Image by Tifany and ChatGPT AI

Trans Day of Visibility: Behold, We Continue to Exist (Your Worst Nightmare)

I’m tired.

Not cute tired. Not “I need a nap and a snack” tired.

I’m bone-deep, soul-tired of watching the dumbest people alive hold microphones and debate whether I should exist.

Like this is a panel discussion. Like my life is a topic. Like you didn’t show up with zero notes and a whole lot of audacity.

I’m tired of men in suits — wrinkled, sweating, spiritually bankrupt — deciding what I’m allowed to do with my own body.

I’m tired of being told I’m wrong. For breathing. For existing. For daring to not fit inside whatever tiny, suffocating box you built to feel safe.

And your god?

If your god is this obsessed with me, you might want to ask why.

Because that sounds less like divine order and more like a fixation.

You don’t know me. You don’t see me. You don’t even try.

You just want me gone.

But here’s the thing —

I’m not going anywhere.

I don’t belong in your world?

Good.

Your world looks miserable.

Let me be. Let me pee without it becoming a breaking news event. Let me go to the doctor without you inserting yourself into the room like an unwanted third party in a conversation no one invited you to.

Let me live my life without you turning me into your favorite political chew toy.

And stop lying.

Just — stop.

The fearmongering. The made-up statistics. The weird obsession.

It’s embarrassing.

What are you actually afraid of?

Because in public, you scream about us like we’re the apocalypse. And in private?

You’re googling us. You’re watching us. You’re thinking about us.

Constantly.

We live rent-free in your head and somehow we’re the problem?

You want us erased — but still available for your fantasies.

Pick a lane.

Actually, don’t. Just leave us alone.

We are not going anywhere.

Not because you understand us. Not because you accept us.

But because we exist.

And that clearly bothers you more than it should.

We live. We love. We build lives in spite of systems designed to crush us.

We bleed — and somehow still get back up.

Not for you.

Never for you.

You sit there, playing god —

But let’s be honest.

You’re not a god.

You’re a scared little boy who got handed power he doesn’t understand and decided to use it like a weapon instead of a responsibility.

And it shows.

Oh, it shows.

I don’t think about you.

I don’t wake up wondering how to control your life.

So why —

why are we always on your mind?

Why are we always in your speeches, your laws, your little moral panic campaigns?

It’s weird.

Like… deeply, uncomfortably weird.

We are not fragile. We are not confused. And we are absolutely not disappearing just because you threw a legislative tantrum.

We are fighters.

And we have always been fighters.

You think this is new?

We’ve survived worse than you.

We’ve survived silence. We’ve survived violence. We’ve survived being erased and rewritten and buried —

And we are still here.

So what exactly makes you think you’re going to be the one to finish the job?

You?

With your bad takes and worse policies?

Be serious.

When this moment passes — and it will —

We will still be here.

Living. Thriving. Being unapologetically ourselves in a world that tried — and failed — to break us.

Your laws? Temporary. Your outrage? Exhausting. Your legacy?

Honestly?

Forgettable.

But us?

We are not your phase. We are not your talking point. We are not your culture war hobby.

We are people.

And we are done being quiet about it.

You can try to shove us back into the shadows —

But we’ve already lived there.

We survived there.

We learned how to see in the dark.

And now we’re in the light —

And we’re not going back just because it makes you uncomfortable.

So no.

I’m not asking. I’m not negotiating. I’m not shrinking.

I’m done.

I’m free.

I’m going to be me — loud, visible, and inconvenient to every single narrative that says I shouldn’t exist.

I’ll use your tears and your self-righteous anger to make my tea.

Sit here sipping while your world falls apart.

Because I am the storm — your worst fucking nightmare.

I am transgender. I am me. I am free.

You have no control over me.

I’ll be right here in the sunlight, enjoying my life.

So go ahead — stay mad.

Take that, sucker.

How’s that for visibility?