INTRODUCTION

This is the world we will help build.

It’s rare to know in real time that what you are about to do will define the course of the rest of your life. But as I sat at my laptop in the small office I had been given as student body president at American University, I knew that my world was about to turn upside down. I was about to reveal my deepest secret and take a step that just a few months before would have seemed impossible and unimaginable.

My hand hovered over the keypad of my laptop, ready yet reluctant to click “post” on a Facebook note that would change my life forever. I could almost hear the responses I feared would come.

What a freak.

Ew.

This is disgusting.

And probably the most biting, because I was afraid it was true: Well, there goes any life and future for that kid.

Throughout my whole life until this point, it had always seemed that my dreams and my identity were mutually exclusive. My life had been defined by a constant tension between the two: the belief—as certain as the color of the sky—that it was impossible for me to have a family, a career, fulfillment, while also embracing the truth that I am a transgender woman.

For the first twenty-one years of my life, my dreams—the possibility of improving my world and making my family proud—had won out over my identity. But the older I got, the harder it became to rationalize away something that had become clear was the core of who I am. And by college, it had enveloped my whole being. It was present every second of my life.

I no longer had a choice. I couldn’t hide anymore. I couldn’t continue living someone else’s existence. I needed to come out. I needed to tell the world that I was transgender. I needed to live my own life as me.

A little over a year before, I had been elected student body president at American University. AU, nestled between suburban neighborhoods in northwest Washington, D.C., is one of the most politically active schools in the country and boasts a rich history of political milestones. It was the site where John F. Kennedy called for “not merely peace in our time, but peace for all time” months after the Cuban Missile Crisis, and the home of the younger Ted Kennedy’s pivotal endorsement of then-senator Barack Obama in the 2008 Democratic primary.

I had always loved politics, advocacy, and government. They had seemed like the best way to improve my community and leave a lasting impact on the world. From the ages of six and seven, after discovering the White House and learning about all of the history that occurred within its walls, I knew that politics would be my life’s calling.

When I served as student body president at AU and began working on the issues I had always cared about—gender equity, racial justice, opportunity regardless of economic background, and, yes, LGBTQ equality—it became clear that making a difference in the world wouldn’t diminish or dilute my own pain and incompleteness.

I had come out to my parents over winter break in the middle of my yearlong term. Since then, I had come out to my closest friends, and as I woke up on the morning of April 30, 2012, my last day as student body president, I was resolved to announce to the world that I was really Sarah McBride.

It was a beautiful spring day without a cloud in the sky. I crossed the bustling, open quad at the center of campus, my heart pounding, and made my way to the student center, where the student government offices are located.

In 2011 and 2012, transgender issues and identities had not burst onto the national scene like they would in the years following. Most people I knew had never even considered the possibility of someone in their life being transgender when I came out to them. I was likely the first transgender person they had ever met—at least as far as they knew.

AU is a progressive campus. And I knew that the students were, by and large, good, compassionate people. I knew the school was generally inclusive and welcoming of gay students, but I had no chance to see how the campus as a whole would respond to a transgender student, let alone a transgender student body president.

Sitting at my desk, I opened my laptop, clicked on Facebook, and reviewed an open letter that I had drafted and redrafted and redrafted several times during the previous few weeks.

“This note has been a long time coming, 21 years, actually,” the post started.

Today, I ended my term as AU’s student body president. Being president has been an unbelievable privilege for me. I have learned and grown so much over the last year, both personally and professionally. As proud as I am of all of the issues we tackled together as a campus community, the biggest takeaway, for me, has been the resolution of an internal struggle. You see, for my entire life, I’ve struggled with my gender identity.

And it was only after the experiences of this year that I was able to come to terms with what had been my deepest secret: I’m transgender.

For me, it is something I’ve always known but had never accepted. It’s been present my whole life, from as early as I can remember.

As I reread the note one last time, I was dead certain that I needed to do this, but I knew there was absolutely no going back after I clicked “post.” I was about to jump feetfirst into a world that I wasn’t sure I was prepared for. You don’t resist something so all-encompassing because you think it’s going to be all sunshine and rainbows on the other end.

There were few high-profile trans success stories at the time. The percentage of Americans who said they knew someone who was transgender was in the single digits, a number that has since risen dramatically. Laverne Cox had yet to grace the cover of Time magazine and Caitlyn Jenner was still the clumsy stepparent in Keeping Up with the Kardashians. For closeted young people, the Internet had been a critical outlet and a window into the lives of the few trans people whose stories or profiles were available. But it also gave me an unvarnished glimpse into the challenges and barriers.

A year earlier, a startling report by the National Center for Transgender Equality and the National LGBTQ Task Force had been published. Titled “Injustice at Every Turn,” the survey was sobering:

One in four transgender people in the report had been fired from their job because they were transgender.

One in five had been homeless.

And 41 percent had attempted suicide at some point in their lives. Nearly half had tried to end their lives, in many cases because the world was too hateful to bear.

Still, after two decades, I knew that nothing—not even my biggest dreams—would make the pain worth it. Now, sitting there, my hand on my mouse, I took a deep breath and posted the message.

The die was cast and there was nothing more I could do about it. My secret was out there.

It didn’t take long for the news to spread like wildfire. Comments came flooding in, not just from my friends but also from classmates whom I barely knew. Miraculously, every single one of the messages was full of love and support.

One student commented, “If you ever begin to feel that your ambitions and determination to live openly as yourself cannot coexist, please remember this moment. This is leadership. I’ve never been more proud to have you as our president.”

Another student wrote, “This is one of those times when I’m incredibly proud to go to AU and be a part of such an accepting community. The world just became a bit more tolerant and a bit more open today with your help.”

“AU takes Pride in McBride,” a classmate posted.

I leaned back in my chair, overcome with the relief at the responses. They were nothing like I had feared. A weight had lifted from my shoulders. I was out and the world had not collapsed. Fear of the unknown no longer stood in the way of completeness. I felt free.

My amazement was interrupted by three knocks on the door. I wiped the tears that had begun to fill my eyes, walked over, and opened the large glass door that led into the executive suite. Standing in the hall was a line of seven men, most of them wearing shirts stamped with a jumble of Greek letters.

They were my fraternity brothers. I had joined a year earlier after some pressure from a few friends and one last-ditch attempt at trying to prove to myself that I was someone I knew I wasn’t.

The brothers outstretched their arms and, one by one, stepped up to give me a hug. They knew I had just amicably disaffiliated for obvious reasons and they wanted to make clear, in person, that they were still there for me. That I may not be their fraternity brother anymore, but that I’d always be their sister.

As they left, the editor of the school newspaper, The Eagle, made his way to my office. Zach, an AU sophomore with a full dark beard, thick head of hair, and wire-rimmed glasses, looked the part of an aspiring newspaper editor. He had just taken over the paper for the coming year and he came with a question and a request.

“We have several pieces in tomorrow’s paper that reference you and your time in office. Would you like us to change your name and pronouns in the pieces to reflect your note?” he asked.

“Absolutely,” I responded, thankful for his thoughtfulness in his approach to my news and his new job.

He cleared his throat for the next question. It was clear he was worried it would be invasive or inappropriate.

“Would you be interested in publishing your coming-out note in tomorrow’s paper?”

I had actually thought about asking The Eagle to publish my note but almost immediately dismissed it as a self-indulgent exercise. But when Zach asked, I thought: Maybe this isn’t actually self-indulgent. Maybe this is an opportunity to educate. Maybe my journey, as limited as it is, deserves to be heard. I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to humanize trans identities—to humanize myself—for whoever would read my piece. I hoped that perhaps my words could provide an entry point for my peers and maybe even a few strangers to tap into the most powerful human emotion: empathy.

“I think that would be great, yes,” I responded.

“Great. That’s great. One thing, though…” He hesitated for a moment. “It’s a little long. We’d need to cut it down to around six hundred words.”

We made our way down the hall toward the student newspaper offices so I could work with him to cut my twelve-hundred-word announcement in half. When I walked into the bustling, cramped, on-deadline, and completely filled newsroom, the space fell silent. I had just walked into a room where everyone had clearly been talking about me. I worried that this awkward moment would represent the rest of my life. Or, at least, for the year that I had left at AU.

I walked through the open space and into a small room with a single computer in the back. I sat there with Zach, cutting and adjusting. Each word, each thought, felt critically important, but column inches supersede all.

An hour later, we had whittled it down to just about six hundred words. By now my phone had started to blow up with texts, calls, and emails, many from the media outside of AU. I prepared to walk into the newsroom again.

As I opened the door, a hush fell back over the room. But this time, the atmosphere felt different. Everyone was smiling. And not in the “we’re laughing at you” kind of way that I’d feared. Their smiles contained a sense of pride. A simple look of “good job” coupled with a nod. A few even stood up from their desks and shook my hand.

I had spent the previous year telling AU students, who were often more interested in interning on Capitol Hill than in improving their own campus, that they should not ignore the opportunities for change right in front of them. I told them that our campus should reflect the world we want to build in ten or fifteen years. After all, we were a student body uniquely skilled in political change, and we should invest some of our talents in our campus. I’d ask them, “If we cannot change our college, then how can we expect to change our country?”

And in the hours after posting my note on Facebook—and with the newspaper preparing to publish my piece—you could feel the buzz on campus. My post was already being shared throughout campus and beyond. And it was being met not with jokes and mockery but instead with celebration and excitement. That night, one student commented that the reaction from the student body to my news was like “we had won a sports championship.” A total and overwhelming outpouring of love and joy.

As the news spread beyond our campus, American University was readying to make a statement to the country: that while we may just be starting to learn about transgender identities, this is how you react—with love, kindness, and dignity. And that through AU’s example, this is the world we will help build.

Together, on that night, it felt like our campus was sending a small but powerful message: that for transgender people, tomorrow can be different.

It doesn’t always get better. Sometimes it is a step back; it’s the loss of a life, an act of hate, or the rescinding of rights in states like North Carolina and in the military. It’s the perpetuation of a status quo in which a majority of states and the federal government still lack clear protections from discrimination for lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, and queer people; where too many remain at risk of being fired from their job, denied housing, or kicked out of a restaurant simply because of who they are.

But increasingly, it’s a step forward. The growing ranks of allies around the country; the cities and states that are stepping up to protect their LGBTQ residents from discrimination and violence; the increasing power of our voices that are, collectively, enacting change in homes and in schools, in city halls, and in the halls of Congress.

When I came out, I never anticipated just how far the LGBTQ community and movement would come in so short a time. Inheriting a legacy of advocates, activists, and everyday people who, through the flames of violence and the ashes of hatred, toiled and fought for a different world, we’ve grown into one of the most effective movements for social justice in history. And even as we’ve faced some crushing defeats, transgender people—and all LGBTQ individuals—have made historic advancements.

I’ve seen this progress firsthand in my own life and my own work. I saw it while fighting for equality in my home state of Delaware and in the transforming love of a husband who helped make my life possible even while he was losing his own. I saw it onstage at the Democratic National Convention and I continue to see it every day traveling around the country to stand with a community that is finally being seen and affirmed in our beauty and authenticity.

After a decade of unprecedented progress, the knowledge that change is possible, the hope of a better day, is the fuel that drives us. We strive toward a world where every person can live their life to the fullest. While the progress is uneven and can come in fits and starts, I still know today—years after that night at American University—that, with hard work and compassion, we can make more tomorrows better than today.