‘I could see in you the hope for your future’: Transgender Texans on coming out and leaving the state

"For 10 or 11 months, [Rebecca] would oscillate through these really sad cycles. She would text my wife and tell her, ‘If you come by my room and I’m crying, I’m just feeling really sad today.’ The school counselor did an official assessment for suicidal ideation. That was fucking world-shaking.

"We found these tickets to St. Thomas in the Virgin Islands. It was like $160 roundtrip per person. My daughter’s always loved the beach. We thought, this will help.

"In St. Thomas, she bobbed sadly in the ocean like a bobber stuck in a snagged fishing line. No happiness, no joy. She had fallen so far down into the dumpster fire of sadness and depression that she couldn’t even enjoy herself at the goddamn beach.

"So then, she tells us that she feels like a girl.

"We didn’t push anything on her. I will say this until my dying fucking breath, we never even used the word transgender in the beginning of this.

"She gave us a vision of who she thinks she is. We told her that there’s no pressure to define herself as anything right now. But if it would make you feel more comfortable to wear girl clothes and paint your nails, then by God girl, let’s do this."

'I could see in you the hope for your future'

Molly Carnes and her daughter Vivian*, 20, who asked to be anonymous, have always been devout Christians. In 2020, Vivian decided to come out publicly as transgender on Queer Youth of Faith Day. "I wasn’t so concerned with [acceptance from] my non-faithful friends as much as I was with the other religious people," she said. In 2021, she had a renaming ceremony at her home church in the Houston area.

Last year, and especially after the 2022 elections, Vivian and her family decided it would be safer for her to leave Texas. A technical theater major focused on costume design, she’s transferring to a university on the West Coast. Among the policies that worried her the most was a decision last year by Republican Texas Attorney General Ken Paxton to pull state data on Texans who had changed their gender markers. "A registry of trans people," Vivian remembers thinking: "Are you kidding me?"

Molly: "The Episcopal church has an official rite that acknowledges the transition of transgender Christians. When [Vivian] learned about that she said she wanted to do it, but it was during COVID. You said, 'I don’t want to do it until I don’t have to wear a mask.'"

Vivian: "It’s important that people see my face."

M: "You had been wearing a mask your whole life. That’s what you told me."

V: "That sounds like something I would say."

M: "It was an optional service on Sunday night that people could come to. We had about 80 people there. In the place of a sermon, [Vivian] shared a little bit of her story. It was lovely to watch you be vulnerable like that and trust that your church family was there."

V: "I was talking about a particularly formative moment when I got my first doll. I remember thinking, ‘This is going to be a problem.’ I think deep down I always kind of knew what was going on. I experienced feelings of being out of place, like I was living someone else’s life.

"I’m leaving in August to go to [a West Coast state] to finish school. Kids leave their families all the time to go to college, but I mean, our entire family is here. We have been here for centuries, maybe."

M: "When we were there visiting, I could see in you the hope for your future."

V: "As much as I love Texas, and I am going to miss it, I really felt like I belonged out there."

M: "The day we were coming back, it was like I saw the cloud just come back over you."

V: "It was dread."

'I couldn’t hear him laugh anymore'

In small-town southeast Texas, the McRoberts family has been in Texas for generations. Wendy McRoberts doesn't want to leave. "I think it would crush my mother if her only grandchild had to leave the state," she said. Still, like other parents of transgender Texans, she does think about it. "Colorado would probably be my first choice."

After her transgender son Theo grew up and moved elsewhere in the state, Wendy says there were around three or four months when he couldn't access his medications. She blames state politics, including an opinion by Paxton declaring transgender medical care to be child abuse, which she says spooked doctors and led to long waiting lines just as Theo was looking for non-pediatric care.

"He did okay at first. The first thing he noticed was his voice cracking a little. Then, the exhaustion. He kept getting more and more tired.

"The fat started redistributing. It was coming back in spots that looked female. He started wearing big clothes again to hide his appearance. He didn’t go out as much.

"He was living with his girlfriend. I was worried about pregnancy. His doctor told me, ‘Let’s get him on birth control.’

"As it kept going, it was like I could see him go back into his shell. He was trying to fight to stay the same for his girlfriend. That was a scary time.

"The biggest thing was, I couldn’t hear him laugh anymore. He has a beautiful, hilarious, loud, obnoxious laugh. We have a wicked sense of humor in this family because we have to. He just wanted to hide away from the world."

'We were very much raised with gender roles'

Theo, now 21, doesn't like thinking about that time. "It was traumatic," he said.

He leaves the lobbying at the Texas Capitol to his mom. Like some other young transgender Texans, he bristles at the thought of having to go to the statehouse to argue for his rights. "I should be allowed to exist without being controversial," he said. "Not everything I do has to be some sort of activist activity."

"Growing up, all my friends fell into the category of either tomboy or boy. I grew up in a very small town, so we were very much raised with gender roles.

"We would rough house and all that kind of stuff. Boys being boys. As we got older, they would refuse to do that stuff with me.

"I didn't fully come out until I was 14 I think. I kind of just sprung it on my mom. She was like, 'What do you want for Christmas?' I was like, 'Testosterone.'

"My best friend in band, he's in the Navy now. We were the two top tubas. He was my number one supporter in my friend group.

"He's not really an emotional guy. He's a very macho man. He told me he was proud of me. I was like, 'You bastard, don't make me cry.'

"I grew up singing. I had to reteach myself how to sing [with a deeper voice]. I can't sing opera anymore. It was worth it."

'It’s my last bluebonnet season'

Later this year, Lauren Rodriguez plans to join her transgender son Grey in New Zealand. The 19 year-old relocated there in February, fearful of proposed anti-trans legislation in Texas and across the country. To finance the move, Lauren is selling a house outside of Austin that she once considered her "forever home." "There’s a lot of guilt with it," she said. "I always said, 'You don’t run away. You stay and fight.' Here I am, running away."

"My son landed on February 22 in Auckland. When he sent me a message I was actually doing a training at work. I looked down at my phone and I saw a Facebook message that said: 'Hey mom, I made it. I’m safe.' I burst into tears in front of 100 people I was giving a presentation to. It was kind of embarrassing.

"I didn’t cry when I dropped him off at the airport. I was like, 'Let’s just focus on getting you to your connection in San Francisco and then getting you out of here.' Once he was there, it all kind of hit me. He keeps telling me how wonderful it is. He’s weaning off of his antidepressants and anti-anxiety meds. He’s like, 'I didn’t know you could live life like this.' I feel horrible that at 19 he’s finally like, 'Oh, this is how other people feel.'"

"I usually wouldn’t say I’m much of a crier, but the last 6 months, it’s been a lot. I’m just like, this is the last time I’m going to take a picture of my son in Texas. This is the last time I’m going to do this, this is the last time I’m going to do that.

"Like bluebonnets. I love bluebonnets. I don’t know why. They just make me irrationally happy. I cry every time I see them this year, because I know it’s my last bluebonnet season. You can’t take bluebonnets to New Zealand. I checked."

'My child is not an -ism'

Hanna*, a mother in the Austin area, is planning to move her family to Colorado. Grappling with the current and proposed policies in Texas has been “exhausting” and “really detrimental,” she says. She asked to remain anonymous, citing fears of possible CPS investigations. Her 16-year-old transgender son decided not to participate in this story. “He just wants to live his life.”

While Hanna is eager to leave, her son isn’t. State politics aside, he’s thriving in school, with a good group of friends and affirming teachers. “He’s doing well there,” Hanna said. “He shouldn’t have to leave.”

"My child is not an -ism. My child is transgender.

"If you look up -ism, it’s ideology. That’s how [anti-trans politicians] are trying to present it. They’re trying to present it that all these kids are groomed or indoctrinated or all this kind of stuff, which is not true.

"I’m the parent of my child. The state does not have a right to make any choices on medical care or how I raise my child, point blank.

"So many people go to the Capitol and share really intimate aspects of themselves and their children to try to make legislators understand. To be honest with you, I don’t think they even deserve to hear any of that.

"Parents try to make them understand, and they don’t really care. It’s quite traumatizing to get up there and share.

"When my son came out to me, he said, 'Mom, I hate being transgender.'"

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