At London Trans+ Pride, I march for a future that teenage me didn’t think I’d have

Today we celebrate London Trans+ Pride, the day in which tens of thousands of trans people and our allies march the streets in a striking display of joy, resilience and protest. Today is a sobering reminder of the importance of trans joy. I wish 13-year-old me could see so many people proudly displaying their love and support for our community, their rage and anger at all that we are facing, and their hope for happy trans futures.

I believed that I would not live past 14. After ‘coming out’ as trans when I was 13, I was left with no friends, received daily death threats, and had to move schools for my own safety. Everyone had an opinion on my transition: my oldest childhood friends, my teachers, my closest family. I believed every disgusting word that was said about me, and I would have done anything not to be trans anymore. I didn’t see any happiness in my future, and I thought this was where my story would end. But trans joy saved my life.

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First, my mum helped me cut off all my hair and I truly smiled for the first time in years. She said she saw me as her son; that it was her and me against the world. Having her by my side meant I was never on my own. 

At 14, I caught a glimpse of a trans man’s top-surgery scars among the crowd at Reading Festival. I stood, crying, as he walked away arm-in-arm with his friends. I didn’t see his face and I didn’t need to. He was there, and he was happy, and that was enough. 

At 15, I started getting messages from other young people who’d realised they were trans. They had so many questions. They wondered if their lives were over. I told them everything would be OK, and I started to believe it too. 

At 16, my chosen family began to form. I was the dad, obviously, having been out for so long. I collected more sons than I could count. We took care of each other, and we still do.

At 17, I went to Pride with my queer group of friends. We stood in awe at the love and joy radiating off of the crowd. I’d found my people. 

At 18, my body, my face and my voice slowly transformed with the help of testosterone gel. Things finally clicked into place. I felt truly present for the first time. 

At 19, a trans person I met online spent hours talking me through their top surgery experience, making sure I knew exactly what was going to happen. They were with me the entire time, though we had never met. I soon passed their wisdom on to friends and strangers.

At 20, I stood outside, protesting in the freezing cold with trans people from across the country. Yet another protest for yet another injustice. We cried together and, eventually, we laughed. 

At 21, I got my first tattoo done by another trans person. I stared up at the trans flag on their wall as they tattooed me. We spoke about hope.  

At 22, it became my job to fight for trans young people. I delivered talks across the country. People listened. I realised that more people cared about us than I thought.

So here I sit, ten years later. That 13-year-old who saw ‘trans pride’ as an oxymoron has been proven wrong time and time again. I am still alive, I run an organisation that supports trans youth, I am preparing to begin my PhD research on trans healthcare this autumn, and most importantly, I am happier than I ever thought possible. 

The theme for this year’s London Trans+ Pride is Existence and Resistance, which, in my eyes, couldn’t be more fitting, because that’s what we do. When all we can do is exist, that is enough; when we can resist, we do. Being trans is the greatest gift I have ever been given. I am living proof of the generations of trans people that have protested for our rights, that helped out their friends, that fell in love, that shared advice, that took in a trans stranger, that gifted their time and money, that adopted a trans person in need. 

This is what Trans Pride is about. This is what brings us out onto the street in our thousands; a sea of pink, white and blue. We’re proud of how we fight for one another. How we fundraise, organise and care for each other. We’re angry for the rights that we don’t have, and for the violence that we face. We’re joyful that we’re still here; and we grieve for the lives that have been lost. We march to pay our respects to the trans people that came before us, and do our best for the trans people that will come after us. And we’re hopeful, because every happy trans face is a victory.

At 23, I sat in the front row of a drag show. The performer – a trans woman – looked me in the eye, smiled, and said, “I love you; keep going.” And I do.

Oscar is co-founder of Transilience, a youth-led organisation supporting the trans community across Devon.

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