Dear Friend,

I feel compelled to tell my story while I am alive and breathing. The Trump administration’s goal is to erase the existence of transgender people. From day one, they removed inclusive references to us from government websites. An executive order now mandates that the federal government only recognizes two sexes—male and female—as designated at birth. Passport gender marker changes may be denied or even reversed. And twenty-six states have passed laws banning or limiting healthcare for trans people.

Transgender people, especially trans women of color, are among the most targeted minority groups in the country, yet we make up less than 2% of the population. Forty-two percent of trans Americans report having attempted suicide, and crisis calls to LGBTQ helplines skyrocketed on inauguration day. How much more proof do we need that these actions cost lives?

A common misconception is that being transgender is a choice. I knew with certainty when I was nine, if not earlier. I wore one of my dad’s suits to his company holiday party. I was drowning in it physically, but mentally, I drowned every time I was forced to wear a dress. Puberty was torture. My friends were excited about their changing bodies; I felt trapped in mine. I slouched to make myself smaller, sinking further into myself, hoping no one would notice me.

High school only made things worse. I attended an all-girls school with strict rules: skirts were mandatory, the length of our hair was policed, platonic hugs were banned, and we were not allowed to have a GSA club. Sex education was nonexistent and we were taught marriage was only between a man and a woman. Students bullied and teased me, labeling me a lesbian—a word that made me feel like I was bathing in pond scum. Not because there’s anything wrong with being a lesbian, but because it wasn’t me.

By sixteen, I felt so lost that I attempted to take my own life. After spending 72 hours in a psychiatric hospital, I began therapy. That’s when everything changed. My therapist introduced me to the terms “gender dysphoria” and “transgender.” It was like a fog lifted. I finally understood myself. I started using he/him pronouns and dating women. Over time, the taunting stopped. For the first time, I could imagine a future.

That future started to become a reality on December 22, 2014, when I began my medical transition. I started to see the person I always knew myself to be. On March 22, 2017, I legally changed my name and gender. Two weeks later, I held my new driver’s license in my hands—a tangible symbol of the life I had fought for.

I can’t put into words the euphoria I experienced as my journey brought me closer to feeling at peace in my own skin and the world started recognizing my true self. Since 2015, I have been a regular attendee at GLAAD events and an avid supporter of multiple LGBTQ non-profit organizations. It is because of organizations like GLAAD who constantly fight to protect the LGBTQ community that I continue to somehow find a glimmer of light in the darkness.

With Transgender Day of Visibility approaching, I urge you to take action. Visibility is more than representation—it’s how we change culture, shift narratives, and push back against attacks on trans lives. GLAAD is doing this work every day, ensuring trans stories are seen, heard, and told accurately in the media. That is why if you donate before March 31, my family and I will match your gift, dollar-for-dollar, doubling your impact in advancing trans visibility.

The Trump administration and its supporters can try to erase us, but they will never silence us. We are here existing, as we always have been. Stand with us today.

With gratitude,

Stephen Lewis
GLAAD Donor