It's a lot for me to be writing this right now. When I started, I felt secure that I would be able to do this, because I'd be able to access my medication, and I'd feel safe. I knew the passing of Kentucky's extreme anti-trans bill, Senate Bill 150, was inevitable , but I had confidence that it would be overturned in the courts.
In late June, a federal judge temporarily blocked part of the ban on gender-affirming healthcare, but by mid-July, the statewide ban had been reinstated. (In addition to making gender-affirming care, like puberty blockers, illegal, SB 150 makes it impossible for trans students to use bathrooms that correspond with their gender identity, limits discussion of sexuality and gender in schools, and enables teachers to misgender students.) The injunction that was stayed in July was protecting my medication—and it had given me, a young trans person in Kentucky, an ounce of hope for the world.
I haven't actually talked to anyone about the effect the ban has had on me. I struggle to bring myself to acknowledge it because if I do, that makes it real. I keep preaching hope, but I don't know how I'm supposed to hold hope amid this.
"I hated how things worked. I hated my feelings. I hated my thoughts. But now a good thing is happening to me so I'm holding onto it as tightly as I can."
I think I hold hope the same way that I always have: by putting one foot in front of the other, and grasping onto whatever slippery threads of joy I can find.
I've found a lot of that joy in my community and among my friends. That's what made me want to know how other trans and queer teens in Kentucky are finding or building community, and how doing so impacts their mental health.
I attend a weekly teens group, where we hang out and play cards. It's a time for us to destress and bring some light into our lives. I met Derek there. We're both trans, but have very different living situations. He was living in a group home then, and it was the only time in the week that he could spend time outside of it and with his friends. One week, he asked if he could put something up on the projector and played us a video, made to help him find an adoptive family. The opening shot was him playing his ukulele and singing. When the video ended, we were all smiling.
In the foster home he was living in, Derek felt trapped in an environment that wasn't taking care of him. He wasn't allowed to wear a binder and instead, resorted to spending all summer in an oversized hoodie and layering clothes to hide his chest. Fortunately, a family saw his video. He was ecstatic; finally he would be in a loving home and feel accepted for who he is. The family lives in a different state. His mom, Derek told me, is bi, and his dad is trans.
IN THEIR OWN WORDS: THE YOUTH MENTAL HEALTH CRISIS
LGBTQ+ students in Tennessee have never been more terrified
Youth in Tennessee face a legislative mental health crisis. "It's their most formative years, and these bills really impact how they see themselves. I think legislators know this and are trying to do everything they can to stop kids from being queer."
"He knows [what I'm going through] because he's been in my shoes," Derek told me. "It means so much to have someone there who can really know what's best for you and who really cares about what's best for you." His family lives on a farm, with horses and chickens and ducks everywhere, which he is visibly excited about. This year will be the first time he's gone to an actual school in years, and he's looking forward to the independence he'll have there.
Before, he told me, he hated everything. "I hated how things worked. I hated my feelings. I hated my thoughts," he explained. "But now a good thing is happening to me so I'm holding onto it as tightly as I can," he added. For once he's overjoyed—simply because he knows that he doesn't have to worry about anyone hating him or hurting him just for who he is.
We live in a place that isn't always accepting of queer people. Back in 2019,GLSEN's 2019 National School Climate Survey showed that the majority of Kentucky students surveyed regularly heard anti-LGBTQ+ remarks at school, and many LGBTQ+ students didn't have access to resources or support.
Meanwhile, students have long been calling on lawmakers and school officials to address mental health needs in schools, including increasing the number of excused mental health days students can use and expanding mental health resources in schools. Bills like Senate Bill 150 will undoubtedly harm the mental health of LGBTQ+ youth in Kentucky. In fact, it already has. And what happens to Kentucky students' mental health when school is no longer a safe space for them? For many, it is already unsafe.
Anna, 18, moved from Mexico to Texas at age eight, then moved to Kentucky when they were 15. During the pandemic, in the middle of their freshman year, they realized that they were trans. Anna barely knew anyone in Kentucky, but their school's Gay Straight Alliance had Zoom meetings they could attend. Having a space where they could work through questions about their gender helped their mental health and created a safe space to work through their fears.
"Life was already hard and I didn't need it to be any more difficult," Anna said, mentioning that they didn't know where they fit. They saw their Mexican culture as heavily gendered, and worried they were rejecting their culture by simply embracing themself. "I needed to accept that my feelings were very real," they added.
What helped them through rough times was knowing other friends who were genderqueer. "Meeting other trans people my age who acted and dressed however they wanted helped me to feel less alone," Anna said. "Community is really what helped me."
Even now, when the anxiety and fear gets bad, they call up a friend: "The reassurance that I am enough and that I can dress and look and act however I want without undermining the validity of my identity has helped so much." By knowing trans people are everywhere, and making friends with more people like them, Anna said, their feeling of helplessness shifted into something akin to hope.
We've found community. Where it didn't exist, we built it. Where it was unwelcoming, we persevered.
In order to expand that sense of community, Anna initiated a project called TransKY, where trans kids and educators in Kentucky can share their stories and experiences through letters posted on social media and shared at rallies.
While many students were organizing protests and marches, Anna was unable to participate. Because they aren't a U.S. citizen, they said, they don't have the protections to protest safely. Instead, they strove to carve out a space where the voices of people who normally wouldn't be speaking out would be highlighted.
Supporting and affirming LGBTQ+ youth positively impacts their mental health. The Trevor Project's 2022 National Survey on LGBTQ Youth Mental Health shows that LGBTQ+ youth also reported lower rates of attempting suicide when they had support from family and friends. Cultivating safe, affirming communities and spaces is essential to protecting the mental health of LGBTQ+ youth.
We've found community. Where it didn't exist, we built it. Where it was unwelcoming, we persevered. Where we thought we were alone, we found friends. While Derek is now a six hour drive south of me, we still keep in touch. Anna connects with trans youth across our state and helps them feel less alone. I still spend every Tuesday with my closest friends. We're in this together, and we're not planning on giving up.
This essay is part of a series curated by author, journalist, and youth mentor Rainesford Stauffer. In Their Own Words: The Youth Mental Health Crisis was made possible through the sponsorship of The Rosalynn Carter Fellowship for Mental Health Journalism.
