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Keep going. Not because it’s easy. But because the world—the real world, the one after this storm—is waiting for you to help build it.

And to the broader LGBTQ culture that walks alongside us: your solidarity has been the fire in the cold. But solidarity must never become passive. This is a moment that demands we listen—not just to the loudest voices, but to the most vulnerable among us. Let’s name the truth without softening it. In 2024 and beyond, legislative attacks on transgender people—especially transgender youth—have reached a fever pitch. Bathroom bans, healthcare restrictions, drag bans designed to erase gender expression, and educational gag orders are not anomalies. They are coordinated efforts to push us out of public life.

To every trans person reading this: You belong to a lineage of resistance that stretches back through the Compton’s Cafeteria riot, through the two-spirit people of indigenous nations, through the cross-dressing soldiers and the salon-keeping outlaws. You are not new. You are ancient. And you are necessary. horny shemale thumbs

There is a particular kind of courage that lives in the transgender community. It is not the courage of a single, loud moment—though those exist too. It is the slow, tectonic courage of waking up every morning and choosing to exist as you in a world that often demands you be otherwise.

The data is stark: The Trevor Project’s 2023 survey found that 56% of transgender and nonbinary youth wanted mental health care but could not access it. Suicide rates remain devastatingly high. Yet these numbers are not destiny. They are a diagnosis of a society that has failed to provide basic safety. Keep going

In the 1980s, during the darkest years of the AIDS crisis, ACT UP chanted “Silence = Death.” But they also threw legendary drag balls. They also danced. Because to live fabulously, visibly, and unapologetically when others want you dead is a revolutionary act. Today, that means posting your selfie when you’re feeling dysphoric. It means having that picnic in the park even if someone glares. It means letting yourself want things—love, a career, a family, a stupid hobby—without apology.

In solidarity and rage and love. If you or someone you know needs support, contact the Trevor Project (1-866-488-7386) or Trans Lifeline (877-565-8860). You are not alone. And to the broader LGBTQ culture that walks

The LGBTQ culture has always understood that chosen family is not a backup plan—it is primary infrastructure. Whether it’s a weekly Zoom check-in for trans elders, a community fridge stocked by a local queer collective, or a phone tree for those facing housing insecurity, we save each other because institutions won’t. If you are reading this and feel alone: find your local LGBTQ center. Join a discord server for trans gamers. Go to the lesbian bar that hosts a trans craft night. We are still here. We are still gathering.

So here is the ask: Show up. Not just with Instagram black squares, but with your bodies and your ballots. Volunteer at trans health clinics. Call your representatives about gender-affirming care bans. Amplify trans voices without centering yourself. And when you see a trans person struggling in public—at the grocery store, on the bus, at the bar—don’t look away. Ask what they need. There is a future we are building, even now. A future where a trans child’s biggest worry is a math test, not whether they’ll be allowed to use the bathroom. A future where gender-affirming surgery is as unremarkable as a broken bone being set. A future where “transgender” is simply an adjective, like “tall” or “left-handed”—a fact about someone, not a fight.

But here is what the statistics don’t capture: the trans woman who runs a mutual aid network from her living room. The nonbinary teacher whose students say, “You made me feel like I could be myself.” The trans dad who coaches Little League and is just “dad” to everyone who matters.