As election results rolled in, I watched alongside my readers, many of whom are queer, trans, or have family members who are. It quickly became clear that we were facing the reality of another Trump presidency—not only that, but this presidency would come on the heels of a $215 million ad campaign priming Americans to hate people like us. As I watched into the early hours of the next morning, I found myself drawn less to the election numbers and more to the urgent messages from those truly at risk of ending it all.
In these moments, I keep finding myself looking back at those who came before us and their struggles. There's a famous quote: "The longer you can look back, the farther you can look forward." When I look back, I see that the fight for rights is rarely a steady path forward; it's a journey filled with turbulence, despair, and hope appearing in the most unlikely places and times. Today, this truth resonates deeply: this has always been a generational fight—one few of us ever chose but one we've been drafted into nonetheless.
I first realized I was transgender in 1999, at just 12 years old. In truth, I'd known I was meant to be a girl as early as age 6, but society offered neither the concept nor the hope that such a truth could be realized. It was in online IRC chats and D&D groups that I could finally be myself. Even then, the idea of coming out, as some gay people could at the time, felt like an impossible future for me.
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