Tomorrow Will Be Different: Love, Loss, and the Fight for Trans Equality

by Sarah McBride

But it was only in 2012, when, like most everyone else, we learned who she really was when she came out as transgender. I read her powerful coming-out essay in American University’s student newspaper, where she didn’t just speak her truth, she put a face, name, and voice to an identity that is too often caricatured and demonized.

fears. And as this book is being published, she is there for every transgender service member under attack by a president who lacks the moral clarity of the nation in abundance of it because of people like Sarah and everyone Barack, Michelle, Jill, and I met in our lives and while we were in office.

It’s rare to know in real time that what you are about to do will define the course of the rest of your life. But as I sat at my laptop in the small office I had been given as student body president at American University, I knew that my world was about to turn upside down. I was about to reveal my deepest secret and take a step that just a few months before would have seemed impossible and unimaginable.

My life had been defined by a constant tension between the two: the belief—as certain as the color of the sky—that it was impossible for me to have a family, a career, fulfillment, while also embracing the truth that I am a transgender woman.

In 2011 and 2012, transgender issues and identities had not burst onto the national scene like they would in the years following. Most people I knew had never even considered the possibility of someone in their life being transgender when I came out to them. I was likely the first transgender person they had ever met—at least as far as they knew.

One student commented, “If you ever begin to feel that your ambitions and determination to live openly as yourself cannot coexist, please remember this moment. This is leadership. I’ve never been more proud to have you as our president.”

And even as we’ve faced some crushing defeats, transgender people—and all LGBTQ individuals—have made historic advancements. I’ve seen this progress firsthand in my own life and my own work. I saw it while fighting for equality in my home state of Delaware and in the transforming love of a husband who helped make my life possible even while he was losing his own. I saw it onstage at the Democratic National Convention and I continue to see it every day traveling around the country to stand

My mom responded nonchalantly, still focused on the show. “Yes, they’re called transgender. Or something like that.” Oh my God, that’s me, I thought. The show wasn’t particularly disrespectful by the standards of late-1990s/early-2000s television, but the joke was clearly that Brandi, a transgender woman, was of even passing interest to other human beings. It was hilarious that people were attracted to her. The audience’s laughter built up every time someone commented on her looks, not knowing that she was really trans.

Ten-year-olds don’t know a lot, but they know that they don’t want to be a joke. Looking at my mom, that realization sank in. I’m going to have to tell her this someday, and she is going to be so disappointed.

Even if I couldn’t fix it for myself, I thought that fixing it for others could make my life worthwhile. Being me appeared so impossible that changing the world seemed like the more realistic bet. And the thought of doing both at the same time was, in a word, incomprehensible.

“when this is your desk,” “when this is your home,” “when you’re governor.” Jack made me believe that my dreams were possible. But I still knew there was a trade-off. I had known it since childhood: I needed to hide and conform.

Outwardly, I presented as a straight, cisgender—the term for people who are not transgender—boy. I dated girls throughout high school and the first part of college. I had short hair and wore traditional masculine clothing. I did all of this out of a sense of obligation that I needed to play the part that others assigned to me. I just didn’t want to let anyone down. And I didn’t want to let myself down.

At eighteen and nineteen, I’d still try to convince myself with the same arguments I made ten years earlier. Maybe I don’t have to live my truth if I can spend my life making the world a little fairer, if I can have a hand in making more space for other people—and future generations—to live their lives more fully.

The substance of the job felt good. From big-scale issues like combating sexual assault to smaller quality-of-life issues like the construction of speed bumps in highly foot-trafficked parts of campus, getting things done and making life a little easier for others was truly just as professionally fulfilling as I imagined. But even that satisfaction could not distract me from my identity.

I gave up on politics. I was so exhausted by my own internal struggle that it was clear I wouldn’t have the strength for it. The tension between my dreams and my identity had always resulted in my dreams winning out. But that wasn’t the case anymore.

Had she responded in any other way, I might have been scared back into the closet, confirmed in my suspicion that my world would come crashing down. Instead, her love and support made the impossible finally seem possible. Maybe my world won’t fall apart.

I didn’t know how people would react. I feared I would be giving up the possibility of finding love—the first thing I learned about trans people was that loving us was a joke. But even with that fear, I could start to admit the reality and inevitability of my identity.

I was prepared for them to use inaccurate terminology and phrasing. I didn’t want to be a girl. I was a girl. And I wanted to be seen as me. But now wasn’t the time for those types of clarifications. “Yes,” I said as confidently as I could, knowing that I had just destroyed so much of her world. She burst into tears. “I can’t handle this! I can’t handle this!” she started screaming. “I need your dad!”

As the questions went on, it became clear that my parents were struggling with the same empathy gap that I later would realize was one of the main barriers to trans equality among progressive voters: They couldn’t wrap their minds around how it might feel to have a gender identity that differs from one’s assigned sex at birth.

While 41 percent of transgender people had attempted suicide, that number dropped by half when the transgender person was supported by their family. And it dropped even further when they were also embraced by their community. My parents made clear from the start that they would support me, but “Injustice at Every Turn” reinforced just how important that support would be in their child’s life.

“What are the chances? I mean, what are the chances I have both a gay son and a transgender child?” my mom asked Sean. “Mom, what are the chances a parent finds out that their child has terminal cancer?” Sean, a radiation oncologist, replied. “Your child isn’t going anywhere. No one is dying.”

“it’s Jack Markell.” He told her we had just talked and repeated the message he had expressed to me. “Carla and I love you all and we will be there for you,” he told her.

When I had told my mom I was trans, she confessed that she feared our small but tight-knit community would disown us, but here was our governor—the symbol of our state—standing firmly beside us. It was a sign of things to come, and it immediately became a powerful tool in our family’s quest to remain an integral part of the community we so loved.

Most people are good, no doubt, but when we are faced with issues we haven’t yet thought about or interacted with, we often look to one another for how we should respond. Our behavior models for others the acceptable reaction; acceptance creates an expectation, while rejection provides an excuse.

Each of us has a deep and profound desire to be seen, to be acknowledged, and to be respected in our totality. There is a unique kind of pain in being unseen. It’s a pain that cuts deep by diminishing and disempowering, and whether done intentionally or unintentionally, it’s an experience that leaves real scars.

Increasingly, we are coming to grips with the reality that the sex someone appears to be at birth does not dictate their gender identity. It is this trend that links the fight for gender equity with the fight for gay rights with the fight for trans equality: ending the notion that one perception at birth, the sex we are assigned, should dictate how we act, what we do, whom we love, and who we are.

But in the end, I was so focused on the transphobia I might face after transitioning that I didn’t fully realize just how pervasive the sexism and misogyny would be.

The first few months after coming out were a rude awakening. I could no longer merely exist in the world. Now I had to actively navigate through it, every minute of every day. Every decision carried with it a greater weight, consequences that would impact everything from my emotional well-being to my physical safety. And going anywhere new added additional stress.

There are few things more dangerous to a transgender woman than the risk of a straight man not totally comfortable in his sexuality or masculinity realizing he is attracted to her. Transphobia tells these straight, cisgender men that being attracted to a transgender woman makes them gay (it does not). Society’s homophobia tells them that being gay is bad (it is not). These prejudices mix in their mind, threatening both their sexuality and their masculinity.

But it was another space—an unexpected one—that quickly became a refuge in the months after I came out. It was a building that I worshipped so much throughout my childhood, the one that had sparked my initial interest in politics: the White House.

With that simple comment, Andy was the first person who seemed to see me and be interested in me as Sarah. He was the first person who showed me that in transitioning I could still be loved and could still find a partner, something I had worried was out of the question.

Names are important. Not just in the transgender community but everywhere.

Perhaps the most significant action taken by 2012 had been by Secretary Hillary Clinton’s Department of State, when they adopted new policies for changing the gender marker on U.S. passports, allowing people to do so even if they hadn’t had gender affirmation surgery.

According to a 2011 survey by the National Center for Transgender Equality, only 21 percent of transgender people who had transitioned had been able to update all of their identity documents to reflect their gender identity. A full third—33 percent—lacked any identity document representing their true gender.

Three months before, I had feared that my professional life was over. I took a deep breath and took in the moment. I’m here. I’m about to work in the White House as myself.

It’s impossible to express the profound liberation and sensation of being able to do something as your true self when, for years, you’ve never been able to actually be yourself. That’s true for the small things, but particularly so for the moments that would be exciting for anyone, such as beginning an internship at the White House.

Five years later, rising from complete obscurity, Barack Obama had ascended to the highest office in the world. Change is possible, I thought.

As an intern, my responsibilities did not include the stereotypical fetching of coffee and making copies. I worked with Gautam on LGBTQ engagement and Monique on major events with the president, from meetings with progressive leaders to a welcome ceremony for the returning U.S. Olympians and Paralympians.

There was a constant buzz and energy that permeated the halls connecting the various offices. It became clear very quickly that the Office of Public Engagement was a family atmosphere filled with “true believers”: people who not only believed in President Obama but also the mission of the administration.

just had a really surprising interaction with Sonia. She didn’t realize I was trans.” A smile spread across Quinn’s face. “Oh, yeah, Akshar”—another intern in our office—“didn’t realize that, either. I was talking about your coming out and he had no idea.” My heart sank. Quinn had said nothing wrong, but for some reason this news hit me like a ton of bricks.

I realized that I was disappointed because I want people to know who I am because I’m proud of who I am. I’m proud to be transgender.

Still, for many, being publicly out and proud is not an option, even for those who have transitioned. Too often we universalize the need for LGBTQ people to be out in order to move equality forward. This is an unfair burden to bear for an already marginalized community.

I’ve been blessed with a community that does not see my womanhood and “transness” as mutually exclusive. I won’t lose my job or my friends. I’m less likely to face violence. These realities allow me to be public, and in my mind, those privileges call on me to utilize whatever platform I have to try to open hearts and change minds.

Andy began to read more and more online about trans identities. Like me, budding social media platforms like LiveJournal and Myspace opened up a window to people who were just like Andy.

Principles are worth something only if you stick by them even when they feel inconvenient. It’s easy to rationalize and find seemingly altruistic reasons for betraying a moral imperative, but that’s exactly when our principles are most important.

But as I prepared to graduate, I was faced with a decision that no one should have to make. It’s a decision that is all too common for LGBTQ people: the choice between living in a place we love or being safe and secure. Delaware law, which lacked nondiscrimination protections based on gender identity, wouldn’t allow me and other transgender people to have both. When I returned to Delaware from school on the weekends, it was still legal to deny me service at a restaurant simply because I was transgender.

While most of these laws typically include protections on the basis of characteristics such as race, religion, disability, national origin, and sex, most states and the federal government still do not explicitly include sexual orientation and gender identity in them.

With Delaware having passed sexual orientation nondiscrimination protections and laws permitting civil unions in 2009 and 2011, Equality Delaware now set out to close the circle and pass both marriage equality and gender identity protections in 2013. It was a lofty goal. Other states had attempted to do the same—to pass both a marriage equality bill and a nondiscrimination bill in the same year—but none had succeeded.

He closed the meeting with an unexpected declaration: “We need to pass the marriage bill, but we really need to pass the nondiscrimination bill.” It was clear that Jack wasn’t like other state leaders when it came to LGBTQ issues. Two bills weren’t too many. I was relieved, but mostly proud of Jack.

But my voice did matter. It just turned out that I wasn’t actually using it. What I was saying could have been offered by anyone. Making a cogent case wasn’t my job; I needed to make a compelling case. I was ignoring the emotion that was at the heart of my own progressivism: empathy. I had understood