The spark came from a small moment.
On October 18, 2025, Twitter user @turnintoabat posted a tongue-in-cheek selfie captioned “HRT is Magic 💖 labeled for transparency so I don’t mislead anyone.” It was playful, showing the medical steps and costs of her transition with humor and pride. Then Grok, the AI assistant built into Twitter, misidentified her as journalist Taylor Lorenz, turning the post into viral chaos. The two women laughed it off publicly, but the comments soon turned ugly.
What started as absurdist internet comedy became another window into how trans people treat each other online. The cruelty wasn’t coming from outsiders. It was internal. That’s when the thought hit me: maybe the problem isn’t only the world hating us. Maybe we’ve started hating ourselves too.
The Black Pill Spreads Quietly
If you’ve spent time in queer spaces online lately, you’ve seen it. The creeping sense of futility that turns everything bitter. People call it being black pilled. It’s the belief that the game is rigged, that nothing will ever improve, and that everyone else’s success is proof of your own failure.
It’s an emotional rot disguised as realism. And it’s spreading fast inside trans spaces.
Every time someone posts a happy update, a dozen people tear it apart. Every time someone shares a selfie, someone else comments about “passing privilege” or “performing cisnormativity.” The black pill thrives in that energy. It tells us connection is impossible, that joy is suspect, and that any expression of confidence must come at someone else’s expense.
The New Mean Girl Energy
Somewhere along the line, online trans spaces started to feel like digital high school cafeterias. Hierarchies based on looks, surgeries, followers, and who can quote the right politics the loudest.
You can almost predict the rhythm: someone posts a proud photo or surgery milestone, and within minutes, another accuses them of classism or vanity. Someone else piles on with 4chan-born slurs like “passoid.” Then comes the chorus of spectators pretending it’s discourse when it’s just gossip with socialist hashtags.
This isn’t about accountability or ideology. It’s projection. People weaponize their own insecurities by shaming those who happen to be further along or luckier.
And yes, capitalism makes this worse. Medical transition costs money. Presentation costs money. Safety often costs money. But tearing down someone who finally feels whole doesn’t redistribute wealth. It just spreads misery.
When Solidarity Becomes a Scoreboard
A community should be built on empathy, not envy. Yet our timelines are turning compassion into competition. Who suffered most. Who deserves aid. Who’s “real.” Who’s “privileged.”
Mutual aid campaigns get attacked for being self-centered. Creators celebrating a milestone are accused of selling out. People who’ve managed to build stability are framed as oppressors, while those still struggling feel erased. Everyone ends up angry, defensive, and lonely.
I’m old enough to remember when trans message boards were clunky but kind. People asked for advice, traded transition hacks, and shared survival stories. Now, we have better technology and worse humanity.
The Author’s Reckoning
I’m a 56-year-old trans woman who started transitioning at 53. I know I don’t pass. I know what I look like. I also know I’m lucky to still be here.
I haven’t had surgery yet. Not because I don’t want to, but because life doesn’t always cooperate. I could sit online stewing about that. Instead, I choose not to weaponize my pain. When I see another trans woman posting joy, I hit “like.” I don’t call her privileged. I don’t sneer that she had it easier. I’m just happy someone made it.
But lately, when I scroll, I see people my age and younger tearing each other apart for sport. It’s not activism. It’s self harm performed in public.
Pain Isn’t a Personality
Part of the problem is that suffering has become social currency. Being miserable earns credibility. Being hopeful looks naïve.
If you post something funny or proud, someone will tell you you’re ignoring real issues. If you talk about those issues, someone will say you’re trauma baiting. There’s no winning. The only acceptable state seems to be visible exhaustion.
That mindset doesn’t build resilience. It builds resentment. We forget that joy is also revolutionary. Living openly, laughing loudly, or just existing peacefully are political acts in a world that wants us erased.
Capitalism, Class, and Projection
Let’s talk about the elephant in the group chat: money.
Transitioning costs thousands. Voice therapy, electrolysis, hormones, clothing, surgeries, all of it. And yes, capitalism decides who gets to feel comfortable in their body. That’s a brutal truth. But lately I see that anger redirected laterally, not upward.
Instead of railing against broken healthcare systems or exploitative employers, people lash out at the trans woman with a good job. They call her privileged for affording facial feminization or a new wardrobe, as if comfort were a moral failure. That isn’t anti-capitalism. It’s jealousy masquerading as justice.
If someone’s success reminds you of what you lack, that’s not their fault. That’s the system. We can be angry at inequality without turning our peers into enemies.
The Role of AI and Algorithms
The Grok mix up that mislabeled a random fencer as Taylor Lorenz was a tech joke gone viral, but it also exposed how algorithmic chaos fuels social division. AI doesn’t understand nuance. It just amplifies whatever grabs attention. The more dramatic the conflict, the higher it trends.
And we, predictably, play along. We’ve been trained to chase engagement like lab rats pressing the dopamine lever. Outrage performs better than empathy. Snark travels faster than solidarity.
It’s easy to blame AI, but it only mirrors our own impulses back at us. The real algorithm is human insecurity.
Trans Spaces Aren’t Immune to Power Games
For a movement built on authenticity, we spend a lot of energy performing. Who’s the most radical. Who’s the most authentic. Who’s the most oppressed.
Somewhere, we forgot that our real enemies aren’t each other. They’re systems that criminalize our healthcare, erase our history, and exploit our labor. Yet we treat internal difference as betrayal.
That’s how communities collapse. Not from outside attacks, but from endless purity tests within. Every revolution that turns inward dies the same way, eaten alive by ego.
Why TransVitae Exists
When I launched TransVitae, I wanted a space that felt grounded in reality but still hopeful. A place where we could talk about our lives without tearing each other down. Heading into our third year, I’m proud of that mission, but I also see how much harder it’s become.
We don’t just fight external hatred anymore. We fight internal exhaustion. We’ve replaced solidarity with sarcasm and called it progress.
TransVitae can’t fix the internet, but maybe it can remind people what empathy sounds like when spoken out loud.
Breaking the Cycle
If you’re online long enough, you start seeing the same loop.
- Someone shares joy.
- Strangers attack.
- Poster retreats.
- Attackers complain that no one posts anymore.
- Repeat.
That’s the digital version of learned helplessness. It conditions us to expect pain whenever we express ourselves. Over time, that becomes internalized. We stop sharing. We stop trusting. We stop trying.
That’s what being black pilled really is. Not hating the world, but believing connection itself is futile.
Stepping Back From the Abyss
So how do we fight back against that mindset?
Not with more lectures. Not with callouts. With small, deliberate kindness. A “nice photo.” A “you look great.” A “congratulations.” Those words cost nothing but mean everything in a landscape of cruelty.
We can’t legislate empathy, but we can model it. We can refuse to join pile-ons. We can log off when conversations turn toxic. We can remember that silence sometimes protects peace, not privilege.
Offline Reality Check
The online cruelty doesn’t stay online. It seeps into real life. I’ve seen trans meetups dissolve because of old Twitter beefs. I’ve watched support groups implode over screenshots taken out of context. We’re burning community bridges we haven’t even finished building.
Meanwhile, the outside world grows more hostile. Anti-trans bills multiply. Healthcare access shrinks. Violence rises. And yet, somehow, we find the energy to fight each other instead of the people legislating us out of existence.
That’s the part that breaks my heart most. We’re running out of safe places, and we’re torching the few we still have.
A Hard Truth About Age and Perspective
Maybe this hits me harder because of my age. When you transition later in life, you stop pretending time is infinite. You learn to pick your battles. You learn that some arguments don’t matter after 10 p.m.
You also learn humility. I’ll never look like the women half my age who started HRT in their teens. And that’s okay. My face tells a longer story. My scars are part of the narrative.
I wish more of us could reach that point without first passing through so much bitterness. Because the truth is, the black pill lies. Life does change. People do grow. Community can heal. But only if we stop mistaking cruelty for honesty.
Choosing Light Over Nihilism
I know this piece will ruffle feathers. That’s fine. I’m not writing it for applause. I’m writing it because I’m tired of watching potential allies turn into enemies over aesthetics and theory.
Yes, some people will always project their pain. Some will always weaponize politics to mask insecurity. But that doesn’t have to be the norm. We can choose to stop feeding the beast.
If being black pilled means giving up on compassion, then I’ll take the risk of staying naïve. I’d rather believe in imperfect people trying than perfect cynics sneering.
The Bottom Line
The “HRT is Magic” meme wasn’t important because of AI or influencers. It mattered because it reminded me how fragile our togetherness has become. One small post can ignite an inferno of envy, shame, and moral grandstanding.
But it also reminded me of the flip side, the laughter between two strangers who chose grace over drama. The moment when Taylor Lorenz joked, “I wish I looked as good as you.” That’s what community could look like if we let it.
We can’t stop every flame war. We can’t fix every algorithm. But we can decide not to be part of the rot. We can choose compassion over competition. And maybe that’s how we start pulling ourselves back from the black pill, one kind comment at a time.
