So Here's the Thing About Being Trans Online

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You struggle with yourself for years. You don’t quite know what the struggle is, but you know… it’s a struggle. Then, eventually, with some adulthood and introspection, you figure yourself out, and you take steps to bring yourself, who you really are, into the light. But it doesn’t come without its own cost. In fact, it could strip you of everything, if you’re not careful.

You find communities online in different spaces. You’re new to all of this. You’re naive. This is what I would call the warming period. People who are like you celebrate you, and you make fast friends. Some you even meet in person. Maybe you date for a while.

But then, after some time, the cracks start to show.

The job you thought was accepting of who you are actually isn’t. You just weren’t experienced enough to immediately see that everyone was laughing at you behind your back. You couldn’t decode their smirks and jeers for what they were: fake smiles. And eventually, after noticing these things over time, you build to a point where you just mentally… break.

You open an HR case because one of your managers spent an hour staring you down while you worked. Completely still. Eyes fixed on you like the Predator in that Arnold movie.

A month later, HR drops the case. Unsubstantiated. Even though they had footage. Even though there were witnesses. It all amounts to nothing.

And for the first time, you begin to question your own experiences.

Was I the one who did something wrong?

But it doesn’t matter.

You lose the job.

So now you’re home. You pull what little money you have out of retirement, trying to figure out what comes next. Because you didn’t plan for this. You’ve never been without a job in your entire adult life.

But that’s the thing.

Nothing comes next.

Someone you think is a friend online ensnares you in a years-long manipulation. She gaslights you into believing these things happened because you were rejected by others… because you’re a monster. But it’s okay, because she understands you. Only she can guide you.

While she controls you. Uses you. Turns you into a weapon to defend her against accusations that, eventually, you start to suspect might be true.

You don’t see it. Why would you? You don’t know how predators operate. You had just come out as trans. An entire world opened up, and you stepped into it without a map.

Your friend groups begin to vanish.

You’re still at home. Still without a job. You try to make something out of your hobbies, and, to some extent, it’s working. But you’re also terrified of the outside world. The last time you went out, someone nearly abducted you in a violent rage.

So you double down.

Make something out of your time. Your skills.

Five years pass.

You date a few people. None of them treat you well. One uses you as a ride. Another uses you to make her ex jealous. One disappears overnight after a year-long long-distance relationship. Another keeps you around casually until you ask for something real.

And then… the person who’s been manipulating you gets bored.

She pulls away.

After you’ve already lost most of your connections. After she’s pushed you into shutting down your own Discord community. After everything useful has been stripped away.

She leaves you as an empty husk.

And one of the last things she says, through a sock-puppet account, is:

“You’re going to be alone for the rest of your life.”

Then one night, you’re alone. Gaming. Existing.

Your chest tightens.

Your heart starts racing.

You stand up. You can’t breathe.

You think this might be it.

But then it passes.

A panic attack.

And something flips.

You cut your hair.

You put on baggy jeans and an oversized t-shirt. You go back to the same job that once broke you.

And now you live in hiding.

But you’re smarter now.

You know what abuse looks like. You can spot it in a sentence, in a tone, in a pattern. You recognize the people who hide behind flowery language. The ones who weaponize kindness.

Because you’re traumatized.

It’s not easy to talk to strangers anymore. Every message is a potential threat. Every interaction is uncertain. But you still crave community.

You want back what was taken.

And that’s the trap.

You’re so guarded that you can’t speak normally. In person, you barely exist beyond jokes, memes, and surface-level conversation. Anything deeper risks exposing parts of yourself that could be used against you.

Again.

Time passes.

Hate doesn’t always wear a clear face anymore. It hides inside your own communities. It borrows language. It twists meaning. It invents new words that sound harmless enough for the naive to embrace.

Why wouldn’t you treat everyone the same?

Are you a transmisandrist?

Nevertheless, you try.

You try to build something. To connect.

But something always happens.

Someone snaps at you. Someone harasses you. Someone baits you into reacting. And every time, it feels like confirmation:

You are the monster she said you were.

And when you respond, when you tell them to “fuck off,” they get to become the victim.

They add you to lists. Whisper in private channels. Build quiet narratives about who you are.

And when you find out, you fall back into old habits.

You track them down. You defend yourself. You explain.

And it’s a mistake.

Every.

Single.

Time.

Still, you keep trying.

Because where else is there?

And then one day, you read something.

A stranger, who’s been holding onto a grudge for nearly a year, writes about you. They’ve crawled your website. Taken screenshots. Built a profile of who you are.

All because you told them to “fuck off.”

Because how dare you push back against something only J. K. Rowling would take seriously.

You read what they say about you.

That you’re “shitty.”
“A callous, nasty person.”

And you understand exactly why they think that.

Because the naive only see what’s in front of them.

They don’t see context. They don’t see history. They don’t see what it took to become this version of you.

They just want someone to blame.

So they can feel safe.

You think back to who you used to be. The version of you that trusted easily. That gave people the benefit of the doubt.

The version of you that became this.

And now—

They blame you for it.