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It’s time we talk about trauma

Coping with parental rejection a common struggle for LGBTQ community

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1 year ago

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(Photo by TeroVesalainen/Bigstock)

(Author’s note: The content of this article may be triggering for some readers. If you or someone you know struggles with suicidal ideation, support can be found by calling or texting 988.) 

In becoming a barback, I dove headfirst into the underbelly of fast-paced, homoerotic nightlife, which can be as stressful as it is fun but almost always entertaining. For me, though, the best part has been the camaraderie formed with my staff, in particular the other barbacks, all of whom bust ass behind the scenes while sharing laughs and memes along the way. Among this crew I’ve formed solid, healthy friendships, although it’s Marsel in particular who sees me in a way most in D.C. never has. 

At first, I wasn’t sure if Marsel and I would get along. He’s ripped, tatted, confident, and hot, which is essentially the recipe for intimidating. Then we worked bar shifts together and I finally got to know him. Turns out he’s insanely witty, kind if you’re not an asshole, and overall easy to talk to. As it so happens, he and I are quite similar: two gays in our mid-30s working as barbacks who ended up in D.C. after growing up in rural, ruby-red states. Still, one parallel stands out above the rest: we both also have daddy issues. 

That’s right—it’s a cliché and often a punch line of jokes (which can still be funny, by the way), but the reality for many queers is rejection from one or both parents. For some, including Marsel and me, the traits of a toxic parent warps childhood beyond just conservative thinking. Case in point: both of our dads harbored deeply rooted anger and resentment, making their reaction to learning who we are seemingly inevitable. 

For Marsel, that pivotal moment came when his parents discovered he had a boyfriend in high school. In addition to filling his mind with fears about being gay, “they made me switch schools, severely monitored all my communications, what I would wear to school, and who I could hang out with. I spent the remainder of my high school years alone with no friends, isolated in a rural town outside of Nashville.” 

A few years later, Marsel’s parents kicked him out upon learning he engaged in sexual activity with men. “They expelled me from the family home and, for many years, treated me as though I no longer existed to them. I spent the better part of a year living in my car and the rest of the time couch-surfing, relying on the kindness of friends.” 

As for me: my dad served dual roles as patriarch and specter of my family. He was abusive physically and verbally, though still I tried maintaining a connection to the guy, likely fueling my attraction to mean guys but that’s another story. Despite my efforts, my father abruptly ended our relationship shortly after I came out. In our last phone call, he couldn’t even say the word gay, choosing instead “the way you are.” From there he listed everything he disliked about me, none of which was my homosexuality because these days no one admits so boldly to prejudice. Instead, they gaslight you with every other vulnerability as justification for mistreating you. 

It’s been well over a decade since I’ve spoken to or even seen my father, and at this point I’m certain he’ll happily march to his grave without seeing me again. Losing a parent is always hard. Losing one because they don’t want to love you anymore, well—it’s a searing pain that rips your heart wide open. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. 

Sadly, stories like these are far from unique among queers, nor are they the sole trauma we experience. From living in shadows and in shame, to schoolyard bullying and alienation, to pressures of religion or toxic masculinity, to a higher likelihood of sexual violence or discrimination in the workplace, we are affronted with so many traumas they’re nearly a marker for our kind. This also doesn’t include intersectionality with other traumas, such as a growing up in America a woman, a person of color, or poor. It’s no wonder, then, that the National Institutes of Health (NIH) published a review last year declaring, “LGBTQ people are at higher risk of PTSD compared with their cisgender/heterosexual peers.”

To most queers, what I just described is neither new nor surprising. In fact, in the face of this collective trauma, queers often come together in the form of fundraisers or Pride events. Yet despite rallying around the common inputs of our trauma, we rarely discuss the outputs. That’s right — emotional trauma has outputs, as neuroscience has proven, and when left untreated those outputs emerge as toxic traits in our adult lives.  

To illustrate, let’s take it back to Marsel. While he hoped to leave his past behind in Tennessee, that wasn’t the case. “For things I hadn’t fully processed or dealt with, my past trauma would bubble up to the surface in the form of emotional triggers, which would inevitably spark my anger. My anger manifested in various ways, and I would often find reasons to justify my behavior. I was angry about my relationships, angry about my body, angry about my career – basically, I was angry about everything. And the root of all that anger was the unresolved trauma I hadn’t properly addressed.”

I couldn’t relate more. I tried to be tough and pretend I didn’t care that my father abandoned me, but the thought still crossed my mind and crushed me every time. Then I took that pain and subconsciously projected my anger everywhere — onto friends, onto other gays, onto myself, but especially onto my relationships, where I’d swing like a pendulum between states of hyperattachment and hyperdetachment with almost no in-between. Steadily, my unresolved trauma chipped away at my self-worth, and once that goes, self-destruction is inevitable. 

Since the path to self-destruction is riddled with more trauma, the downward spiral only gets steeper. “My most impactful and lasting piece of trauma occurred two days before my 25th birthday,” Marsel told me. “The summer of 2013 I had been more than reckless with the frequency of my sexual encounters. I had often done pretty dangerous and wild things in regard to meeting up with guys. Then, on Dec. 10, 2013, I found out I was HIV positive. 

 “At the time it was quite Earth-shattering news because I knew no one who was positive and had no idea what this would mean for me. I was pretty hard on myself for being reckless, and it took a bit to pick myself up, but over time I used it to inspire me to live my life fully and authentically.” 

Often it takes Earth-shattering events to serve as a wakeup call for change. When my PTSD transformed into social anxiety, it was easy to suppress at first with sex, drugs, and most often alcohol, which inevitably led to the occasional outburst, or the loss of a friend. Yet still I’d go out, even more anxious I’d run into newly formed enemies, so I’d drink more, at times pre-gaming by myself before pre-gaming with others before eventually stumbling into the bars. Naturally this facilitated more outbursts, cost me more relationships, and once landed me a night in jail. The further I unraveled, the more I numbed it with heavier drinking, darker sex, harder drugs, until finally — it pains me to write, but for the sake of honesty I must — I was contemplating, threatening, and attempting suicide. 

Sorry to get heavy, but it’s important to dissect why and how queers experience emotional hardship. We don’t struggle simply because we’re queer but rather due to the trauma thrust upon us by a world that still fears queers. As a result, normal events — such as a breakup or losing a job — can feel insurmountable, like proof that those who rejected us were right all along.  

Thankfully, queers can rely on each other for support, right? Sounds nice in theory, but in practice we D.C. gays are pretty fucking mean to each other. Sure, we find our friends, but often our community is itching to judge us at every corner. We throw insults, ostracize those deemed “crazy,” and constantly seek validation from people we (Instagram) deem perfect. And no, I am not above this. I’ve been a narcissist. I’ve burned bridges with glee. Looking back, it was my inner turmoil bursting at my seams.  

Marsel summarized our behavior well: “Everything is a trauma response. That mean gay you see at the bar – trauma response. That gym obsessed muscle queen – trauma response. That career-driven type-A Capitol Hill gay – trauma response. Most of the time I find when people are treating me a certain way, it has little to do with me and everything to do with their own trauma.” 

So, we find ourselves amid a queer trauma cycle in which hurt queer people hurt more queer people. Sounds bleak, but the good news is we also have the power to change that. And we must, for a recent survey by the Trevor Project found a staggering 41 percent of LGBTQ+ youth aged 13 to 24 considered suicide in the last year alone. Queer trauma isn’t going away, so it’s on us to avoid bestowing our trauma to younger queers and instead provide a safe community not only to thrive but to experience inevitable lows as well. That may seem like a tall order, but based on what I’ve learned from Marsel, two measures can move us closer.

First is simple self-reflection, for when trauma goes unnoticed it grows steadily like mold, potentially upending your behavior without you even noticing. “As I moved through different stages of my life,” Marsel explained, “I began to see how this unprocessed trauma and anger influenced so many aspects of who I had become. It colored my reactions to conflict, my relationships with others, and even my relationship with myself.” 

The only way to process trauma is to excavate your mind and dissect underlying memories and feelings, which can be accomplished in many ways including journaling, art, or my personal favorite: therapy. While I didn’t start therapy until my 30s, taking that leap became a life-changing, and potentially lifesaving, decision. “Through therapy,” added Marsel, “I was able to uncover the reasons why this trauma continued to follow me throughout my life and how it manifested.” 

It all sounds so simple: get therapy, and you’ll get better. However, therapy only goes as far as you let it. Progress is never linear and brutal honesty is a must; as a result, not everyone gets there (no judgment though, for I’m not all the way there myself). In fact, my hardest step was admitting I needed therapy at all, for seeing a therapist is often treated like spotting a UFO — no one wants to admit it out of fear of looking insane. However, often the fear of appearing crazy leads to the most toxic behavior, as I’ve witnessed in D.C. time and time again. 

To heal requires dissolving the ego. While tough, it’s truly the first and most important step. 

As for the second measure: we need to cut each other some slack. No, this doesn’t mean excusing terrible behavior, but it does mean holding the belief that others — including and especially your queer enemies — can grow. If not, then tell me: who’s supposed to believe in your growth if you don’t believe in the growth of others? And if your response is you don’t need to grow, you likely have the most growing to do. 

Writing off one of us is writing off all of us, and if we keep burning each other at the stake for every flaw, we’ll grow weaker as a community. Besides, the rest of the world already does that to us. Why do it to each other as well? 

My hope is for more queers to see each other the way Marsel and I do. Not because he and I are perfect — if anything, we’re far from it. Instead, in between inside jokes, we share our mistakes, our hardships, and the work we’re putting in toward self-love and improvement. That feels rare in a city obsessed with perfection, but that’s also why it feels genuine. 

And genuine feels worlds better than perfect ever could. 

Jake Stewart is a D.C.-based writer and barback.

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Commentary

Elusive safety: what new global data reveals about gender, violence, and erasure

Movements against gender equality, lack of human rights data contributing factors.

Published

3 days ago

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November 25, 2025

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Activists who participated in a 2024 Pride march in San Salvador, El Salvador, carry a banner that calls for a country where “being a woman is not a danger.” (Photo courtesy of Colectivo Alejandría)

“My identity could be revealed, people can say whatever they want [online] without consequences. [Hormone replacement therapy] is illegal here so I’m just waiting to find a way to get out of here.”

-Anonymous respondent to the 2024 F&M Global Barometers LGBTQI+ Perception Index from Iraq, self-identified as a transgender woman and lesbian

As the campaign for 16 Days Against Gender-Based Violence begins, it is a reminder that gender-based violence (GBV) — both on– and offline — not only impacts women and girls but everyone who has been harmed or abused because of their gender or perceived gender. New research from the Franklin & Marshall (F&M) Global Barometers and its report A Growing Backlash: Quantifying the Experiences of LGBTQI+ People, 2022-2024 starkly show trends of declining safety among LGBTQI+ persons around the world.

This erosion of safety is accelerated by movements against gender equality and the disappearance of credible human rights data and reporting. The fight against GBV means understanding all people’s lived realities, including those of LGBTQI+ people, alongside the rights we continue to fight for.

We partnered together while at USAID and Franklin & Marshall College to expand the research and evidence base to better understand GBV against LGBTQI+ persons through the F&M Global Barometers. The collection of barometers tracks the legal rights and lived experiences of LGBTQI+ persons from 204 countries and territories from 2011 to the present. With more than a decade of data, it allows us to see how rights have progressed and receded as well as the gaps between legal protections and lived experiences of discrimination and violence. 

This year’s data reveals alarming trends that highlight how fear and violence are, at its root, gendered phenomena that affect anyone who transgresses traditional gender norms.

LGBTQI+ people feel less safe

Nearly two-thirds of countries experienced a decline in their score on the F&M Global Barometers LGBTQI+ Perception Index (GBPI) from 2022-2024. This represents a five percent drop in global safety scores in just two years. With almost 70 percent of countries receiving an “F” grade on the GBPI, this suggests a global crisis in actual human rights protections for LGBTQI+ people. 

Backsliding on LGBTQI+ human rights is happening everywhere, even in politically stable, established democracies with human rights protections for LGBTQI+ people. Countries in Western Europe and the Americas experienced the greatest negative GBPI score changes globally, 74 and 67 percent, respectively. Transgender people globally reported the highest likelihood of violence, while trans women and intersex people reported the highest levels of feeling very unsafe or unsafe simply because of who they are. 

Taboo of gender equality

Before this current administration dismantled USAID, I helped create an LGBTQI+ inclusive whole-of-government strategy to prevent and respond to GBV that highlighted the unique forms of GBV against LGBTQI+ persons. This included so-called ‘corrective’ rape related to actual or perceived sexual orientation, gender identity, or expression” and so-called ‘conversion’ therapy practices that seek to change or suppress a person’s gender identity or expression, sexual orientation, or sex characteristics. These efforts helped connect the dots in understanding that LGBTQI+ violence is rooted in the same systems of inequality and power imbalances as the broader spectrum of GBV against women and girls. 

Losing data and accountability

Data that helps better understand GBV against LGBTQI+ persons is also disappearing. Again, the dismantling of USAID meant a treasure trove of research and reports on LGBTQI+ rights have been lost. Earlier this year, the US Department of State removed LGBTQI+ reporting from its annual Human Rights Reports. These played a critical role in providing credible sources for civil society, researchers, and policymakers to track abuses and advocate for change. 

If violence isn’t documented, it’s easier for governments to deny it even exists and harder for us to hold governments accountable. Yet when systems of accountability work, governments and civil society can utilize data in international forums like the UN Universal Periodic Review, the Convention on the Elimination of All Forms of Discrimination Against Women, and the Sustainable Development Goals to assess progress and compliance and call for governments to improve protections. 

All may not be lost if other countries and donors fill the void by supporting independent data collection and reporting efforts like the F&M Global Barometers and other academic and civil society monitoring. Such efforts are essential to the fight against GBV: The data helps show that the path toward safety, equality, and justice is within our reach if we’re unafraid of truth and visibility of those most marginalized and impacted.

Jay Gilliam (he/him/his) was the Senior LGBTQI+ Coordinator at USAID and is a member of the Global Outreach Advisory Council of the F&M Global Barometers.

Susan Dicklitch-Nelson (she/her/hers) is the founder of the F&M Global Barometers and Professor of Government at Franklin & Marshall College.

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Second ‘lavender scare’ is harming our veterans. We know how to fix it

Out in National Security has built Trans Veterans State and Local Policy Toolkit

Published

4 days ago

on

November 24, 2025

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(Photo by Cheryl Casey via Bigstock)

Seventy years after the first “lavender scare” drove LGBTQ Americans from public service, a second version is taking shape. Executive directives and administrative reviews have targeted transgender servicemembers and veterans, producing a new wave of quiet separations and lost benefits.

The policy language is technical, but the result is personal. Veterans who served honorably now face disrupted healthcare, delayed credentials, or housing barriers that no act of Congress ever required. Once again, Americans who met every standard of service are being told that their identity disqualifies them from stability.

Out in National Security built the Trans Veterans State and Local Policy Toolkit to change that. The toolkit gives state and local governments a practical path to repair harm through three measurable actions.

First, continuity of care. States can keep veterans covered by adopting presumptive Medicaid eligibility, aligning timelines with VA enrollment, and training providers in evidence-based gender-affirming care following the World Professional Association for Transgender Health Standards of Care Version 8.

Second, employment, and licensing. Governors and boards can recognize Department of Defense credentials, expedite licensing under existing reciprocity compacts, and ensure nondiscrimination in state veterans’ employment statutes.

Third, housing stability. States can designate transgender-veteran housing liaisons, expand voucher access, and enforce fair-housing protections that already exist in law.

Each step can be taken administratively within 90 days and requires no new federal legislation. The goal is straightforward: small, state-level reforms that yield rapid, measurable improvement in veterans’ daily lives.

The toolkit was introduced during a Veterans Week event hosted by the Center for American Progress, where federal and state leaders joined Out in National Security to highlight the first wave of state agencies adopting its recommendations. The discussion underscored how targeted, administrative reforms can strengthen veterans’ healthcare, employment, and housing outcomes without new legislation. Full materials and implementation resources are now available at outinnationalsecurity.org/public-policy/toolkit, developed in partnership with Minority Veterans of America, the Modern Military Association of America, SPARTA Pride, and the Human Rights Campaign.

These are technical fixes, but they carry moral weight. They reaffirm a basic democratic promise: service earns respect, not suspicion.

As a policy professional who has worked with veterans across the country, I see this moment as a test of civic integrity. The measure of a democracy is not only who it allows to serve but how it treats them afterward.

The second “lavender scare” will end when institutions at every level decide that inclusion is an obligation, not an exception. The toolkit offers a way to begin.

For more information or to access the toolkit once it is public, visit outinnationalsecurity.org/toolkit.

Lucas F. Schleusener is the CEO of Out in National Security.

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Miss Major Griffin-Gracy paved the way for today’s transgender rights revolution

The annual Transgender Day of Remembrance is Nov. 20

Published

2 weeks ago

on

November 17, 2025

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Miss Major at the 2024 Democratic National Convention in Milwaukee. (Washington Blade photo by Michael Key)

I’ll never forget the moment Miss Major Griffin-Gracy looked me in the eye and said, “Baby, you can’t wait for permission to exist. You take up space because you deserve to be here.” It was 2016, and I had just finished interviewing her at Northeastern University. What began as a professional encounter became something far deeper. She welcomed me into her chosen family with the fierce love that defined her life’s work.

That advice didn’t just change my perspective; it changed my life. Miss Major had an extraordinary ability to see potential in people before they saw it themselves. She offered guidance that gave permission to dream bigger, fight harder, and live unapologetically in a world that often told transgender people we didn’t belong.

Today, as we reflect on her legacy, we must remember that Miss Major didn’t simply join the transgender rights movement. She helped create it. Her activism laid the foundation for every victory we celebrate today and continues to shape how we fight for justice, dignity, and equality.

To understand her impact, we return to June 28, 1969, when a 27-year-old Black transgender woman stood her ground at the Stonewall Inn. While history often overlooks the transgender women of color at the heart of that uprising, Miss Major was there, refusing to back down when police raided the bar that night.

After Stonewall, she dedicated her life to building what became the infrastructure of liberation. When she fought that night, she wasn’t only resisting police brutality, she was declaring that transgender people, especially Black trans women, would no longer be invisible. Her message was simple: We exist. We matter. We’re not going anywhere.

Miss Major coupled courage with care. She knew that real change required systems of support. While many focused on changing laws, she focused on changing lives. Her work with incarcerated transgender women stands as one of her most powerful legacies. She visited prisons, wrote letters, sent commissary money, and made sure these women knew they weren’t forgotten. It wasn’t glamorous work, but it was transformative.

She built a model of organizing rooted in love and mutual aid communities supporting each other while demanding structural change. That approach became the blueprint for today’s transgender rights organizations, especially those centering Black trans women.

In a time when invisibility was often the safest choice, Miss Major chose visibility. She shared her story again and again, using her own life as proof of transgender resilience and humanity. Her openness created connection and understanding. People who heard her speak couldn’t ignore the truth of our existence or the strength it takes to live authentically.

Miss Major also believed leadership meant creating space for others. After our first meeting, she connected me with other activists, shared resources, and reminded me that my voice mattered. Talk to any transgender activist who came up in the last two decades, and you’ll hear a similar story. She saw something in others and nurtured it until it bloomed.

Her fingerprints are everywhere in today’s movement: in grassroots organizing, in the centering of the most marginalized voices, and in the insistence that liberation must be rooted in love and community. The victories we see (from healthcare access to broader public recognition) are built on the foundation she laid.

In one of our last conversations, Miss Major told me, “This movement isn’t about me. It’s about all of us. And it’s about the ones who come after us.” Her life reminds us that movements are sustained by love as much as protest, by the daily act of showing up for one another as much as by the marches and rallies.

As anti-trans violence rises and our rights face relentless attacks, we need Miss Major’s example more than ever. We need her fierce love, her unwavering defiance, and her belief that we deserve to take up space. Her legacy reminds us that the fight for our lives is also the fight for our joy.

This Transgender Day of Remembrance, we honor those we’ve lost and celebrate those who dared to live fully, people like Miss Major, who taught us that remembrance must come with responsibility. Her life calls us to protect one another, to build systems of care, and to keep fighting for a world where every trans person can live safely and proudly.

The mother of our movement may be gone, but the family she built lives on. The best way to honor her is to continue her work: to build, to protect, to love without limits, and to remind every trans person that they belong, they matter, and they are loved.

Miss Major Griffin-Gracy, left, with Chastity Bowick (Photo courtesy of Catalina Silva)

Chastity Bowick is an award-winning activist, civil rights leader, and transgender health advocate who has dedicated her career to empowering transgender and gender-nonconforming communities. She led the Transgender Emergency Fund of Massachusetts for seven years, opening New England’s first trans transitional home, and now heads Chastity’s Consulting & Talent Group, LLC. In 2025, she became Interim Executive Director of the Marsha P. Johnson Institute, continuing her mission to advance equity, safety, and opportunity for trans people. Her leadership has earned her numerous honors recognizing her impact on social justice and community care.

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