This blog is originally appeared at Them

With Trump potentially returning to office, I’m concerned that more transgender people will be denied the right that had such a profound impact on my life.

When I learned on August 21st that the Texas Department of Public Safety had quietly revoked the ability to change your gender on driver’s licenses and birth certificates, I was stunned. Devastated. The already daunting process of officially changing one’s name and gender marker had just been taken away. Trans Texans are now stripped of a right that once allowed me to live with less fear. And as Donald Trump nears a potential return to office, many are fearful that trans Americans nationwide could face the same loss.

On a random Tuesday in December 2020, I made the decision to start hormone replacement therapy (HRT). By then, I had been using they/them pronouns for two years and had undergone top surgery eight months earlier. For years, I had thought about beginning HRT, hoping it would help me escape a life where people assumed I was a woman based solely on my appearance. That day, I finally felt ready to silence the voices in my head telling me I’d be letting others down by embracing who I truly was. I was ready to step out of the shadows—out of the expectations others placed on me—and into my own light. I went to an LGBTQ+ clinic, got a prescription for testosterone, and, in that moment, I felt like my life was finally beginning.

And then everything changed.

By April 2021, my voice had deepened, stubble began appearing on my face, and I no longer had a period—physical changes I embraced with open arms. Strangers began noticing too, and suddenly, I was being treated differently. The looks I once got as a perceived butch lesbian shifted to confused stares, discomfort, and sometimes, outright disdain.

‘Dropping off flowers for your wife?’ a receptionist at a gynecologist’s office asked me that same April. ‘Not quite,’ I replied with a nervous laugh. ‘I’m here for an appointment.’ As is customary, I handed over my ID. She glanced at it—name: [something I no longer go by], sex: F—then looked back at me, clearly unsure how to reconcile the mismatch. She called over a coworker, whispering about what to do in this ‘situation.’ I stared at my phone, trying to stay calm as the coworker muttered, ‘Just check her in.’ And she did. I sat down, feeling that familiar discomfort of my presence unsettling others.

Throughout that entire doctor’s appointment, I was treated as though my body was something entirely unique—as if I were the only person who had ever transitioned. In moments like these, I try to chalk it up to ignorance, reminding myself that 71% of Americans say they’ve never met a trans person. But at what point does ‘ignorance’ become too generous?

This same scenario unfolded at the club when bouncers checked my ID, when people hesitated to call me ‘sir’ or ‘ma’am’ as they guided me to a table at restaurants, or when customer service reps asked me twice as many security questions as they did for others. And every time I needed to use the bathroom, I had to make the decision: men’s or women’s? At best, I was made uncomfortable for a few seconds. At worst, I was subjected to slurs or threats of violence. In all those moments, I told myself, ‘It’s no big deal’—as though it were no big deal for my mere existence to constantly puzzle or disturb people. The very fact of my body made others treat me as if I were a problem. I came to expect discomfort every time I stepped outside my door.

Every time I grabbed my keys, phone, and wallet, I weighed the emotional and physical risks of venturing out into the world. This constant calculation is why some trans people delay medical care or feel disconnected from the world around them. It’s also why, after two years on HRT, I finally decided to change the name and gender marker on my ID. But this was not a decision I made lightly.

Until August, changing your name and gender marker in Texas cost $350 (plus lawyer fees, unless you could prove you couldn’t afford it). You also needed a doctor’s note stating that you were ‘receiving clinically appropriate treatment related to your gender identity.’ (The pathologizing of transness is its own burden.) Once you had those documents and filled out a ‘Petition to Change the Name and Sex/Gender Identifier of an Adult’ form, you had to appear before a county judge. That judge could deny your petition for any reason—or no reason at all. It was a request, not a guarantee. In Texas, trans people often seek advice from other trans folks about which counties to target, because not all judges are inclusive. Many travel from across the state to Austin, the third-queerest city in the U.S., in hopes of a more supportive judge. Even then, judges can demand more ‘proof’ than the law requires. In a state where anyone can change their last name after marriage with minimal hurdles, trans people are forced to jump through countless hoops just to have their gender recognized.

It took a month for me to get a letter from a doctor. Another month passed before I could find time to go to the courthouse, which was only open during regular work hours—a schedule that most people can’t easily accommodate. When I finally arrived at the Travis County office, I sat for two hours waiting to be helped. A county clerk, who had warmly greeted other patrons, glanced at my petition and abruptly told me, ‘If you aren’t finished with your papers, we can’t help you.’ Despite the cold reception, I was determined to get this done—to untangle the mess of living as a visibly trans person. I handed in my request, and six weeks later, I received an email with a PDF confirming that my petition had been approved.

Afterward, I spent months updating my name and gender marker on my driver’s license, social security card, passport, and a slew of other official documents. One might ask, ‘Why would anyone willingly sign up for such a cumbersome and clearly prejudiced process?’ The answer is simple: I needed it. My body not matching the letters on my ID had become a life-threatening issue. Without the change, I’d still be trapped in the daily hell of being put in emotional and physical danger. Not all trans people feel the need to change their name and gender marker, but for me, it was crucial. Because this option was available, I’ve been able to build a new life.

The difference between my life from April 2021 to September 2022—when I didn’t ‘look like a girl’ but still had a feminine name and sex on my ID—and now is like night and day. I can hand over my ID and no longer feel like I’m putting myself in harm’s way. It says ‘Kaybee,’ Sex: M (though that still doesn’t feel right, since Texas hasn’t offered an X gender marker yet). Now, when I pass over a piece of plastic, I no longer feel like I’m outing myself or offering my life up for judgment.

In the same month that Texas reversed the right to change your name and gender marker, Trump announced he would sign an executive order banning gender-affirming care for trans youth on his first day back in office. As if it isn’t enough that Governor Greg Abbott, Lieutenant Governor Dan Patrick, Texas Attorney General Ken Paxton, and a whole host of other Texas politicians have pushed so much misinformation about the trans community that people now feel emboldened to mistreat us. As if it’s not enough that Texas attempts to pass transphobic laws every year.

Everything about this group of people—who could never understand what it’s like to hand over an ID that doesn’t match how the world sees you—fills me with disgust. They don’t know even a fraction of what people like me go through, just to live authentically.

Yes, I still have to explain to medical providers that my legal sex and my sex assigned at birth are not the same. Yes, I still out myself every time I take off my shirt, revealing the two beautiful top surgery scars that are part of my journey. My goal was never to ‘pass’ as cis, or to meet the ridiculous expectations that transphobes project onto us. My goal has always been to be myself. Safely.

Trump’s inauguration is on January 20th, and the next Texas legislative session—the period when most anti-trans laws will be debated—starts just a week earlier, on January 14th. In preparation, Texas lawmakers have already prefiled 34 anti-trans bills for the 2025 session. Now is the time to act, to support and defend the psychological and physical safety of trans people. I will be contributing both money and volunteer hours to the Transgender Education Network of Texas. This BIPOC-led organization fights anti-LGBTQ+ laws daily, and they offer a wealth of resources on their website, including guidance on how to file discrimination complaints with the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services.

Despite the wishes of those who seek to erase us, trans people like me will be part of the future of Texas—and beyond.

I long for a Texas where trans people don’t just survive, but thrive. We deserve safety here, in the Lone Star State, and anywhere else we choose to be. I spent too much time living under an identity that wasn’t mine, but I was able to change it. Everyone else deserves the same right to do so.