It started with a loud conversation. Not the kind where two people calmly trade thoughts, but the kind where voices rise and emotions boil over. I was speaking with someone I once had deep feelings for, someone I thought felt the same. In that moment, every hurt from the past year came rushing out of me like an avalanche.
The words I spilled weren’t careful or measured. They were raw, built up from months of betrayal, fear, and disappointment. And as I said them, I realized how many times I had been told I was cared for, only to discover those words meant little when tested. That is the hardest lesson I keep learning: words are cheap. What matters is whether people act on them.
This piece is not a pity post, although I know some might try to see it that way. It is not a “woe is me” diary entry. It is me speaking plainly about hurt I know too many in our transgender community share: being taken for granted, being told we are supported while actions prove otherwise, and carrying the loneliness of knowing that when we need people most, too often they vanish. I use this platform, TransVitae, not only to uplift others but also to publicly journal when my own experiences intersect with the wider struggles of our community. Because while this is my life, I know I am not the only one who feels it.
A Year Ago, I Thought I Was Finally Moving Forward
Twelve months ago, my life felt like it was opening up. I had scheduled consultations with surgeons for facial feminization and breast augmentation. I felt strong enough to step outside publicly as myself. I had started speaking at LGBTQ events and had even applied to sit on my city’s LGBTQ advisory board. I was connecting with others, building friendships, and feeling like I had found some sense of belonging. For once, my reflection in the mirror felt aligned with the momentum in my life.
Then November came. With the re-election of Donald Trump, the ground shifted. Almost immediately, both my procedures were denied by my insurance. My surgeon told me I was not the first. It was not just a financial blow. It was a declaration that my care was now political, that something about me was less worthy in the eyes of a system suddenly emboldened to push back against trans lives.
The hurt multiplied when I received a message from a family member that a young trans woman I had been mentoring had taken her life the day after the election results became official. I was devastated. I put on a public smile, kept publishing, and kept encouraging others, but inside, I was collapsing. I carried the grief quietly, pretending to be “fine” while anxiety gnawed at me like an open wound.
The Mask of Therapy and the Silence of “Support”
I thought therapy might hold me together. For years, I had confided in someone who claimed to be LGBTQ supportive. Over time, the mask slipped. I found out this person had voted for Trump. That fact alone was not what ended it. People are complicated. But therapy sessions had become little more than small talk. When I tried to bring up how policies like Project 2025 terrified me, I was told I was overreacting. I was told to believe Trump’s denials. It was clear my pain was not going to be taken seriously. Ending that therapeutic relationship was both necessary and crushing.
At the same time, a local LGBTQ group I thought would be a chosen family showed its true colors. In person they were warm. But when the meetings ended, so did their care. Unless I was the one reaching out, I never heard from them. They smiled at me across tables, then disappeared the moment I was out of sight. It was a familiar cycle. People treated me like I mattered only when I was useful or visible, not when I actually needed connection.
From Photos to Threats
Things grew darker. One day, I was tagged in a photo on Facebook from a community event where I had spoken. It seemed harmless, until it wasn’t. People who disagreed with my articles dug it up. They connected that tag to my other accounts, my filtered selfies, and my attempts at privacy. The snowball rolled fast. They found more pictures. Then came the doxxing. Sites like Kiwi Farms tracked down my personal information and posted it for strangers to dissect.
I received the first of what would become many veiled death threats, carefully worded enough to dodge legal consequences but pointed enough to leave me terrified. One message included not just my home address but also my family’s addresses, along with a picture someone had taken of me sitting on my balcony. A reminder that I was being watched.
When I called the police, they told me nothing could be done until a direct, explicit threat was made. Friends who I thought might stand with me told me, “Just get off social media.” That was their advice. Disappear. Retreat. Stop making noise. What they did not understand was that my voice, my writing, and my advocacy are my survival. To be told to hide was not protection. It was abandonment dressed up as advice.
The Weight of Words Without Action
This is where words begin to feel like knives. People told me, “We’re here for you,” but when I asked for help, real help, there was silence. No one showed up to sit with me when I was scared. No one offered to call the police again with me or to push back publicly against the doxxing. Their words floated on the surface while I drowned underneath them.
That is the core of what I want people to understand. Saying you care is not enough. Boundaries, safety, and survival require action. They require showing up, following through, and standing beside someone in the middle of the fire, not just telling them they will be okay.
When people ignore your boundaries over and over, when they ask you to respect theirs but refuse to return the courtesy, it is a special kind of betrayal. I have lived that pattern more times than I can count. And yet, it still hurts every time.
Carrying On When Institutions Fail
Insurance denied my care. My therapist dismissed my fears. Law enforcement shrugged off the doxxing. Even within community groups, I found more silence than solidarity. At times, it has felt like every institution designed to protect me was built with holes big enough for harm to slip through.
But if institutions fail, what is left is us, our community. We are the infrastructure. We are the support net we keep asking others to build. That is why I write pieces like this. Not to vent into the void, but to remind someone out there who feels just as dismissed, just as abandoned, that they are not the only one.
This Morning, With Coffee and Tears
Last night, I logged off the internet with tears in my eyes. I told friends I was not feeling well and went to bed unsure if I would finish writing this. But this morning, with a cup of coffee beside me, I kept typing. Because when I woke up, I read the latest headlines about how the very government I served for 13 years is now considering labeling my community as potential terrorist threats.
That news ripped through me. The country I defended would not even allow me to enlist now. My existence is being categorized as dangerous. The betrayal sits bone-deep. And yet here I am, still writing. Because this is the only way I know how to fight the silence.
To Those Who Have Been Where I Am
If you have been gaslit, ignored, or left to fend for yourself, I want you to know this: your boundaries matter. Your fear is real. Your exhaustion is valid. The pain of being abandoned by people who swore they would be there is not your fault. It is not weakness to grieve when words do not turn into action.
I know the feeling of watching someone smile at you in public and then vanish the second you become inconvenient. I know what it is like to hold your tongue when people tell you, “Don’t be dramatic,” even as you watch the threats climb closer to your doorstep. And I know what it is like to keep showing up for others even when your own boundaries are crossed daily.
This piece is not just about my life. It is about the shared ache of being taken for granted, the loneliness of hearing “I care” without ever seeing it lived out, and the resilience of those who keep surviving despite it.
The Bottom Line
I am not okay. I am hurt. I am scared. But I am still here. And I will not stop writing. I will not stop showing up, even if it sometimes means showing up in tears.
If you have felt like no one cares because their words never match their actions, you are not alone. I see you. I am with you. And while I may fall quiet at times to catch my breath, I will always come back. Because silence is what our enemies want. And actions, even something as simple as writing this, are what keep us alive.
So please, when someone in your life tells you they are hurting, do not just say the words. Do something. Sit with them. Call them. Show up. Actions are louder than words, and they always will be.
If you are in crisis: Call or text 988 in the U.S. for the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline. Trans Lifeline is available at 877-565-8860. Text HOME to 741741 to reach the Crisis Text Line. You do not have to go through this alone.
