As a Trans Woman, I’m Not Just Aging — I’m Growing Weary.
Content Note: This reflection includes mention of past sexual violence and gender-based trauma, and death by suicide. Please take care while reading.
Living Openly, Growing Weary
I live openly as a trans woman. I have for nearly two decades. I am not hiding. I do not lie about who I am. And I am not ashamed. I live in Canada, but grew up in San Jose, CA. And while I am grateful for the life I’ve built, I would be lying if I said I’m not growing weary.
A Gathering Storm
It’s not any one thing that weighs on me — it’s the convergence of so many. The political climate. The chilling laws being passed across borders. The ease with which people talk about us as if we are problems to be solved, threats to be managed, or ideologies to be banned. All of which has led to a rising sense of vigilance — a low-grade hum of alertness I’ve carried for years, now amplified by headlines and policies that feel like erasure by design.
“Who gets to decide who matters?”
Even seemingly unrelated conversations — like those about Artificial Intelligence — end up leading me back to the same unsettling place. Whether it’s a government, a corporation, or an algorithm, someone is always making decisions about whose lives are valid. And the question that loops through my mind is: Who gets to decide who matters?
There is a creeping sense that our place in the social contract has never been secure. That trans people — especially trans women, and especially those who are racialized or Indigenous — are being pushed further to the margins. And those systems are quietly being restructured to make that exclusion appear justifiable, even necessary.
Living Between Visibility and Vulnerability
I’ve come to accept that this tension is part of my daily life: the dance between authenticity and self-preservation, between being visible and being vulnerable. I’ve lived long enough to know that visibility does not equal safety. It can be empowering, but it can also paint a target.
The Loop That Never Stops
There are layers to why this weariness runs deep. Sixty years ago, on July 14, 1965, I experienced a moment that has never left me. I was fourteen, and someone I trusted — a university student who offered to help me audition for a garage band — took advantage of that trust. What he did left me shaken, ashamed, and silent for almost a decade. I didn’t know what to call it then, and I wouldn’t have known how to explain it even if I tried. That trauma didn’t cause my gender dysphoria, but it layered itself onto an already confusing internal world. I didn’t have words for what I was feeling — not for what happened, nor for who I was.
It’s never been more than a breath away. I can still see the room. Still hear his voice. Still feel the heat of that July day, and the way he used it as an excuse to stop by his apartment for a cold Coca-Cola before the “audition.” That scene plays on a loop in my mind’s media room, complete with sensory recall. I’ve carried it for six decades — not because I’ve chosen to, but because it never really left.
Gratitude and Grief, Side by Side
And yet, I can still say I’ve had a good life.
I’ve had buffers — privileges, really — that many trans people don’t. I’m a light-skinned elder. I have a modest pension. I live in social housing. I have access to healthcare. I’ve had opportunities to speak, to write, to be heard. But none of that shields me from the sorrow of what I see happening now.
Because I’ve also lived long enough to remember a time — not that long ago — when things felt like they were getting better. When legal recognition, healthcare access, and cultural visibility were expanding. When it felt like we might finally be allowed to exist without having to explain or defend ourselves. But that progress is now being clawed back — sometimes slowly, sometimes viciously — and that, more than anything, is what wears me down.
“It’s a strange thing to live with both gratitude and grief.”
Fighting Fatigue, Holding On
It’s a strange thing to live with both gratitude and grief. I am grateful for the years I’ve had. I’ve lived long enough to become myself. But I’m grieving for those who are coming up behind me into a world that feels increasingly hostile again.
I think of my friend Katterina and others we’ve lost — to suicide, to overdose, to violence, to despair. I think of those who’ve been legislated into silence, forced back into closets, or trapped by purity codes dressed up as tradition or policy. I think of those, like my friend in Oregon, still fighting tooth and nail to access care, respect, and recognition. And I wonder — why does our right to exist still feel like a debate?
No, I’m not afraid of AI. I’m weary of how power is consolidating. Weary of how trans people are once again being used as scapegoats in someone else’s quest for control. And weary of how decisions about us are being made without us, or worse, against us.
Sometimes the danger wears a suit. Sometimes it wears a clerical collar. Sometimes it’s an algorithm trained on biased data. Sometimes it wears a smile and calls itself “values-based.”
Erasure by Exception
And one of the most insidious dangers right now is the way detransition stories are being weaponized. Yes, a small number of people do detransition. Most do so not because they were “confused,” but because they lacked support, safety, or resources. But their stories are being exploited by people with political agendas to discredit all gender-affirming care, targeting youth. It’s dishonest. It’s dangerous. Detransition rates are consistently low, lower than the number of people who regret LASIK eye surgery. Yet, only one of those procedures is facing a ban. These tactics aren’t about protection — they’re about erasure.
Still Here, Still Showing Up
And in the face of that, what does it mean to still be here? To be visible, aging, and trans?
It means remembering. Speaking. Bearing witness. It means saying the hard things — not for attention, but because silence can be a slow kind of death. It means holding space for the ones we’ve lost and the ones still fighting to be seen. And it means naming the truth: I’m not just growing older. I’m growing weary.
And still, I show up. I write. I speak. I listen. Because even when I’m tired, I still believe that our humanity is not up for debate. And because sixty years after a moment that profoundly impacted my life, I still believe we are worth the struggle, as my hope for justice remains.
In memory of my friend Katterina, and every trans person whose light was extinguished before their time. May we speak their names, carry their stories, and keep the fire burning.
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About the Author:
Lisa Salazar is a spiritual health practitioner, retired graphic designer, and advocate for trans inclusion and dignity in healthcare and society. A proud elder and longtime resident of British Columbia, she transitioned in her late 50s and brings decades of lived experience to her work in multi-faith and clinical settings. Lisa is the author of Then This Happened: After Transparentlyand continues to speak, write, and witness from the intersection of faith, identity, and justice.
