Asking and Telling

I've been thinking a lot lately about whether I made a mistake.

For more than a decade, I've written openly about being transgender. When I started, it felt like the obvious thing to do. Society seemed to be moving in a more accepting direction—slowly, yes, but forward. Marriage equality would soon become law. “Don't Ask, Don't Tell” was gone. The arc of history felt like it really was bending toward justice.

Plus, I had a platform through my blog and my social media accounts, and that gave me the ability to reach people, to help them understand what it means to be trans, even to maybe make things a little easier for those who would come after me. Visibility felt important. Necessary, even.

But now, watching as Trump returns to office with an explicit agenda of erasing trans people from public life, I find myself wondering: Was I wrong? Did I put too much faith in the idea that progress was permanent? Did I make myself—and maybe, by extension, others—more vulnerable by being so public?

These aren't abstract concerns. They're why I recently found myself sitting in a drab Social Security Administration office, making sure my gender marker was correct in their system. They're why I renewed my passport early, even though the old one hadn’t been due to expire for years. Every piece of documentation feels like a potential lifeline—or a potential weapon.

Writing about being trans was, in part, an act of hope. It was a bet that openness would lead to understanding, that telling our stories would help people see us as human beings rather than political talking points. And for a while, it seemed like that bet was paying off.

But something changed. Conservative political movements shifted their focus from marriage equality to what they apparently saw as an easier target: the seemingly suddenly-visible trans population. The “liberal” media that once touted a “Trans Tipping Point” years has soured on trans rights and become obsessed with anti-trans positions on youth and sports. Every trans person who dared to live openly is now being portrayed as part of some sinister political agenda. Our existence has been reframed as a threat to society itself.

I think about the young trans people coming up now, watching as society turns against us. I worry that my writing, my visibility, my attempts to explain and humanize and build bridges—maybe it all just gave the other side more ammunition. Maybe I helped paint the target on our backs.

But then I remember why I started writing in the first place. It wasn't just about making things better for others—though that was part of it. It was about refusing to be silent. It was about claiming my right to exist in public, to tell my own story rather than having it told about me.

The world feels darker now than it did when I started. The idea that we were moving steadily toward acceptance seems naive in retrospect. But I'm not sure that means I was wrong to write. Maybe it just means I was wrong about how safe we ever really were.

Recently, I spent time in an intensive mental health program—“brain camp,” as I've taken to calling it. One of the things we learned about was radical acceptance: the idea that you can fully accept reality as it is while simultaneously working to change it. I've been trying to apply that here.

Yes, being so public about being trans may have made me more vulnerable. Yes, the current backlash is terrifying. Yes, there are days when I wish I could somehow unpublish everything I've ever written and disappear into anonymity. I’ve been having a lot of those days, if I’m being honest with myself.

But also: my writing helped people. I know this because they've told me. It helped other trans people feel less alone. It helped parents understand their trans kids. It helped allies learn how to be better advocates. That really does matter, even if it feels dangerous now.

And there's still reason for hope. Maybe the awareness we've built about inclusion and equality has taken deeper root. Maybe because so many of us have lived openly and authentically—trans people, gay people, everyone who refused to hide who they are and who they love—we've created real understanding that can't be erased. Maybe enough people have seen us as their neighbors, their coworkers, their family members, that they'll stand with us against this wave of hate. The past decade of visibility might not have guaranteed our safety, but it might have helped build a foundation for real, lasting change.

The truth is, I don't know if I was wrong to write about being trans. I do know that I can't take it back, and I'm not sure I would even if I could. What I can do is keep using whatever platform I have to fight back against the dehumanization and fear-mongering. I can use my writing to keep insisting on our humanity, our right to exist, our right to tell our own stories. I can highlight the voices of activists and advocates.

Maybe that's what visibility always was: not a guarantee of safety, but an act of resistance. Not a shield, but a declaration that we won't be silent even when silence might be easier.

I don't know what the coming years will bring. But I know this: they want those of us who won’t conform to their ideology of hate to regret having been visible. They want us to wish we'd stayed quiet. And maybe that's the best argument for why we shouldn't.

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