This was always going to be a generational fight for transgender people

Last night was especially painful for transgender Americans—and few understand this as deeply as I do. As election results rolled in, I watched alongside my readers, many of whom are queer, trans, or have family members who are. It quickly became clear that we were facing the reality of another Trump presidency—not only that, but this presidency would come on the heels of a $215 million ad campaign priming Americans to hate people like us. As I watched into the early hours of the next morning, I found myself drawn less to the election numbers and more to the urgent messages from those truly at risk of ending it all. I responded to as many as I could, knowing in my heart that these feelings were rippling across the country.

I've had time to think and breathe since then, though the feelings of fear, anger, and despair remain as strong as ever. In these moments, I keep finding myself looking back at those who came before us and their struggles. There’s a famous quote: “The longer you can look back, the farther you can look forward.” When I look back, I see that the fight for rights is rarely a steady path forward; it’s a journey filled with turbulence, despair, and hope appearing in the most unlikely places and times. Today, this truth resonates deeply: this has always been a generational fight—one few of us ever chose but one we’ve been drafted into nonetheless.

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My role in this fight started in a small Louisiana town, deep in the swamps of Lafourche Parish. I first realized I was transgender in 1999, at just 12 years old. In truth, I’d known I was meant to be a girl as early as age 6, but society offered neither the concept nor the hope that such a truth could be realized. It was in online IRC chats and D&D groups that I could finally be myself. Even then, the idea of coming out, as some gay people could at the time, felt like an impossible future for me.

It was in the fight for gay rights that I first witnessed the struggles and setbacks of a generational battle. I watched as gay rights were debated online, primarily on blogs like DailyKos in the early 2000s. Many of the same challenges LGBTQ+ people face within our community, and Democrats face within the party today, were reflected back then. Some gay people argued that civil unions should be enough. Others excused Democrats who voted against gay rights. Even Obama, during my high school years in 2004, responded to questions about gay marriage by saying, “Marriage is between a man and a woman,” and, “We have a set of traditions in place that I think need to be preserved.”

For gay people, those words were hard to hear. What was harder came after: having come out and gained rights in cities across the country, gay people watched as George W. Bush was reelected on a fiercely anti-gay platform and Republicans, running on a similar platform, grew a Senate and House majority. In Bush’s 2004 State of the Union address, 51 minutes into his speech, he declared, “Our nation must defend the sanctity of marriage... If judges insist on forcing their arbitrary will upon the people, the only alternative left to the people would be the constitutional process.” While the United States ultimately did not pass a national constitutional amendment, 27 states enacted constitutional amendments banning gay marriage. Public opinion was firmly against gay marriage, and Democrats threw gay people under the bus. That generational fight suffered a setback, and it was hard to see any future.

Looking back to 2004, it’s tempting to stop there. For those who lived through it, it felt like we’d lost everything. For some, that was true, and we can’t forget them. But for me—a mostly closeted 15-year-old transgender girl—the pain and anguish didn’t lead me to give up. I held on, knowing that one day, I could play a role in this fight. As an ally, which was all I could be then, I joined local gay rights organizations. I marched against Bobby Jindal in Louisiana. I voted for Democrats who shared a vision of America as a safe place for gay people. Unknowingly, I joined the ranks of millions planting the seeds that eventually allowed me to come out, too.

Today feels eerily reminiscent of 2004. Pundits are already attributing Democratic losses to transgender individuals. Some Democrats may conclude, as Obama did in 2004, that they should distance themselves from championing transgender rights. Many who do now wear that decision like an albatross around their necks. Meanwhile, Republicans seem more determined than ever to advance brazenly cruel policies targeting us. Trump's plans are already known, and other Republicans have outlined an end goal of eradication. I'm certain the architects of Project 2025 are ready to implement it.

To those who feel hopeless—don’t. The story didn’t end in 2004. Obama would eventually go on to champion gay rights, and public opinion shifted significantly over the next decade. Allies stood by gay people and grew in number, helping to foster broader acceptance. Anti-gay policy platforms slowly but surely became positions held only by the most fundamentalist religious politicians. Even several Republicans voted for the Respect for Marriage Act in 2022—something unimaginable in 2004.

I don’t know how long this setback will last, and I’m almost certain it won’t be our last. People have real fears for democracy itself, and many transgender people may not make it through these years. But the fact that we’re even here to fight this fight is a testament to the enduring power of hope—from the 2000s, from the 1970s during bans on gay teachers, and from the 1930s when the first transgender care clinic was raided amid rising fascism. The greatest thing you can do is live; continue to exist and continue tending the seeds we’re planting today. They will grow into trees that will shade those who come after us—and with luck, we may get to enjoy some of that shade ourselves.

This article originally appeared on Erin in the Morning.