It finally happened.
I always knew it would. When you live your truth online, particularly as a transgender woman who posts edited selfies and speaks out, it’s inevitable that someone will eventually take a piece of you and use it to harm you. Today, it was an unedited photo of me they found on Facebook, shared by a TERF account on Twitter for the sole purpose of cruelty. No filter. No flattering lighting. Just me, raw and real, turned into content for strangers to gawk at and mock.
Was I startled? For a second. But surprised? Not at all.
I’m 56. I didn’t begin transitioning until just two years ago. I’ve spent a lifetime living in a body shaped by testosterone, and I’ve made peace with the reality that some of the damage it caused can’t be undone. I know what I look like. I know my hair isn’t as long or as thick as I’d like it to be. I know my hairline sits further back than most women’s. I know my skin isn’t smooth—not after years of sun, stress, and survival. These things aren’t lost on me. They never have been.
I’m not delusional. I’m just determined.
I also work in the construction industry. A union town. A blue-collar world where toughness is currency and femininity, especially mine, isn’t something you wear on your sleeve unless you’re prepared for the consequences. I’ve come out to my immediate co-workers, the people who know me best on the job. But the teams I oversee? Not yet. Not because I’m ashamed, but because I understand how they see me. I know what’s said about trans people behind closed doors. I’ve heard it. And no, I don’t laugh. I walk away.
Not because it doesn’t hurt, but because I’ve learned how to protect myself.
I know what people see when they look at me. I know what they hear when I pick up the phone. I know what assumptions they make. I also know what happens to trans people who come out fully and don’t “pass.” I’ve watched them face judgment, ridicule, and even danger. And yes, I have the privilege, and I use that word deliberately, of being able to hide parts of myself when I need to. But that privilege comes with a heavy cost.
Every time I walk away from a cruel comment… Every time I avoid the women’s restroom, even when I’m wearing makeup and trying to feel like myself… Every time I swallow my truth for the sake of safety or silence… It chips away at me.
I don’t get upset when I’m misgendered. Not anymore. I understand what people perceive. Gendering, for most, is visual: voice, face, and body. It doesn’t make it right, but it makes it real. And I’ve stopped expecting strangers to see the woman I am just by looking. That doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt. It just means I don’t let it stop me.
Because what makes me a woman isn’t your approval. It’s not a smooth jawline or thick hair or a stranger’s validation. It’s the truth I’ve carried my whole life, even when I didn’t have the words for it. It’s the courage to finally live it, despite everything stacked against me.
I write about that truth often. Many of my articles are personal. They’re born from reflection, vulnerability, and lived experience. But they’re also grounded in research, in advocacy, and in a deep commitment to defending this community I love with everything I’ve got. I write not only to understand myself better but to build something that might protect someone else. Trans people, particularly our youth, are entitled to a better life than what I experienced.
I didn’t have role models growing up in suburban Detroit. I didn’t have representation. I had dysphoria I couldn’t name and a world that gave me no tools to survive it. If I’d had access to support, to resources, to transition earlier… maybe I would look different. Maybe the photo that’s circulating would be one they couldn’t mock so easily.
But that’s not the life I had. And I’m still here anyway.
And to the kids out there, especially the trans ones, I want you to know this: I see you. I fight for you. I want nothing but joy, safety, and understanding for you. The TERFs will twist that and call it “grooming,” but they’re wrong. It’s not grooming, it’s protection. It’s making sure you don’t grow up like I did, lost and self-hating because no one helped you understand what you were feeling. Supporting trans kids means giving them space, compassion, and access to medical professionals and loving parents who can guide, not pressure, them to explore who they are. It’s not about turning anyone transgender. We don’t choose this life; why would we? It’s about making sure no one is forced to be something they’re not, and that includes forcing kids to live in pain just to appease someone else’s ignorance. Trans kids deserve the truth. They deserve options. They deserve the chance to live without shame and I will defend that with everything I have.
To the TERFs sharing my face as if it’s something shameful: Yes, that’s me. That’s me with the shorter, thinner hair and the rough skin. That’s me after decades of silence, surviving in a world that tried to erase me. That’s what persistence looks like. That’s what truth looks like. That’s what resilience looks like.
I’m not ashamed. I’m not hiding. I’m not going anywhere.
With love,
Bricki
