During the election of 2000, the decision between Al Gore and George W. Bush was primarily about the economy, the national budget, health care, taxes, fiscal policy, and foreign policy. If someone disagreed with you on these issues, it did not usually pose an existential threat to your life. That is not to say there were no stakes. Cutting funding for social programs hurts people, especially the poor. But the debate was not about whether entire groups of people deserved to exist or retain basic civil rights. It was not a debate about personal humanity, and disagreement did not feel like a direct personal threat.

Contrast that with the election of 2024. One of the central issues on the right was framed as “transgenderism,” or more accurately, the existence of trans people themselves. The issue was not policy refinement but whether people like me should be allowed to live openly and participate in society. When I say that this political movement is a threat to me, I do not mean that I believe the government is going to directly kill me. That framing makes my fear sound hysterical and easy to dismiss. What I mean is something far more realistic and far more likely: they are willing to use political power to make my life increasingly unlivable, and they are comfortable with whatever harm results from that.

The threat is not execution but erosion. It is the gradual removal of medical care, legal recognition, public accommodation, and social legitimacy. It is being denied the ability to transition, restricted in where I can go, treated as suspicious in public spaces, and forced to constantly justify my existence. These conditions do not kill you outright. They wear you down. When laws block access to transition-related care, restrict public participation, or encourage the public to see trans people as dangerous or predatory, the harm is not accidental. The outcomes are predictable: increased anxiety, isolation, job loss, housing instability, depression, and suicide. No one has to say they want me dead for the danger to be real.

This is why politics has become far more psychologically and materially dangerous for trans people than for most other demographics. I can argue with someone about economics or fiscal policy. I can accept disagreement about how best to help the poor. But how do I argue with someone who believes my ability to live a stable, recognizable life should be conditional or negotiable? That is why who you vote for feels personal to us. Voting for Trump in 2024 is not a neutral act. You may not intend harm, but you are supporting a movement that treats my suffering as acceptable collateral damage. Intent does not erase impact.

Most cis people struggle to understand this because politics has never functioned this way for them. To them, it is a matter of preference, culture, or ideology. To me, it determines whether I can safely exist in public, receive medical care, or plan a future. This is not symbolic. It is practical. Trans identity, unlike race, is not always visible, which is why queer people have historically had to find one another intentionally. We are born everywhere, across borders and cultures, while making up a very small percentage of the population. That reality forced us to build community across distance long before it was safe or socially accepted.

This is why queer spaces online became central to queer identity, even in the early days of the internet, and why many trans people still find each other there today. Physical spaces are often unsafe or nonexistent. When trans people are targeted in one state, all of us feel it, because our communities are interconnected precisely because broader society refused to protect us. When we were made homeless, insulted, fetishized, or treated as disposable, we supported each other. We helped each other stay off the streets, treated wounds, and provided care when no one else would. During the AIDS epidemic, queer people were framed as disease spreaders. Today, trans people are framed as predators. The details change, but the pattern remains.

This history goes back centuries. Documented queer communities existed as early as the eighteenth century in places like London and Rome. They were illegal, persecuted, and often met with violence. In the twentieth century, queer people were imprisoned, institutionalized, and subjected to lobotomies and abusive medical practices. Trans people were treated as curiosities or experiments rather than as human beings deserving of dignity. We learned to rely on each other because we had no other choice. We shared information, warned each other about unsafe doctors, helped each other transition, and protected one another when the world refused to.

In 2015, same-sex marriage was legalized, and for the most part, being gay stopped being framed as an existential threat to society. Gay people began appearing in family television as ordinary people rather than caricatures. Homophobia did not disappear, but the legitimacy of the debate did. Their humanity was settled. Trans people never received that moment. Instead, we became the new focus because our existence challenges deeply ingrained assumptions about gender. Passive tolerance is not enough for us. Being ignored does not keep us safe.

This is especially visible in how people talk about bathrooms, locker rooms, and public space. Many cis people still see trans people as their assigned sex at birth, and from that perspective, our presence feels threatening. That fear is not based on evidence but on misunderstanding. Many people have no real understanding of what transition actually is. They imagine a trans woman as a man in a dress. That is not reality. Medical transition causes real, measurable physiological changes. My secondary sex characteristics have changed. My neurology is not hypothetical or symbolic. Modern medical science recognizes this reality.

Calling this “transgenderism” reframes my existence as an idea that can be debated or rejected. It is not. It is a fact of my biology. My gender is real. It is not a belief, a guess, or a political position. Yet my existence is treated as a public debate by people who do not experience the consequences. If someone is wrong about economics, the damage can be severe, but it is not personal in the same way. When people are wrong about me, the result is fear, exclusion, and loss of opportunity. That is why I cannot treat politics as a casual disagreement.

Things cis people take for granted, like using the bathroom without fear, traveling without planning escape routes, or simply existing without scrutiny, are constantly up for debate for us. That constant questioning is degrading. It erodes your sense of self. I do not want special treatment. I want the same basic comfort and safety that cis people already assume is theirs. I will not stop demanding our rights, because if trans rights are taken away in one place, they will be taken away everywhere. We cannot coexist peacefully with people who believe our existence is offensive or dangerous.

I also refuse to abandon my trans siblings simply because I live in a relatively safer state. Prolonged untreated gender dysphoria is not a minor inconvenience. It is intense, chronic suffering that puts lives at risk. Cis people do not experience this pain, and because they never will, they underestimate it. Laws that block transition do not create neutrality. They cause harm, shorten lives, and then allow those responsible to distance themselves from the outcome.

This is not about comfort or political theater. It is about whether we are allowed to live ordinary lives without fear. Until that is true for all trans people, this will never be just another political disagreement. It is, and will remain, a fight to live.