Peacefulness is a Luxury I Don't Have

What no one tells you about transitioning is that you may never feel safe again. I’m not trying to be dramatic — I’m trying to survive. This is what life looks like when peacefulness becomes a luxury.

I was recently having a conversation with my mum about the state of society and the current political climate in Western countries — particularly in the UK and the US — and inevitably, we landed on what it means to be a transgender woman today.

When this topic arises, the narrative often revolves around society’s refusal to understand us, or how we’re used as scapegoats in culture wars. Yet, you’ll rarely hear me say stuff like, “It’s hard to be me.” I hate it. It sounds self-pitying — even performative. But the truth is: it actually is hard to be me, because of my gender identity.

When I came out as transgender and found myself single again, my biggest fear was that I’d stay that way forever. I had been in a long-term relationship, engaged to a kind financier, and living in a dreamy Georgian townhouse in Liverpool. After the breakup, the house felt hollow, the engagement ring was off, and the idea of marriage faded into a distant fantasy. I don’t regret the decision — it was for the best back then — but part of me wondered if that was my only shot at that kind of life. Maybe I had given the chance away.

I had never even considered that my romantic life would become chaotic now as a transwoman until I read a line on Reddit from another trans woman that stuck with me: “Be prepared to be single.” It sounded lonely, and although it can be true to an extent, in reality, a more fitting warning would’ve been: “Be prepared to be on high alert — always.”

Because it turned out the worst part of transitioning wasn’t dating — that’s a post for another time — it was realising I would never feel truly safe again.

I said to my mum, “Something as simple as lying on the grass in the park, eyes closed, headphones on, enjoying the sun… I can’t do that. I don’t have that luxury.” She didn’t understand at first. But then I said, “I never know who might see me — and decide to hurt me.”

Take restaurants. One of my biggest, persistent fears is ending up in a place where the staff mock me for being trans. Or worse — tamper with my food. Bleach in a drink? Acid attacks? These things happen. They sound extreme until they’re not. So no, I don’t dine out in peace. I scan the room, I stay alert. I never unwind. It’s not paranoia — it’s survival.

There’s a lovely walking track near where I live, surrounded by countryside. But I can’t enjoy it in peace. I’m too busy watching for men — the ones who might attack me for being trans, or harass me for simply being a woman.

Same on public transport. On trains, I’m watched — either by sixth form boys or drunk, aggressive men. I worry someone might stab me from behind my seat. Sounds dramatic? Perhaps. But Brianna Ghey was murdered like that in a park less than forty minutes from where I live. It's happened to others. And I refuse to believe I’m immune.

So I stay alert. I assess exits. I plan escapes. It’s exhausting. But maybe, just maybe, it’ll help me survive. Especially here, in what some have called TERF Island — the United Kingdom.

That term made sense to me only recently. I used to shrug off strange glances, harsh stares, and the quiet snickers of women on the street. But once I started noticing the pattern, I couldn’t unsee it. When I look glam people stare. Not in a “you look fabulous” kind of way. They turn their heads. Entire tables at restaurants stop to look. That gave me relentless anxiety for nearly two years.

At first, I assumed I was overthinking it. But I realised: it’s mostly the women who give me the coldest stares. It’s women who laugh as they pass me, exchanging knowing looks. It’s women who seem to scrutinise me the hardest. Men stare too — usually in lust or confusion. But women often glare with disdain.

So yes — maybe it is TERF Island. The nastiest looks, the most cutting reactions, often come from cisgender women. And in a country where J.K. Rowling actively funds anti-trans rhetoric, how could we not feel like the target?

Of course, all trans people face hardship — but as history shows, women often bear the brunt of it. Femininity is constantly policed, criticised, and weaponised.

For me, peacefulness is no longer an option. It’s a luxury I’ll likely never have. But I’ve learned to find fleeting moments of calm within the permanent state of alert. Maybe that will help me survive the political persecution trans women like me are enduring.

And maybe, one day, when the world is different — when it’s kinder — I’ll finally be able to lie in the sun, eyes closed, headphones on… and feel safe, if only for a brief moment.