In late May, I received an email from my teen’s doctor. My heart started pounding, and I felt lightheaded before I could even click to open it. After years of testifying — month after month — in two different states trying to ban or restrict access to gender-affirming care, the anxiety of receiving an unexpected message is ingrained in my DNA. It could be a cancellation. A clinic closing. A new barrier. These days, that heightened state of alert is simply part of parenting a trans kid in the United States.

2025 is not the same as 2014, when I first stepped into advocacy by publicly sharing my support for my child. Back then, we had an administration promoting hope — and we felt that word on a deep level. 2025 isn’t 2016 either, when we watched the election returns with dread, knowing what was coming. And it’s not even 2020, when we tried to reclaim some of that hope, only to see states double down on efforts to strip our kids of care, dignity and belonging.

Now, the idea of visibility — once a tool for progress — often feels like a risk.

Over the past decade, thousands of families across the country have stepped into advocacy roles. Some at state capitols. Others on local school boards. Many through media interviews or storytelling events. That visibility was never about seeking attention — it was about survival.

I recently checked in with a few of those families to see how they’re holding up.

Many of us started from a place of optimism. We never imagined that years of advocacy would come with such an emotional cost. It’s hard to explain the mix of fatigue and determination we carry. Balancing political urgency with the very real needs of our children at home — trying to let them just be kids — is exhausting. We watch laws change overnight and relive the trauma of past battles that we thought we’d already won.

One mom of a trans son I checked in with shared her worries but asked not to be identified, because her family has stepped back from being so visible in this hostile climate. “It is acutely painful to see so much of the progress made over the last decades snatched away. I changed my son’s legal documents to reflect his gender identity many years ago. Now I worry that he won’t be able to join his class on their junior trip to Europe (in two years time!), because I’ll need to renew his passport, and who knows how it will come back to us? Over several years, our team of expert health care providers and we, as parents, made a determination on the best medical care for our son. Now, this administration and others in the US Government seem determined to ignore expertise and strip this care away. All the things I wanted my child to experience with joy and ease — the excitement of leaving home and going off to college, his first ‘real’ job, these things are now encumbered by fresh worry and stress. I still believe that we will win this fight in the end, that more and more ordinary people will see and acknowledge my son’s humanity, but my heart is full of grief and fear for the devastation this will wreak on my son and others in the transgender community in the interim.”

Even when there’s no hearing on the calendar, there’s no reprieve. The news cycle doesn’t rest. The comment sections never sleep. I tell other parents to protect their peace — but I don’t always follow my own advice. I read the comments. I engage. And some days I feel like a broken record — explaining, defending, begging people to understand that our kids just want to live. That they deserve to grow up.

Despite it all — or maybe because of it — I’ve come to treasure community and legacy more than ever.

Community looks like different things on different days. It’s the parents who’ve been publicly visible and now talk quietly about how to stay safe. It’s the familiar faces we see every legislative session — the ones who save seats for each other, bring snacks, and cry together after tough losses. It’s online support groups, where you connect with someone across the country simply because your kids are the same age or had a similar experience at school.

And then there’s legacy — our LGBTQ+ elders. Trans women who survived the AIDS crisis. Black and Brown trans leaders who’ve endured relentless systemic harm. Movement-builders who’ve spent decades creating safety where none existed. When we’re worn out, they remind us what resilience looks like. When we feel panicked, they ground us in continuity. And they show our children that survival — and joy — can exist simultaneously.

The Supreme Court’s decision in Skrmetti has only made our fight steeper. By upholding Tennessee’s ban, the court has effectively told trans youth across the country that their rights are conditional — that their futures can be decided by whichever party controls their state legislature. This isn’t just a setback. It’s a signal that the struggle for access to basic healthcare will likely span a generation. 

As a parent, it’s heartbreaking to think about the years — decades? — of litigation, resistance and harm that might lie ahead. But even knowing that, I refuse to look away. Our children deserve better than this. And we won’t stop fighting until they have it.

The road ahead will be long. But we’re not alone.

As parents, we’ll keep building networks. We’ll care for one another. We’ll keep lifting up trans youth — not just with policy advocacy, but with love, support and daily acts of resistance.

Our kids deserve joy. They deserve futures filled with promise. And even when the world feels heavy, we’ll keep showing up — for them, with them and beside them.

We don’t want our children — or any trans kid — to spend their whole lives fighting just to exist. 

2025. 2026. And every year after. Whatever it takes, we’ll keep showing up.