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I survived overwhelming grief thanks to unexpected support systems

A lifeline I didn’t know I had — or needed

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The author (right) with his brother Tom Alexander (left) and husband Paul (center).

When tragedy strikes, you never know what will happen next. What’s the next punch in the gut that will knock you unconscious? That is what happened to me on March 20, 2021, when my beautiful, healthy, loving brother Tom died suddenly of a heart attack. A man who was 53 years old, ran five miles a day, and ate salads, tuna, and grilled chicken. And here I was, his younger brother, who sometimes eats poorly and rarely exercises, left to pick up the pieces once again. 

The news came as a shock. My husband and I were relaxing, reading the paper and having a mimosa. Then, my brother’s mother-in-law called. As she relayed to me what had happened, I blacked out, unable to comprehend what she was saying. In fact, I did not even know who she was. I handed the phone to my husband, confused and convinced that what was happening was not actually happening. But it was happening. My brother was dead, and my precious 15-year-old niece was alone with him when it occurred.

I collapsed on the floor and was inconsolable, and I remained in that state for hours. Even our two cats were concerned, circling me nonstop, as I loudly wailed and screamed, noises they had never heard in the 11 years since we adopted them from the shelter. Finally, my husband Paul told me that I had to call my parents to tell them what had happened. Somehow, I mustered the strength to do so, recalling the similar moment in 1997 when my parents called me to inform me that my oldest brother David had died by suicide. I called them, but I don’t remember much of what I said. All I remember was my mom saying, “Not Tom!” Next, I called my mom’s sister and informed her of the news. More shock, grief, anguish, and confusion. Worried about my parents being alone, I left messages with their friends, Jack and Nina, and asked if they could go over and be with them until I could get there. 

My husband, Paul, and I struggled that day to simply figure out how and when to fly to South Carolina to be with my family. I was completely useless, unable to do anything to help with arrangements. Paul put aside his grief for the loss of his brother-in-law and friend to take care of me, like he’s always done. And ever since, he has continued to do so—through all of my anxiety attacks, grief, anger, and inability to attend social functions. He has been my rock, and my love for him has never been greater. 

What happened in the days after I got to South Carolina remains a blur — flowers, gifts, kind calls, me having to write my brother’s obituary and help with arrangements, including picking up the death certificate — on my birthday no less. What also happened was silence. Silence from friends and family members who I assumed would be there in my greatest moment of need but were surprisingly absent. Finally, my good friend Kevin said it best: “Don’t focus on those who have disappointed you; focus on those who have surprised you by being there.” 

Great advice? Yes. Easy to follow? Not exactly. 

However, I followed Kevin’s advice. I was confident that I could rely on my closest group of friends — the “Balt 8” (named for eight of us who became great friends while living in Baltimore). Later that year, while attending my first party since Tom’s death, I had a horrific anxiety attack, and Kevin asked no questions and instead took me for a long walk in the cold and misty rain. My best friend, Joy, who I have known since college and is like a sister to me, was there day and night. My close friend Maureen sent me TV recommendations to help make me laugh. 

While I knew that the Balt 8 would lift me up, what I remember the most during this time were the people who unexpectedly came to my rescue. 

After Tom died, one of the first people who reached out to me was Renee, a friend from high school who I had not seen in person since our graduation in 1988. Suddenly this long-lost high school classmate became a rock who I would rely on for months to come and who sent care baskets filled with goodies from her home state of Louisiana. I guess it shouldn’t surprise me — on Jan. 6, 2021, when I, along, with most Americans watched in horror as a mob besieged the U.S. Capitol, I was living not too far away. Too shaken by what I had witnessed, I called my supervisor at The Trevor Project to let them know that I would not be able to perform my volunteer shift that night. Anxiously, I waited for my husband to get home safely from work when I saw an incoming call via Facebook Messenger. It was Renee. She just wanted to make sure that my husband and I were safe. 

Other friends came through via simple acts — my friends Tim and Regan in Seattle held a candlelit vigil for my brother whom they had never met, while my friend Steve sends me texts often just to see how I was doing.

While we live in Washington, D.C., we still keep our sailboat in Baltimore where we were lucky enough to land on the marina’s J-Dock and quickly made friends. Self-dubbed “The Island of Misfit Toys,” after the classic Christmas special, somehow, we were all brought together and became friends. During my grief period, everyone on the J-Dock brought something different to the table. Some brought tenderness and love; others brought levity with crude jokes that I was embarrassed to laugh at. Our boat neighbor Carrie asked me each morning how I was doing, and when I was having a tough day, she’d recommend we go to the pool, where we would relax, have a cocktail and laugh nonstop, usually at ourselves. When the bouquet of flowers for Tom’s funeral arrived from the J-Dock, it was obvious that Carrie, a fellow college football fan, had chosen it — the beautiful orange and purple flowers were a testament to my brother’s beloved favorite team, the Clemson Tigers. It was very typical of Carrie — she shows her love in a quiet, reserved way, but it’s still felt strongly.

While I appreciated everyone’s support at the marina, there are two friends that I relied on more than any — Jon and Jill. 

After Tom’s death, I learned that my family has a history of heart disease. I went to my doctor and had every conceivable heart-related test, and thankfully, there was no evidence of heart disease. However, that didn’t completely eliminate my fears. The thoughts kept racing in my head: “Tom was the healthy one, so how can I be OK?One day, I called Jon to ask him if he could stay on the phone with me, as I was having an anxiety attack. With his trademark humor, he quickly said, “You are not having a heart attack, drama queen.” But then he added, “I’ll be right there.” And he was, time and time again. 

Later that summer, I had a similar anxiety attack, and I texted Jill. Luckily, she works from her boat, so she was home, and when I asked if she had a few minutes, instinctively, she knew something was up. Within seconds, I could feel my boat shift, signaling that someone was coming aboard, and there was Jill with her chihuahua, Little Dog, to help calm my nerves. “I don’t know what to do,” Jill admitted. I explained that I didn’t either. “Why don’t we go for a walk and get off our boats?” she suggested. I agreed to walk just around the marina, as I did not feel emotionally strong enough to leave the safety net of the docks. We discussed what anxiety feels like, but we also enjoyed our surroundings and Little Dog’s idiosyncrasies. And I laughed. Thank goodness, I laughed. 

My brother’s death also resulted in a seismic shift in my relationship with his ex-wife, Chris. On the surface, Tom and Chris’s relationship may have seemed unconventional to many — over the course of 30-plus years, they dated, broke up, dated again, married and divorced, but through it all, they remained best friends. They hung out together all the time, ran together several times a week, and, most importantly, they raised their amazing and kind daughter, Jordan. 

When my oldest brother David died by suicide in 1997, Tom was the one who found him. Even though they were not dating at the time, Chris was there for my family, and, most importantly, Tom. Tom was frustratingly closed off emotionally sometimes, and never more so than after David’s death. Chris was the one person who could get him to open up, so thankfully he clung to her.

While Chris and I at times had grown apart since the divorce, Tom’s death thrust us back together. We were no longer simply former in-laws and friends; we were partners in pain. 

Will I survive this? Yes, because I have no other choice. How? I have no idea, but I have to hold onto hope that whenever I am struggling, there will be someone who will unexpectedly fill my heart with love. 

Gregory J. Alexander is a freelance writer and editor who lives in Washington, D.C., with his husband, Paul, and two cats. 

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Gloria Steinem’s life of substance and consequence

Iconic activist never stopped working to make life better for women

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Gloria Steinem and Susan Lynskey, who played Gloria at Theatre J in 2023. (Photo by Peter Rosenstein)

Gloria Steinem was an icon, a feminist, a woman of substance and consequence. A rare person who made a difference her entire life; sometimes quietly, sometimes by making noise. She was an incredibly beautiful woman, inside and out. 

I heard of Gloria Steinem and admired her for all she was doing. But that was from a distance. I read about her, and saw her on TV. It was 1963 when Steinem wrote and published her undercover Playboy Bunny exposé, “A Bunny’s Tale,” about her going undercover at New York’s Playboy Club. Her account revealed the physical toll, exploitative conditions, and pervasive sexism faced by the women employed there, challenging the magazine’s image of empowerment.

It was 1972 when I first met her in person. That first meeting happened while I was campaigning for Bella Abzug (D-N.Y.) at a street rally. I said “Hello, Ms. Steinem,” and she said “It’s OK to call me Gloria.” I was honored to do so. 

Gloria was there to support her friend. Bella had been through a grueling primary against Bill Ryan, after being redistricted out of her seat. She lost, but then Bill died of cancer before the election, and Bella was named the Democratic candidate in the general election for New York’s 20th congressional district. When Bella won that race, I went to work for her full time. It gave me the chance to meet Gloria again a number of times after that, once even with Bella at her apartment. While she was one of the many famous people I met while working for Bella, she was different. She wasn’t Hollywood. She began her career as a reporter, and worked hard for all she believed in. She was a true activist. That was what she saw herself as. She could say she came by the activism gene from her paternal grandmother, Pauline Perlmutter Steinem who Wikipedia reported, “chaired the educational committee of the National Woman Suffrage Association and was a delegate to the 1908 International Council of Women. Also, the first woman to be elected to the Toledo Board of Education and a leader in the movement for vocational education. She helped rescue many members of her family from the Holocaust.” 

So yes, in many ways, activism was in Gloria’s genes. She was the one who told me it was OK to call myself a ‘feminist’. That it isn’t only women who can call themselves that, but also men who believed and fought for full social, economic, and political equality of the sexes. She helped me to understand I was brought up by a feminist. My mom, though she never called herself that, was one by dint of how she lived her life, and fought for others.  

Gloria never stopped working to make life better for women, and to make sure other women joined her in her activism. In 1969, she co-founded Ms. Magazine. Then in 1971, with Bella Abzug, Betty Friedan and Shirley Chisholm, she founded the National Women’s Political Caucus, which provided training and support for women seeking elected and appointed office. Then in the same year she co-founded the Women’s Action Alliance, which until 1997 supported a network of feminist activists and worked to advance feminist causes and legislation. 

Gloria would hold other women to task if they didn’t speak out, even at difficult times, but always with love. In 1986, Bella’s husband Martin died at the young age of 69. We were at the funeral home the night before the funeral, and Bella was sitting with some of us, and saying she didn’t know what she would do without Martin. It had been a true love affair. She was saying things like she didn’t even know where the checkbook was, what their rent was, etc., because Martin handled all that. Well Gloria overheard this and came over and said to Bella, “Don’t you dare say that in public, women look up to you as a feminist, as independent, you can’t say that.”  And we all laughed, even Bella, as did Gloria, but she was serious. 

Then in the 1990s Gloria helped to establish what she called ‘Take Our Daughters to Work Day.’ She did this to try to have young girls learn about future career opportunities. But her work wasn’t done and in 2005, along with Jane Fonda and Robin Morgan, she co-founded the Women’s Media Center. It is an organization that “works to make women visible and powerful in the media.”

The last time I saw Gloria was at the opening night of “Gloria: A Life,” at Theatre J in D.C. She was 88, as beautiful, and sharp as ever, having just come back from a speaking engagement in some far-off country. 

Gloria, the world will miss you, RIP.


Peter Rosenstein is a longtime LGBTQ rights and Democratic Party activist.

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Anti-science, anti-LGBTQ movements go hand in hand

HHS under RFK Jr. has blocked gender-affirming care for youth

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HHS Secretary Robert F. Kennedy Jr. (Washington Blade photo by Michael Key)

A newborn baby died after contracting measles in Pennsylvania last month, and, as if it wasn’t enough grief for his parents, anti-vax activists are trying to track down and harass his family. Apparently, Gov. Josh Shapiro tangled with Robert F. Kennedy Jr. over his “inaccurate and misleading claims.”

On Aug. 26, RFK Jr., the secretary of the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services, declared that the deaths could be fabricated. We live in peculiar times, when it is government officials, not freaks on the internet, who are spreading conspiracy theories. The new spread of measles in the United States since Donald Trump came to power is one of the most shameful parts of the story of modern American politics, and the tragedy of parents who lost their baby because more and more people refused to vaccinate may seem absolutely unrelated to LGBTQ rights, but actually, there is a pretty solid connection.

Because RFK Jr., the same man who was fighting vaccination, promoted the false idea that vaccines caused autism, and even curated the anti-vaccine organization Children’s Health Defense before going into politics, is also a known opponent of transgender rights. Under his “leadership,” gender-affirming care for trans minors was banned, and there were also created new healthcare guidelines recognizing only two genders.

All around the globe, there is a weird correlation between anti-LGBTQ — particularly anti-trans — ideas and anti-science movements. And it should be clearer to the general public. People who are speaking against LGBTQ rights are not just threatening minorities. They are a danger to everyone.

The Trump-Vance administration is an iconic example of such tendencies. 

Trump himself is a known critic of modern scientific studies — for example, believing in the same anti-vax conspiracies that Kennedy promoted, and showing obvious skepticism that global warming exists, despite all the evidence that has been shown by climatologists. And he is also a man who used trans people as boogeymen. Under his command, trans people were kicked out of the military. And even worse, recently he made an extremely chilling statement about the 2026 midterm elections, urging voters to “pretend I’m on the ballot” and vote for Republicans, and while discussing what he says is at stake, he said that if Republicans win, “transgenderism” will “end.” This is an offensive statement at best and genocidal at worst.

And, of course, I think everyone remembers the Department of Government Efficiency (DOGE), which was led by infamous billionaire Elon Musk, who announced to the world that he would destroy the “woke mind virus” that killed his child just because his trans daughter, Vivian Wilson, well, is happy to be a trans person.

DOGE is known not just for cancelling academic research around LGBTQ studies and gender studies. No, this agency abruptly canceled and froze thousands of federal science, research, and health grants, attacking such vital health programs as cancer research, vaccination research, and diabetes research, among others. As you can see, they are not just attacking people who are “affected” by the “mind” virus — they are dangerous to everyone, even if most of the public standing of Musk was around his anti-trans politics and he tried to present himself as a pro-science, pro-progress man by supporting the space industry.

An even more vivid example is the so-called Dark Enlightenment movement. 

This extremely reactionary political movement was born in the late 2000s, and originally grew from very democratical classical liberal ideas. Until it became anti-democratic itself. And also often It was created by American software engineer Curtis Yarvin (writing under the pseudonym Mencius Moldbug) and expanded by British philosopher Nick Land. The movement is popular among some Silicon Valley businessmen, and got support from PayPal founder Peter Thiel, and one of their main ideas is that modernity is bad. They are basically obscurantists, who see modern universities as part of “the Cathedral” — a system that, in their opinion, promotes equality and modern science that society doesn’t need. Of course, the movement’s followers are mostly anti-LGBTQ rights, and, as you can see, anti-queerness once again go hand in hand with obscurantism. Unfortunately, the movement got the support of extremely prominent politicians, including U.S. Vice President JD Vance. 

In his speech from 2021, Vance proved to be an obscurantist when he claimed that universities are the enemy. He is also a known homophobe and transphobe.

So, why are anti-vaxxers, people who oppose modern scientific studies, and people who hate universities more likely to be queerphobic? Why do the same people who are defending their transphobia by showing that they support common sense actually often show zero such sense when it comes to protecting themselves and their children from measles or decreasing the chances of getting cancer?

We don’t have any statistics or studies that show that all obscurantists are queerphobic, but around the globe, the same dynamic is visible.

In Russian anti-LGBTQ censorship, books about animal biology and zoology have been censored because the censors saw “LGBT propaganda” in them. The famous pro-Putin philosopher Alexander Dugin, who is extremely anti-queer, also speaks up against modernity itself.

In Taliban’s Afghanistan, modern science and LGBTQ rights are attacked at the same time.

Even in the UK, Reform UK is known as the most anti-trans and anti-queer party, and they are facing widespread criticism from scientists and medical experts for promoting climate change denial and anti-vaccine ideas. It doesn’t mean that LGBTQ supporters never believe in conspiracy theories or that progressive politicians always support science.

No, it just means that explicit anti-science and anti-LGBTQ statements often go hand in hand.

I think there are two reasons for this correlation.

First, LGBTQ people are real. You cannot deny that sex is not binary, gender and sex are different, and transition improves the quality of life of actual trans people. Or that same-sex relationships are natural, because even animals have same-sex sexual contacts. To deny it, you need an ideology or a conspiracy theory.

The second reason is that anti-scientific populism and anti-LGBTQ conspiracy theories are popular among the same category of people. It’s a “bundle” of ideas — a trend that conservative voters often adopt together. Studies also show that people who are likely to believe in one conspiracy theory are more likely to believe in another.

But the question is more broad. We don’t speak enough about the harm anti-scientific conspiracy theories and obscurantist politicians around the globe create for mankind in general. Not all people would suffer from a prohibition of hormone therapy, or attacks on same-sex marriage. But anti-global warming ideas, anti-vax advocates, and restrictions on modern research, especially medical research, are potentially dangerous to any human being.

And one of the best things LGBTQ activists could do is just show society that they are being used — that the same people who are stealing LGBTQ rights are also destroying medicine and the environment, and it’s a threat to their own traditional families and future of all kids no less than to queer people.

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Trans people need a politics of ordinary life

Seeking the freedom to stop explaining ourselves

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(Image by smarnad/Bigstock)

For much of the modern transgender rights movement, our political vocabulary has understandably been a vocabulary of emergency. We talk about healthcare bans, bathroom restrictions, discrimination, violence, court decisions, and executive orders. We organize because something is being taken away, prohibited or threatened.

Those fights are necessary. But they cannot constitute our entire vision of transgender life.

The Williams Institute at UCLA estimates that approximately 2.8 million Americans ages 13 and older identify as transgender, including roughly 2.1 million adults. Transgender people are only about 0.8 percent of the adult population. Yet transgender Americans occupy an extraordinary amount of the country’s political attention.

Behind those political arguments are millions of people doing profoundly ordinary things.

We commute to work. We complain about rent. We walk our dogs. We sit in traffic. We buy groceries. We fall in love with people who sometimes disappoint them. We worry about our parents getting older. We try to make enough money to retire. We drink coffee before work and wonder what to make for dinner.

This ordinariness should be part of the political project.

For years, LGBTQ advocacy has emphasized visibility. Visibility was necessary because silence allowed discrimination to flourish. Americans needed to understand that gay and transgender people existed in their families, workplaces and communities.

But visibility is a means, not an end.

The endpoint of civil rights is not permanent visibility. It is freedom.

And freedom includes the freedom to stop explaining yourself.

There should be nothing remarkable about a transgender accountant preparing someone’s taxes, a transgender teacher grading papers, a transgender novelist writing a book that has absolutely nothing to do with gender, or a transgender retiree arguing with the homeowners association about somebody’s fence.

That sounds almost comically mundane. That is precisely the point.

For many transgender Americans, mundane life remains harder to obtain than it should be. The 2022 U.S. Transgender Survey, which collected responses from more than 92,000 people, found that 34 percent of respondents were experiencing poverty and 18 percent were unemployed. Eleven percent of respondents who had ever worked reported losing a job because of their gender identity or expression. Nearly 30 percent had experienced homelessness during their lives.

Those numbers tell us something important about what transgender politics should accomplish.

A successful movement cannot measure progress exclusively by representation in television shows, corporate Pride campaigns or the number of transgender politicians elected to office. It must also ask whether transgender people can build stable, boring lives.

Can you find a job?

Can you rent an apartment?

Can you go to the doctor without becoming a political subject?

Can you walk into a restaurant with your spouse without calculating whether everyone is staring at you?

Can you spend an afternoon thinking about something other than being transgender?

Even healthcare illustrates the distance between formal inclusion and ordinary dignity. A 2024 KFF analysis found that 33 percent of LGBT adults who had recently used healthcare reported being treated unfairly or disrespectfully by a healthcare provider, compared with 15 percent of non-LGBT adults. Thirty-nine percent said a negative healthcare experience had made them less likely to seek care.

Equality therefore cannot simply mean keeping a clinic open. It must mean being able to enter that clinic, receive competent treatment and leave without feeling that your identity has swallowed the entire encounter.

There is a broader political lesson here.

Transgender Americans have sometimes been transformed into abstractions by both sides of the culture war. To some conservatives, we are evidence of social decline. To some progressives, we become symbols of resistance. Neither description leaves much room for the complicated, frequently uninteresting reality of being a person.

Most people do not wake up every morning thinking about their demographic categories. They think about deadlines, relationships, bills, ambitions, annoyances and whether there is enough milk in the refrigerator.

Transgender people deserve that luxury too.

A politics of ordinary life would therefore defend transgender healthcare and civil rights vigorously while articulating something beyond defense. Its objective would be integration: transgender Americans participating in civic life without every interaction becoming a referendum on gender.

That means protecting employment and housing. It means making competent healthcare routine rather than exceptional. It means creating communities where transgender children can imagine futures that extend beyond surviving adolescence. And it means allowing transgender adults to become bankers, mechanics, professors, parents, entrepreneurs and retirees without expecting them to become activists simply because they are transgender.

There will always be people who choose activism. We need them. There will always be people who speak publicly about their transitions. Their testimony matters.

But there should also be room for the transgender person who wants none of that.

Civil rights movements succeed not merely when marginalized people become visible, but when their presence stops requiring explanation.

The most radical future I can imagine for transgender Americans is therefore surprisingly conventional: a country in which being transgender can become one fact among hundreds about a person rather than the organizing principle of a life.

Perhaps the ultimate measure of transgender equality will not be how frequently America talks about transgender people. It will be the day when it no longer has to.


Isaac Amend is a transgender man and writer based in D.C. In 2017, Isaac starred in National Geographic’s “Gender Revolution” documentary. He sits on the board of the LGBT Democrats of Virginia. His author’s portfolio is available at isaacamend.com and you can find him on Instagram at: @isaacamend.

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