist. We have always existed and we always will. We will not be gaslit into believing we’re some modern invention, nor will we be terrorized into disappearing. We have survived purges, pathologization, conversion therapies, hateful protests, and misinformed morning show pundits. We have weathered the storms of endless mockery, the ignorance of our own families, the condescension of strangers who think they know our lives better than we do.
So, yes, I’m angry. I’m angry at the twisted moral crusade that claims to be about protecting children but is really about demonizing difference. I’m angry at the complacency of those who know better but refuse to speak up. I’m angry that my existence is once again center stage in a culture war I never asked to be a part of. But here I am, center stage, spotlight glaring, heart pounding—and I’m not leaving.
To those who want us gone: Good luck, because you’re in for a fight. And I promise it’ll be a fight that resonates from Washington, D.C., all the way to small towns across this country, and across oceans to every corner of the world where trans people watch, wait, and hope. I cannot and will not hide anymore. This is who I am. We are who we are. We will take up space, we will march, we will shout, we will celebrate our lives and mourn our losses. But we will never cede our right to exist.
Donald Trump may place his hand on the Bible today, mutter the oath of office, and give his speech to thunderous applause from his supporters. But I have placed my hand on my own heart—a heart that beats as fiercely as ever—and I swear my own oath: an oath to protect myself and my trans siblings, to support them through every crisis, and to stand firm in the face of hatred.
I exist. I am a transgender woman. I am furious, I am hopeful, I am tired, and I am relentless. No matter what the next four years bring, I will be here, defiantly alive, until they take my estrogen from my cold, dead hands.
And even then, my spirit—our collective spirit—will rage on. We have too much at stake to do anything less. We are trans. We are unstoppable. We are going nowhere.
