It's not if, but when...
I realized then that I was shaking
Over the past three months, I’ve testified in five state capitals in person—Missouri, Kansas, New Hampshire, Colorado, and Wisconsin; with others virtual. In most states, I walk into the hearing room unnoticed. The TRAs don’t yet recognize me on sight, and at first, they assume I’m one of them. I fit the aesthetic stereotype: too many bad tattoos, both nostrils pierced, unshaved armpits.
But then I stand up to speak. The energy in the room shifts. I become persona non grata—the target, the most hated gay person in the space, if not the most hated person, period.
Missouri: A Home I’ve Already Left
Missouri is different. They know me there. They hate me there. I’ve already emotionally detached from my home state, waiting only for my oldest to graduate before selling my house and moving. Every time I enter a hearing room in Missouri, I know I’m at risk. Last time, Capitol police had to move me after the woman next to me shoved her phone in my face and screamed that I was “killing her child.”
Kansas: Passing the Bill
Kansas saw one of the largest turnouts for testimony from the TRAs, but we finally passed our bill. Chloe Cole and I sat virtually alone, surrounded by activists. We’ve grown used to being escorted through back doors and hallways, kept in safe rooms until our turn to speak.
The Shift: From Circus to War Zone
As this legislative session has progressed, the atmosphere has changed. Before, testifying felt like stepping into a circus. Post-New Hampshire, it feels like stepping into a war zone.
Colorado was the first place I truly noticed it. I had local allies, but the Capital was surrounded by a simultaneous rally for trans rights, Palestine, and generalized chaos. Another back-door entry. Another heightened sense of danger.
In New Hampshire, I traveled with Cori Cohn, Simon Amaya Prince, and a new recruit, Peter. I spoke last—a mistake I won’t repeat. From now on, I’ll go first when possible: get in, get out. Afterward, I was taken to a private room to meet with a supportive Democrat. We thanked each other for our courage, but I left with a sinking feeling. Truth has become the most radical stance in America. And the fact that this meeting had to happen in secret? That was terrifying.
Wisconsin: The Beautiful, the Ugly, and the Inevitable
As I fly from Wisconsin to D.C., I know one thing: we need serious funding, fast. Someone will get hurt. The truth is too dangerous.
The Wisconsin Capitol is one of the most beautiful I’ve seen. I entered with Leta Strange, Travis Morrell, and a local ally. I finally got to hug Jaimee Mitchell and her wife, Sasha, from Gays Against Groomers. We had allies in Jeanette Cooper from PEC, and Scarlett Johnson from Moms for Liberty. No one stood alone. That’s becoming more common.
In Colorado, we outnumbered the TRAs. We are getting better—better at testimony, better at organization, better at standing toe-to-toe. We know our stuff. And we care.
But in Wisconsin, as soon as the Pledge of Allegiance ended and the bill sponsors began speaking, the hostility was palpable. Hissing. Booing. Open defiance. It reminded me of watching the pink-clad Democrats on TV, booing every word of the presidential address.
A Brewing Storm
Every state I visit shares a common problem: overcrowded, unregulated hearing rooms. People block doorways, cram into aisles, ignore fire codes. It’s a powder keg. Once violence erupts, it will be catastrophic.
The irony is staggering: Democratic officials bow to the undeserved authority of the American Academy of Pediatrics and WPATH, yet tolerate—and even encourage—a complete breakdown of democratic norms.
In Wisconsin, the chair tried to maintain control, but all he had was a gavel. Before the hearing even began, I went to the bathroom. While washing my hands, a parent in a “Save Trans Kids” shirt confronted me. I walked out. I know better than to engage in a bathroom alone.
When I returned, two armed police officers had taken up positions. A man who identifies as a woman was forcibly removed. Another TRA was pulled out later for yelling mid-hearing. Behind me sat a mother who had put her daughter on puberty blockers and testosterone. Next to her sat a young woman in a binder. When legislators acknowledged Detransitioner Awareness Day, they laughed.
I saw another “trans kids” parent with a walker and a cooler full of canned sodas. I thought to myself: we don’t allow cans in ballparks because they could be used as projectiles. Maybe we need the same rule for state hearings.
And then—another TRA removed, screaming. No warning. Just rage.
I realized then that I was shaking.
We have volunteers who watch these hearings online, recording and clipping footage. They texted me immediately about the disruption. I texted back: Well, it worked. I’m now shaking.
Another TRA ejected.
And then I thought about my kids.
I have made them one promise: I will always come home to them. I can’t break that promise.
The Reality of This Fight
I know I will be assaulted eventually. It’s not a question of if but when. The only reason it hasn’t happened yet is that I remain hyper-aware. When people scream at me in hallways, I don’t respond. I wait if someone follows me, forcing them to either pass or turn back.
And yet, I will not stop.
State-level action is our only hope. The federal government will not pass legislation. Executive Orders are temporary and tied up in court. We have to win state by state.
What We Must Do
We need strategy. Now.
Never testify alone. Bring a friend who stays until the end. If you want to join our testimony team, reach out.
If doors are blocked, alert Capitol security. It’s a fire hazard and a safety risk.
Advocate for safe seating. No standing-room-only crowds. No blocked aisles.
Hold ourselves to a higher standard. No hissing, booing, or interruptions. Save your words for the testimony. This is a medical catastrophe, not a circus.
Assume you are being recorded. Because you are. Public testimony means public exposure.
Engage with compassion. Many of those on the other side are victims—whether mentally ill, misled, or both. Dysregulated, scared people do dangerous things. Be aware.
Take care of yourself. Eat. Hydrate. Bring snacks. Charge your electronics. Manage your emotions. Expect a 12+ hour day.
Prepare for emotional exhaustion. Listening to testimony from harmed young people who can’t see their own suffering is devastating. I’ve seen the strongest among us break down in tears.
Write and practice your testimony. If you need help, our team is here. Be ready for questions.
Talk to your loved ones beforehand. Make sure they understand why you’re doing this and what the risks are.
We are in the fight of our lives. But we are not alone.
Let’s get to work.
Addendum: after this piece was written Cori Cohn was assaulted and threatened after testifying in Indiana.
Everyone has the right to engage in the democratic process and to speak in public hearings, these rights must be respected. Threats and violence should be reported to authorities and investigated.
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While words feel woefully insufficient here, I am grateful for your courage and dedication. It can never be enough, but our household is glad that at least we are able to give direct donations toward your critically important work.
While, as an ROGD mother, my words don't draw much traction (they just assume I hate my daughter because I don't want her to reject her body, deny reality and, most importantly, harm her health with unnecessary chemicals and surgeries), your words touch so many. I have heard a few of your speeches and they mean so much. They are clear, concise and touching - and, most of all, TRUE. I will keep my fingers crossed that you aren't physically attacked, and that Corinna, whose words also pierce through the insanity of gender ideology, is not attacked again. Please know that, no matter who is or isn't in the room with you, you are never alone because so many people who may not be present are with you in spirit, cheering you on. Thank you so much.