Eighty-three percent of queer women reported birthing complications. From systemic bias to outdated medical policies, lesbians face a maternal health system that was never designed with them in mind.

In January, a lesbian couple from New Jersey had a labor playlist picked out, electronic candles ready to go and an “atmosphere” they wanted to create while birthing their first child. They were eager and “not at all worried.”

But Amy and Jessica say their plans for a smooth birth went out the window when a routine check-up turned into a harrowing eight-day hospital stay. “It was awful. It was horrendous,” Amy, the birthing mother, told Uncloseted Media.

At 37 weeks pregnant following in vitro fertilization (IVF), the couple, who asked to use pseudonyms because they are considering litigation against the hospital, was told that the birthing mother needed to have her labour induced immediately due to high blood pressure. After three days of failed induction, doctors performed an emergency C-section during which she haemorrhaged and lost four litres of blood. The doctors eventually had to remove her uterus to “save her life.”

“We did research later and found out that induction medication and IVF both increase the risk of haemorrhage. It just felt like no one was listening to us or informing us,” says Jessica.

“If pregnancy were a men’s health field, this wouldn’t be happening,” Amy says. “You think of medicine now and it’s so modernised and there are so many technologies, but there is something so lacking in women’s health care.”

According to a 2022 study in the Association of American Medical Colleges, more than half of queer women reported that the quality of their experience with pregnancy, birth and postpartum care was impacted by bias or discrimination, compared to 35% of heterosexual people. In addition, 83% of queer women reported birthing complications compared to 63% of their heterosexual counterparts. Queer women also have higher rates of stillbirths, miscarriages and premature births.

“Female-bodied people have been ignored in medicine for so long, and taking on the queer identity makes it worse,” says Marea Goodman, midwife and founder of PregnantTogether, an LGBTQIA+ focused midwife practice. “Clinics arose out of a need to support heterosexual people who are experiencing infertility and for many years queer folks were barred from accessing fertility care. They’re just not for creative family structures.”

The American healthcare system was not built for queer women

While roughly 59% of bisexual women and 31% of lesbians give birth in their lifetime, bringing tens of thousands of babies into the world each year, the healthcare system is hard for them to navigate.

A 2022 study found that LGBTQIA+ couples are more afraid of childbirth than heterosexual couples. And it’s not just the pregnancy itself that is scary. According to Anna Malmquist, one of the authors of the study and a researcher at Sweden’s Linköping University, there are many concerns queer women face when walking into a hospital.

“‘What if they misgender me?’” she says. “‘What if they don’t recognise my partner as my partner? What if they don’t respect my pronouns? I cannot just go away and seek care somewhere else, because the baby has to come out.’ So the minority stress becomes a second layer added to these bodily fears.”

One reason queer women may face these concerns is that medical school curricula often fall short in teaching prospective physicians about LGBTQIA+ reproductive health.

One study reported that the median instructional time on all LGBTQIA+ topics was just 11 hours across four years, with many programs failing to address disparities faced by lesbian patients in accessing prenatal care and family planning services. In a 2021 study, half of OB-GYN residents reported feeling unprepared to care for lesbian or bisexual patients and 92% desired more education on how to provide healthcare to LGBTQIA+ patients.

This lack of education can result in queer women feeling out of place. “Walking down the halls of my clinic, all of the stock art of couples was white and heterosexual, nothing queer, and the literature all said ‘mom and dad,’” says Angela Thompson, a Verizon IT tech from Columbia, South Carolina.

Alyssa and Sam Darling delivered their first child in 2019 in Los Angeles.

When they went back to the delivery ward after the birth to do a routine check-up with their child, one of the nurses at the door stopped Alyssa, the non-birthing partner.

“She physically put her hand on my chest and stopped me, and said, ‘It’s parents only,’” she remembers. “The baby was my eggs, so biologically mine. … It was just so confusing. … We were exhausted, we just wanted to go home, and it was the last thing we wanted to deal with.”

“It’s like you’re having to come out time and time again,” Sam adds. “And for some people, that can be extremely triggering.”

Beyond that, Alyssa is listed as “father” on both of her children’s birth certificates because there wasn’t a place to write a second mother.

Since 2017, married same-sex parents in the U.S. have had the right to write both their names on their child’s birth certificate. However, the federal government’s standard birth certificate application form hasn’t been revised since 2003, leaving the sections as “mother” and “father.” To amend this, it’s on the respective hospital to file additional paperwork.

“I asked them what to do, and the nurse was like, ‘Well, you put the father’s information,’ and I was like, ‘We’re a two-mom couple, she doesn’t have a dad.’ And she’s like, ‘We’re gonna need dad’s information.’ And I’m like, ‘But there is no dad.’”

Alyssa circled the option at the bottom of the certificate to be listed as “parent” instead of father, but due to a clerical error, the certificate she received in the mail still says “Father: Alyssa Darling.”

The physical toll of discrimination and hate

“The experience of the mother during pregnancy directly impacts the health of the infant,” says Bethany Everett, adjunct associate professor of obstetrics and gynaecology at the University of Utah. “Tending to mothers is a critical period for public health interventions if we want to improve population health at large.”

While research around queer pregnancy is limited, a 2022 study found that lesbian women living in states with stronger legal protections for sexual minorities had better birth outcomes, including higher birth weights and lower rates of preterm births, compared to those in states without such protections. Conversely, the study found no significant difference in birth outcomes between heterosexual women in states with and without sexual minority protections.

“If you can be fired because you’re gay or you can’t be legally recognised in your partnership, those things impact your real quality of life,” says Everett. “And those forms of stigma and discrimination can negatively impact the health of the pregnant woman and translate to the health of the foetus.”

“Long-term exposure to distress and discrimination results in chronic inflammation and immune dysfunction,” she says. “It’s not about the person, it’s about the environment that they’re giving birth in.”

Angela Thompson remembers not holding hands with her wife when she was visibly pregnant. “We have felt uncomfortable in public, especially in more rural areas after the [Presidential] Election,” Thompson says. “Once, we were at a restaurant in Myrtle Beach, and we weren’t holding hands or sitting next to each other, but people still gave us dirty looks. It’s stressful.”

Unfortunately, providers aren’t always immune to stigma and homophobia. As of 2022, more than one in eight LGBTQIA+ people live in states where doctors, nurses and other health care professionals can legally refuse to treat them.

This translates to negative health outcomes for queer women in the delivery room.

According to a 2023 survey, LGBTQIA+ people were twice as likely to experience medical gaslighting compared to their cis and heterosexual counterparts. When asked to agree with the following statement, “My doctor listens to me when I express concerns about treatments and prescriptions,” 49% of queer respondents agreed compared to 61% of straight and cis respondents.

Thompson’s son was underweight at birth and two weeks early. After an emergency C-section, the baby didn’t cry, which was alarming to the nurses.

“There was not enough of the cord connected to the placenta which meant he wasn’t getting as much nutrients toward the end of the pregnancy, which is why he couldn’t tolerate labour,” she says. “They don’t know how they missed it. I had concerns about it and I told them to check it earlier but they either missed it [or didn’t check].”

“The whole process feels very disjointed,” says Amy, the birthing mother in New Jersey. “I wish I had been given more information about the risks because this is an IVF baby.”

The couple says that they found out later that IVF pregnancies are at higher risk of haemorrhaging, which also becomes a greater risk when under induction medication like Amy was.

The same care but more expensive: insurance exclusion

In addition to not feeling heard, the financial burden of IVF is another stressor that disproportionately affects queer women. A single cycle costs between $15,000 to $30,000, and only 21 states and D.C. have insurance laws that mandate coverage of fertility treatments. One study found that for two-thirds of patients, it takes six or more IVF cycles for a successful pregnancy. That means it can easily cost $100,000 for one pregnancy.

“Insurance coverage and IVF language is an example of just how heteronormative our family building infrastructure still is and how we throw up these barriers for queer folks,” says Abbie Goldberg, professor of psychology at Clark University, noting that only eight states have policies that are inclusive of LGBTQIA+ parents due to language of their policy and requirements for the definition of “infertile.”

Shanell Crymes-Lincoln had to switch employers to obtain insurance that would cover IVF for her and her wife.

“It was astronomical without insurance,” Crymes-Lincoln, who lives in Toledo, Ohio, told Uncloseted Media.

“It was between using our savings for a baby or a house, and we wanted to do everything possible to not have to pay out of pocket.”

Religion and race

Crymes-Lincoln is currently pregnant with her and her wife Nesi’s second child. While the couple’s first experience with an LGBTQIA+ friendly doctor was positive, with Nesi being able to catch the baby, they are nervous about their new provider who works out of a Catholic hospital.

“Everything went smoothly [with our first baby’s doctor] … But then my insurance carrier dropped that entire medical clinic altogether, and we only have two medical clinics in this area.”

Both women say they feel more on edge at their new clinic because it features “Mother Teresa statues, prayers and things that are exclusive to certain groups.”

“I feel like you’re going to judge me based on your religious thoughts. I don’t feel comfortable displaying affection with my wife, or even calling her my wife there,” says Crymes-Lincoln, who dreamed of “being a mom” as a kid. “We’re worried our birth plan won’t be respected here.”

At their first appointment, Crymes-Lincoln felt like her questions were being “brushed off.”

“It could be because of my race, it could be because of my sexual orientation,” she says. “I’m just worried about the birth, being a Black woman and being a lesbian, we tend to get overlooked.”

“Combined is a whammy,” she says, noting that Black women in the US are more than three times likely to die during pregnancy or childbirth than their white counterparts.

Mothers just want to be heard

Above all, mothers just want providers who listen to them.

“Just don’t assume,” Sam Darling says. “There was one instance when I was pregnant where a nurse asked if my wife was my sister. It was really awkward. I think healthcare in general needs to do better for LGBTQIA+ community members. Have a pronoun section on intake forms, and ask about your [patient’s] sexual orientation.”

As a practitioner focused on LGBTQIA+ folks, Marea Goodman says representation is essential. “When you go into a fertility clinic and you don’t see any other families that look like yours, it can be a really isolating experience.”

In Goodman’s practice, there’s a strong emphasis on prioritising the parents’ emotional experience. For instance, Goodman allows the birthing mother’s partner to push the syringe during the insemination, an intentional choice to honour the grief that can arise from not being able to conceive privately at home.

Goodman suggests small changes in the system to make queer women feel more supported. “I don’t think it’s too hard to improve this. If there’s one photo in the office of a queer couple, that will make a difference. I think if everyone in the office, including front desk personnel, had training, it would go a long way.”

Goodman also suggests having a list of organisations where folks can connect with other LGBTQIA+ families looking to conceive.

“People feel alone. People feel isolated. People don’t see themselves reflected, and society doesn’t do that for us,” Goodman says. “We have to create spaces that do. That’s what changes everything.”

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Harassment of LGBTQIA+ people is at an all-time high, and the New York City subway is the belly of the beast. But without clear guidelines from the NYPD, how and when should you intervene?

THIS ARTICLE FIRST APPEARED ON UNCLOSETED MEDIA A NEW INVESTIGATIVE LGBTQIA+ FOCUSSED NEWS PUBLICATION.

WORDS SAM DONNDELINGER

On a summer afternoon in August 2021, Athena Schaffner scrolled the Chipotle menu as she rode the New York City C train.

When the train dipped into a tunnel, a man with baggy sweatpants and a disposable facemask stood up from the orange plastic seats and peered at the subway signs above Schaffner, a lesbian college student who was 20 at the time. As he loomed over Schaffner’s short, spiky hair, she got nervous and looked up. Before she could blink, the man punched her squarely in the forehead. “What?” he screamed. “You don’t want to sleep with me?”

After the subway creaked to a stop, the doors opened and the man ran off. Schaffner sat frozen, her head pulsing.

She looked at the other passengers for help. A woman stood with her earbuds in and her eyes focused on her phone. A man shifted his weight, holding on to the subway pole. No one made eye contact. No one said a word.

“I felt alone,” Schaffner told Uncloseted Media.

The New York City subway can feel like the belly of the beast when it comes to violence. In the last few months, a man nearly died after being pushed on the tracks in Chelsea, and a woman was killed after being lit on fire on a train in Brooklyn.

While the New York City Police Department (NYPD) says overall transit crime has decreased by 36.4% since last year, assaults, harassment and murder have increased since 2021.

Polls show that fear of crime is still the main reason people are hesitant to ride the subway. Only half of those who ride feel safe.

For LGBTQIA+ and queer-presenting people, the subway is even more dangerous. In recent years, attacks against the LGBTQIA+ community have surged, according to the FBI’s annual crime report. More than one-in-five hate crimes are motivated by anti-LGBTQ bias, an increase of 53% from last year. In the subway, trans women have been harassed, lost their legs after being pushed in front of the tracks, been sexually assaulted and been called slurs.

This fear is prompting scholars, activists and victims to ask: What role should bystanders play in intervening in this public violence?

The Bystander Dilemma: Should You Step In?

While the MTA declined to comment for this article, they directed Uncloseted Media to their hate crimes guidelines, where they instruct bystanders to report subway incidents and to “only intervene if you think that it is safe.” They also add, “Don’t try to handle it on your own. The situation could escalate.”

Given some stops span up to 3.5 miles where doors are shut for over five minutes, situations can escalate quickly. When victims have no escape, waiting for authorities may be unrealistic. And research shows that with the right tools, intervention may be more effective at keeping people safe than staying silent.

When bystanders intervene, 79% of victims of sexual harassment in public spaces say the situation improved, according to a 2019 survey. Another study, led by the United Kingdom’s Center for Research on Violence Against Women, found a greater than 50% reduction in sexual violence at schools that received bystander training.

Still, people in the U.S. only intervene 15% of the time.

“It all goes back to some basic psychological principles of the bystander effect,” says Annelise Mennicke, the associate director of research at the University of North Carolina Violence Prevention Center. “If there’s a group of people, there’s a diffusion of responsibility, and people feel unsure. Everybody looks at each other and says, ‘It’s not my job to do it.’ Well, whose job is it?”

Mennicke says lack of intervention creates a domino effect and makes standing by feel normal.

“Although we all imagine ourselves heroes, the fact is that many people refrain from helping in real life, especially when we are aware that other people are present at the scene,” according to social neuroscientist Ruud Hortensius’ research findings from a 2018 report in Current Directions in Psychological Science.

Uncloseted Media interviewed six New Yorkers outside the city’s F train. When asked about their own likelihood to intervene, one of the top reasons they provided for not stepping in is that they didn’t want to risk their own safety.

“You don’t know the scenario,” says Matt Birnholtz, a 26-year-old computer coder in Brooklyn. “You don’t want to put yourself in harm’s way. If you’re the only one who intervenes, you’re putting yourself in a situation you don’t understand and that’s scary.”

There are reasons to be more afraid to intervene in America, a country with the most firearms per capita in the world: 120.5 guns among 100 residents.

“There’s a lot of barriers to intervention related to fear of being wrong, fear of harming yourself or putting yourself in danger, fear of somebody getting mad at you. Bystander intervention training can help with all of those,” says Mennicke.

Amelia Prochaska, a bystander intervention facilitator, says that “Western culture” teaches us not to intervene. “We’re socialised to ignore things or to stay in our lane,” she says. “We’re taught to be more independent and less involved in our communities, which [conditions] us to be less reliant on each other.”

She says that if a stranger is being harassed and you don’t view them as part of your community, it’s hard to step in. “We’re not thinking about what’s at stake for that person,” she says.

Savannah Lynn, an assistant director for Diversity Inclusion at New York University School of Law, agrees. “Intervening is just not done,” she says. “Everybody ignores the situation. And that’s understandable. But there are situations where intervention is necessary, and it changes the trajectory.”

These incidents often start with verbal harassment or catcalling, which disproportionately affect queer people and women.

How Harassment Turns into Violence

In August 2023, a 22-year-old trans woman was waiting for the J train in Brooklyn when a man approached her, catcalled her, and made a sexually suggestive gesture. According to Brooklyn prosecutors, he then grabbed her butt and, when she confronted him verbally, he threatened her and called her a “faggot.”

After they entered the train, he hit her repeatedly, threw her to the floor and beat her until bystanders pulled him off. She ended up with a broken nose, and the man was charged with a hate crime.

Prochaska says it’s critical that bystanders intervene sooner when they see the beginnings of harassment. “Kissy noises, grunts, and unwelcome conversations contribute to the culture of disrespect,” she says. “If we don’t intervene here, then it can escalate to identity-based harassment. This is where we usually see slurs, hate, and physical violence.”

Mennicke says that perpetrators are often “testing the waters” by starting with verbal harassment. In the case of the woman and the man on the platform, she believes the witnesses on the platform had already committed to not intervening.

“By moving off the subway platform and onto the train, new people were involved and saw the severity of the situation without the slow escalation,’’ she says. “I wouldn’t be surprised if [it was] the new people who intervened because they suddenly saw a brand-new situation and couldn’t rationalise it to themselves.”

Who Gets Help? The Role of Identity in Bystander Intervention

“We tend to help people we perceive as less socially distant from ourselves or have more in common with us,” says Brenden Lance, director of the Hate Crime Research and Policy Institute at Florida State University.

Lance says political animus toward the LGBTQIA+ community is creating a climate that makes the public less willing to help. “People perceive themselves as different from [trans and queer people]. Legislation is just making that more concrete.”

Something as superficial as a t-shirt can influence whether a bystander will step in. A 2013 study found that football fans were more likely to verbally or physically intervene in an escalating incident of harassment when the victim was wearing the same jersey as the team they supported.

“Any level of connection can increase your likelihood of helping,” Proschaska says.

Alisa Nudar, a 17-year-old queer student, says she was “so relieved” when someone her age stepped in to help when she was being harassed.

Nudar remembers waiting for the train in Queens when she noticed a man getting closer to her.

“Hey Sweetheart,” he whispered. “How you doing?”

She shifted her weight, unsure whether to leave or respond and afraid the situation might become violent. “My first thought was, ‘Will he follow me home?’” Nudar told Uncloseted Media.

Suddenly, a woman her age approached and gently asked about her day. Nudar pretended to know her, and they boarded the train.

“I felt like I wasn’t alone,” Nudar says. “[A stranger] saying something, even something small, broke the situation and made me feel like I wasn’t crazy because someone else noticed it.”

This method of intervention is called Distract, according to Proschaska.

What Can You Do? Safe Ways to Intervene

Proschaska recommends methods of intervention that focus on supporting the person who’s experiencing the harassment rather than engaging with the perpetrator. In addition to Distract, techniques include Delegate, Document, Delay and Direct.

The 5-Ds, according to Right to Be, a bystander intervention training group, focus on de-escalation. Only one of them involves engagement with the perpetrator.

“Say you’re on the train, and someone’s getting yelled at. You can go and stand between them with headphones on,” says Proschaska, referring to Distract. “You’re creating physical distance [and] starting to diffuse the tension. You don’t even have to say anything.”

If that doesn’t feel safe, Prochaska says you can reach out to the person next to you and ask for their assistance. “Delegate really asks you to consider your positionality in terms of power, privilege, vulnerability, and safety,” she says. “We’re often waiting for someone else to say something without directly asking them to.”

If there’s no way to delegate or distract, taking video can help provide evidence if the situation does get out of hand.

Keith Lynch, who worked for the NYPD for eight years, says people should report harassment on the subway. “Not everyone is in a position to physically intervene,” he says. “But you can always report it.”

While there are emergency alert buttons on trains, phones in stations, and security cameras in trains, the NYPD does not have clear guidelines on what people should do if they see an incident on the subway. Uncloseted Media requested interviews with the NYPD multiple times and sent them a list of questions for comment. They declined an interview and did not respond to our questions.

Without a clear message from the police when it comes to bystander intervention, Proschaska says citizens on the subway have a duty to step in to help their fellow New Yorkers.

“When we start intervening, it helps us all,” she says. “Part of the power of giving people tools and plans for what to do if they see disrespect is acknowledging that it’s happening. The idea that it’s just the way it is is something to directly oppose. I believe that we deserve better than harassment, and we deserve people’s help.”

If objective, nonpartisan, rigorous, LGBTQIA+ focused journalism is important to you, please consider making a tax-deductible donation through our fiscal sponsor, Resource Impact, by clicking this button:

Donate to Uncloseted Media

The post Is bystander intervention the solution to violence on New York subways? appeared first on GAY TIMES.

Family support has been proven to be the leading way to cut suicide risk for queer and trans individuals, but less than 40% of queer youth feel accepted at home. What are they doing this holiday season?

THIS ARTICLE FIRST APPEARED ON UNCLOSETED MEDIA A NEW INVESTIGATIVE LGBTQIA+ FOCUSSED NEWS PUBLICATION.

WORDS SAM DONNDELINGER

Editor’s note: This article includes mention of suicide and contains details about those who have attempted to take their own lives. If you are having thoughts of suicide, or are concerned that someone you know may be, resources are available here (US) and here (UK).

In 2020, U.P. Nguyen called her mother in Albuquerque, New Mexico, with a secret she had kept for 23 years.

“Mum, I’m gay.”

Her mom responded in Vietnamese, Nguyen’s native language.

“[She] said I was going to hell and that she wasn’t sure what they did to deserve a daughter like me,” Nguyen, a 26-year-old running coach and data engineer living in Boston and New York, told Uncloseted Media. “Just thinking about it makes me tear up.”

Before the end of the call, Nguyen’s mother told her she was “cut out of the will.”

Nguyen usually goes home to celebrate Christmas with her deeply religious parents, who have voted for President-elect Donald Trump three consecutive times, but she won’t return this year.

“I don’t really want to spend the holidays moping by myself,” she told Uncloseted Media. “I’m heartbroken. I’ll miss a lot of things about being home. I’ll miss my siblings. But I feel like I need to not go.”

Nguyen’s parents did not respond to Uncloseted Media’s request for comment.

Nguyen’s experience highlights a broader issue many LGBTQIA+ people face: the struggle for family acceptance during the holidays. In the U.S., less than 40% of LGBTQ youth consider their homes affirming and over a quarter report daily tensions.

Family rejection takes a significant mental health toll: LGBTQIA+ people who experience high levels of rejection from their families are eight times more likely to attempt suicide.

The pervasive familial rejection of queer people is a public health crisis and the severity of it is often downplayed. “The lack of support from the family is contributing to despair, lack of hope, thoughts of taking their lives, substance abuse, and various other kinds of risks,” says Caitlin Ryan, director of the Family Acceptance Project, a research and education initiative aimed at spreading awareness for LGBTQIA+ family acceptance and mental health.

Ryan, who co-founded the project in 2002, says that until her organisation started this research, “no one knew that there were a whole set of behaviours that were related to family acceptance and mental health [for LGBTQIA+ people].” And even today, research is limited.

For Nguyen, her parents’ rejection often makes her feel angry. I’m pissed off,” she says. “A lot of my friends have it simpler.”

She says this rejection manifests in the everyday interactions that others take for granted. “I was FaceTiming my mom and I was trying to show her that I was at my girlfriend’s house … I handed the phone over to her, and then my mom immediately hung up. It felt awful.”

While many LGBTQIA+ folks feel this rejection daily, the holidays often amplify feelings of loneliness for those estranged from their families. Sixty-six percent of people report feeling lonely during the holidays, and 64% of individuals with mental health conditions say the season worsens their state, according to the National Alliance on Mental Illness.

“LGBTQIA+ people throughout time have lived in a world that wasn’t supportive, that often discriminated against them and was rejecting and victimising. And so support is essential,” says Ryan.

Robin, who grew up in Southern California, says their upbringing was full of rejection because of their father’s treatment of them, their past partners and the LGBTQ community at large.

“The expectation has generally been that for the holiday seasons, everyone who has moved away from our hometown will come back and spend a few days there,” says Robin, 26, who moved to northern California and asked to use a pseudonym out of a “fear of blowback” from their dad. “I’ve done that once in the past five years and was very reluctant to do so.”

Robin, who is not going home this holiday, says that their father was harsh towards their trans partner when they both visited him.

“My dad took that opportunity to interrogate her about her identity and ask what kind of hormones she was on and what kind of surgeries she had gotten,” they told Uncloseted Media. “He does not use my correct name unless I specifically insist, which I have to do every sentence. I have not heard him gender me correctly once.”

According to Ryan, the tactics used by Robin’s father contribute to mental health deterioration. “Rejection behaviours all focus on trying to change, prevent, deny or minimise someone’s LGBTQIA+ identity,” Ryan says. “That includes behaviours like blaming your child when others mistreat them because of their LGBTQIA+ identity, not talking about their identity, pressuring them to be more or less masculine or feminine, not using their appropriate name, misgendering them, and so on.”

Research has found that when trans youth could have their chosen name used, there was a more than 70% decrease in severe depressive symptoms and a 65% decrease in suicide attempts. “This is startling when you think that this is just about using someone’s name,” says Ryan.

“I want to be speaking up against these things, and I often do. And my impression is that that disturbs the peace of the holidays,” Robin says. “There is this unspoken agreement that we will tolerate it, but I am no longer afraid of ruining a relationship by bringing these things up because I see that relationship as being over already.”

Since Nguyen came out four years ago, she says going home for the holidays is difficult. “I’m gay, I’m the only one who moved away from home, and so I’m definitely the topic of gossip when I visit,” she says. “It’s often like, ‘Whoa.’ I feel pretty scrutinised.”

What Robin and Nguyen are describing is the conflict that many LGBTQIA+ children feel towards their parents: the pull to be themselves authentically, clashing with a desire to keep relationships with their parents intact, with silence as the glue.

“When we’re in environments where we don’t feel like ourselves, it creates a sense of avoidance,” says Rebecca Schlegal, professor of psychology at Texas University, whose research focuses on authenticity and well-being. “But when you’re talking about family, what a conflict, right? Our impulse is going to be to approach family. But when you’re getting signals that you don’t fit, you’re going to feel like you need to avoid. And so that’s going to arouse a sense of conflict within the self.”

According to Schlegel’s research, when people are allowed to be themselves and feel accepted, their well-being skyrockets. “Authenticity is associated with every mental health outcome that we’ve ever looked at. It’s bigger than a typical effect that we see in social psychology,” she says.

For Nguyen, the rejection manifests in acute mental health struggles. “It feels like deep sadness,” she says. “Like, ‘Man, Why is this happening to me? Why can’t good things happen to me?’ And I feel lethargic and it’s hard for me to move, like literally move and get off the couch or out of bed.”

She says the worst experience was in 2022, shortly after she and her girlfriend broke up and she chose to go home to her family for Christmas. “My ex had hosted me for the holidays for the [three] years we were dating and I didn’t have to go back home. I was like, ‘Wow, this is really nice. Like, this is what it’s like to have a family that is supportive.’ So the double gut punch of losing my [girlfriend] and then needing to deal with all the homophobia and toughness of home was terrible for my mental health.”

In an advisory released last year by U.S. Surgeon General Dr. Vivek Murthy, isolation and loneliness are as bad for your health as smoking every day. It can also increase your risk of mental health conditions, stroke, heart disease and even premature death.

“There’s often a perception that people are always the answer to not feeling alone. [But] sometimes they’re the cause,” Sam Carr, loneliness researcher at the University of Bath, told Uncloseted Media.

“If you have to be somebody else with your family, that means the real you is hidden. So even when you do go back home, you feel lonely because your family requires you to be something different. If you live your whole life that way, you’ve essentially lived a very lonely existence. The world hasn’t seen you.”

“Somewhere in between my high school self and now I’ve tasted freedom and what it’s like to be fully myself, fully out, fully existing,” Nguyen says. “When I’m at home, I feel like I have to put on a mask or I have to censor myself because my parents and I have very differing opinions, and I don’t want to spend the whole time I visit fighting, so I just don’t say a lot of things. Even though I’m out, it feels very closeted.”

Research has found that more than a quarter of Americans are estranged from family members and that differences over political views are among the leading causes of those estrangements.

“Many queer people are profoundly distressed and even feel betrayed by their family members this election,” says Linda Hsieh, a life coach and therapist who works with LGBTQIA+ clients. “Individuals may be thinking, ‘How could you not vote to support me? I’m part of the family.’”

Mary, a 26-year-old trans woman originally from Hawaii who wished to remain anonymous to not further fracture her relationship with her parents, spent this Thanksgiving at home in Oregon with her conservative evangelical family.

“I don’t want to go back any time soon,” she says. “My father is a Trump supporter, and we’ve had lots of fights about it.”

Mary knew she was trans from the age of 12 but kept it to herself for over a decade before coming out to her family in 2022. Since then, her family avoids addressing her name and tries to act as though “nothing happened and nothing changed.”

Her aunt has refused to let her see her niece and nephew, citing concerns about confusing the children because of her identity. “I don’t think it’s right to treat my identity as another potential source of conflict. I miss them deeply.”

During Thanksgiving dinner, it was tense. “My grandparents wouldn’t look at me, and they would talk around my name so they didn’t have to say it,” she says. When politics came up, she felt outnumbered. “I felt like I couldn’t speak.”

Mary says it has impacted her mental health. “Whenever I visit Oregon, I feel an old depression set back in and it makes me antsy to return home to Los Angeles where I don’t often feel that same caged animal sadness.”

Nguyen, who is the first-born daughter of her Vietnamese refugee family, says that she understands where her parents are coming from, but she disagrees. “They think that I’m going into battle because they are very religious, and it was tough to be queer in their world growing up. But I think they don’t quite understand that it’s different now.”

Research published in the American Journal of Preventive Medicine insists that there must be a change. The study reveals a powerful intervention to suicide prevention among LGBTQ people: love. According to the longitudinal study on suicide ideation, social support from family and friends is the most protective factor for at-risk youth.

“We found that when there were high levels of these supportive behaviours, there were extremely low levels of suicidality, depression, substance abuse, very high levels of self-esteem, high levels of overall health and well-being, positive social connections, and having people who care about you and support you overall,” Ryan says.

She emphasises that solutions to family rejection don’t require parents to abandon their religious beliefs or political values but instead focus on practical behavioural changes. “They just need to modify their behaviours in ways that show love.”

Ryan’s approach involves guiding families through small, actionable steps, such as using their child’s chosen name and pronouns. She also encourages families to take part in educational programs that explain the impact of rejecting behaviours.

“It’s about meeting the family where they are at,” says Ryan. “Most of these families want their kids to be happy and healthy. When they see the data about how much pain the rejection is causing them, they change. They want to keep their families together.”

This holiday, Nyguyen is feeling conflicted about not going home. “Sometimes I get lonely,” she says. “I’ve been quite lucky to have had an incredible support network around me. When I came out and was rejected by my parents, I was immediately embraced by other loved ones. I had a stable tech job and a roof over my head, far from family, so the damage was mostly limited to feeling cast out by the ones who were supposed to love me the most.”

Nguyen has been in therapy for years and says that it has done “wonders” for how she processes her familial relationships. “They’re not the easiest, but they’re mine, and I get to choose whether or not I want them. I will always love my family and want to honour what they gave me, and I’m still deciding how to do that in a way that doesn’t make me go crazy.”

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7 in 10 transgender young adults grapple with eating disorders – an often-overlooked struggle tied to both gender identity and mental health. Trans men are the most affected group.

THIS ARTICLE FIRST APPEARED ON UNCLOSETED MEDIA A NEW INVESTIGATIVE LGBTQIA+ FOCUSSED NEWS PUBLICATION.

WORDS SAM DONNDELINGER
IMAGE JUSTIN WEE FOR UNCLOSETED MEDIA

TW: This story deals with topics such as eating disorders and self harm which may be distressing for some readers.

If you need help with an eating disorder, resources can be found at The National Eating Disorders Association (US) and Beat (UK). If you are experiencing suicidal thoughts or a mental health crisis, call or text Suicide and Crisis Lifeline: 988 (US) or call 999 (UK).

On a hazy morning in April 2022, Daniel-José Cyan opens his deserted fridge to find a single piece of mouldy mozzarella cheese. He holds it up to the light and, knowing he has to eat something, goes against his better judgment and takes a bite.

“I would go a long time without eating because I thought it would help me lose weight. And then I had to eat at some point because I wasn’t physically well,” Cyan, a 27-year-old living in the Bronx, told Uncloseted Media. “Even looking in the fridge can cause me to shut down.”

Cyan, who wound up getting food poisoning from eating the cheese, struggles with an eating disorder. And he’s not alone.

7 in 10 trans people aged 18-24 experience an eating disorder. These disorders are so pervasive in the LGBTQIA+ community that the Biden administration earlier this month awarded a multi-million dollar grant to psychologists pioneering identity-affirming eating disorder treatment for LGBTQIA+  people.

Trans men experience even higher rates of eating disorders than their female counterparts and the highest rates of any demographic group, according to a 2023 study from the National Library of Medicine. Experts say trans people disproportionately struggle with eating disorders because they face body dysphoria, societal stigma, and a deep desire for control amidst a world that often feels hostile and invalidating.

For trans men, this is compounded by the gendered expectations of being raised as a girl, and then—once they transition—the isolation and stigma that men who experience eating disorders often face.

According to a guide for providers who treat trans patients, trans men may develop an eating disorder in a quest to look more masculine by reducing curves and breast size, and lose their period. “By engaging in eating disorder behaviors and modifying their bodies, their goal is to appear more masculine as an intent to reduce gender dysphoria and distress,” Anne Marie O’Melia writes in the guide.

“Eating disorders are rooted in control,” Lydia Rhino, program director at The Eating Disorder Foundation, told Uncloseted Media. “It’s scary to be a trans person in the United States. When there’s no safety or acceptance in a lot of places, eating disorders are a way to express, ‘I can’t control what other people are doing outside of me, but I can control this.’”

In 2024, trans rights are under attack. President-elect Donald Trump won the White House largely on a campaign of anti-trans rhetoric with ads announcing his opponent, Kamala Harris, as being “for They/Them, while President Trump is for You.” In addition, there are hundreds of anti-trans bills sweeping through state legislatures, and last month Speaker of the House Mike Johnson banned trans women from using restrooms that match their gender identity on Capitol Hill.

On top of political animus and transphobia, Rhino says body dysmorphia also plays a role, and it is not surprising trans men are the most susceptible group.

“If you have lived in a body that does not feel like yours, where people have identified you one way, and you know that it didn’t feel accurate, why would your body be something that you respect and treat well?,” says Rhino.

“Eating disorders can be the management of gender dysphoria, they numb out emotions and give you something different to focus on so you’re not thinking about the transphobia you’re experiencing, and for a lot of people, they change the [way your body looks] without using hormones or surgery because they can slow puberty,” Emmy Johnson, a therapist who specializes in LGBTQIA+ people with eating disorders, told Uncloseted Media.

Cyan has restricted his food intake and binged for nearly 20 years. “I have struggled in my relationship to food since childhood. When I was in the fifth grade, I was heavily teased and bullied by my peers, my teachers and my family for my weight,” he says, adding that this made him learn to hate himself.

“I counted calories, I avoided meals, and food became equal to fatness and that, to me, was one of the worst things you could be,” he says. “Food became a thing for survival. I ate because being hungry would make me physically sick. I always thought I had some sort of anorexia, but according to a nutritionist I’m seeing, it’s called binge-restrict eating disorder.”

Natalie Allen, an eating disorder therapist at Toronto Psychology and Wellness Group, says that one of the reasons people raised as girls statistically experience more eating disorders than cisgender men is because of socialisation. “[People assigned female at birth] have historically received a lot more pressure to maintain specific physical beauty standards and ideals,” she says.

“I didn’t have a boyhood. I had a girlhood. That’s how I was taught to understand my body and food, because there were these impossible beauty standards of what it meant to be a girl,” says Cyan.

He remembers sitting on his couch at nine years old and watching Girl Code on MTV where they suggested viewers chew ice cubes and imagine them as food as a diet tip. “I was like, ‘This feels like the right thing, and maybe I could finally lose weight.’”

“There’s just so much pressure to fit into a role,” Rhino says. “So it’s one area that a trans person can be like, ‘If I can change my body and make my body look this way, then I can communicate to people that this is who I am, and how I identify.’ A lot of it has to do with the social pressure to fit into a box.”

As Cyan went through puberty and his body began to change, his disorder escalated and was “at its worst” as a teenager. “I would spend the entire day not eating and waiting to see how long I could go before I fainted,” he says. “[Passing out] was a goal of mine. But I thought to have an eating disorder, I had to be underweight, so it must not be that.”

Part of the barrier to recovery for trans men are the societal expectations of what kinds of people experience eating disorders.

“We have a problem understanding the problem of eating disorders in the United States,” Doreen Marshall, executive director of the National Eating Disorder Association, told Uncloseted Media.

“Most people assume those impacted are young, white, thin, and female. [But] only 6% of people who struggle with eating disorders are clinically underweight. When somebody who is not that model then has to navigate recovery in the real world, they’re also having to navigate this landscape that doesn’t see them as a person who is impacted.”

Cis, white women are the most likely to be asked about eating disorders by their doctors and receive treatment. Men have reported struggling to feel understood by therapists, feeling unwanted in the treatment environment and that their concerns are not taken into account. This means a lot of men – and especially trans men – are left untreated.

“If I am a trans person seeking treatment, even the providers I go to may carry some of that bias,” says Marshall. “That bias ultimately impacts whether I get care or not.”

Cyan experienced this bias when he was seeking gender-affirming care two years ago. When he went into the doctor to get evaluated for top surgery revision, his surgeon told him that he would not operate on him unless he lost weight and gave him “no recommendations on how to do it.”

“I didn’t realize how big of a trigger it would be until I spiraled and spent the entire year restricting myself from eating until I wound up binging. My doctor had no idea I was already struggling with an eating disorder.”

Cyan found it easier to be open about his eating disorder when he was feminine-presenting, but since he transitioned, he gets nervous talking about it.

“I feel like it’s taken less seriously because I look like a man, and it’s more embarrassing to have to deal with it as a man. When I was considering my gender, I always thought men don’t have to care about what they look like. But that was not the case.”

Cyan says men are held to standards of fitness and “pressure to be strong in a certain way.”

“There’s a sense of fitness that is still expected when it comes to peak masculinity. It’s to be muscular and strong and I thought that’s what I needed to be.”

After Cyan got food poisoning from the expired cheese last year, he realised he needed to seek care. “It was scary for me … I felt alone because I didn’t know how to have conversations about it.”

“Eating disorders by nature are isolating,” says Adee Levinstein, nutrition manager at The Eating Recovery Center. “And being part of the trans community can also feel very isolating in our current world.” She says it makes sense that they overlap.

According to Johnson, the therapist who works with transgender folks, gender-affirming healthcare can help trans people struggling with eating disorders. “I have seen how motivating it is for patients to receive gender-affirming care,” they say. “A lot of eating disorder recovery is about exploring and developing identity, and affirming gender identity” is a critical part of that.

When trans men receive gender-affirming care, studies point to a reduction in eating disorder behaviours. Another 2019 study found that when gender is affirmed and gender dysphoria is reduced, eating disorder symptoms decrease.

Eating disorder recovery is not easy. Five decades of literature suggest that fewer than half of adults with eating disorders will recover.

Johnson says that getting to the root of the problem, whether it is control, body image, body dysphoria, or external factors, is essential. “Recovery is not linear,” they say. “If you are not ready to pursue recovery, you still deserve support and we want to help you stay alive and reduce the harm that the eating disorder is causing you.”

For Cyan, his recovery was complicated after he was told he had to lose weight in order to receive top surgery revision. He wound up opting for bariatric surgery – which reduces the size of the stomach and changes the digestive system. This allowed him to feel more connected to his body.

The newfound connection also helped him begin to recover from his eating disorder. Beyond the surgery, he has been in therapy for years, seeing a nutritionist, and also uses support groups online that help with recovery. “I’m surprised with how much I ended up relying on groups. Many folks will remind me, ‘You need to eat frequently, and that’s how you end up a healthy weight, meeting your protein numbers and your hydration levels, not restricting yourself.’”

Earlier this summer, Cyan started up the burner in his kitchen for the first time in his new apartment. He grilled salmon and air-fried vegetables.

While he still has the occasional thought of disordered eating, his relationship to food is improving. “I’m actually starting to enjoy cooking again,” he says. “My relationship with food is different. For so long, eating was something that I had to force myself to do because of how the eating disorder worked. Now that my self-esteem is higher, I’m more decisive about the food that I’m putting into my body. At times, I still feel the need to binge or completely not eat, but mostly I’m doing okay.”

If objective, nonpartisan, rigorous, LGBTQ-focused journalism is important to you, please consider making a tax-deductible donation through our fiscal sponsor, Resource Impact, by clicking this button:

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The post Trans guys experience eating disorders at alarmingly high rates. Why? appeared first on GAY TIMES.

US vice president-elect  J.D. Vance’s track record with LGBTQ issues isn’t great. Here’s what he’s said and done through the years.

THIS ARTICLE FIRST APPEARED ON UNCLOSETED MEDIA A NEW INVESTIGATIVE LGBTQIA+ FOCUSSED NEWS PUBLICATION.

WORDS BY SAM DONNDELINGER AND UNCLOSETED MEDIA

Pre-politics

2011

Vance hears a speech delivered by gay venture capitalist Peter Thiel, which convinces him to become a businessman instead of a lawyer. From this moment forward Thiel becomes an influential force in Vance’s career. Thiel later hires Vance as a partner at his global investment firm.

2016

Vance publishes his memoir in which he writes about his thoughts on feeling gay as a child:

“She said, ‘Don’t be a fucking idiot, how would you know that you’re gay?’ I explained my thought process. Mamaw chuckled and seemed to consider how she might explain to a boy my age. Finally she asked, ‘J.D., do you want to suck dicks?’ I was flabbergasted. Why would someone want to do that? She repeated herself, and I said, ‘Of course not!’ ‘Then,’ she said, ‘you’re not gay. And even if you did want to suck dicks, that would be okay. God would still love you.’ That settled the matter. Apparently I didn’t have to worry about being gay anymore. Now that I’m older, I recognise the profundity of her sentiment: Gay people, though unfamiliar, threatened nothing about Mamaw’s being. There were more important things for a Christian to worry about.”

Ohio Senator

April 2022

Vance sends a message to folks trying to limit discussion of LGBTQIA+ issues in the classroom: “I’ll stop calling people ‘groomers’ when they stop freaking out about bills that prevent the sexualization of my children.”

In an interview with Tucker Carlson, Vance says pharmaceutical companies are “experiment[ing] on children” with “chemical castration.” When asked about sex-ed and gender in the classroom, he says: “The democrats are advocating to teach about sexuality and crazy gender theory to 7-year-old children.”

July 2022

Vance says in a radio interview: “I believe that marriage is between one man and one woman, but I don’t think the gay marriage issue is alive right now. I’m not one of these guys who’s looking to try to take people’s families and rip them apart.”

Vance says he would vote against federal protections for gay and interracial marriage in the Respect for Marriage Act. “The religious liberty piece of this is very bad.”

Vance criticises Democratic Ohio Senate nominee Tim Ryan for voting for The Equality Act, which provides comprehensive protections against discrimination for every LGBTQIA+ American, using the inaccurate terms “biological males” to refer to transgender women and girls and “biological female sports” to refer to women’s sports teams.

2022

On his candidate profile page, Vance says he “strongly disagree[s]” that LGBTQIA+ people should be protected from discrimination.

May 2023

On May 16, Vance introduces the Protect Children’s Innocence Act that would make providing gender-affirming care to minors a felony, punishable with a prison sentence of 10 to 25 years.

Vance joins Republican Sen. Marco Rubio in a letter expressing concern about the US Census Bureau’s potential use of questions about “gender identity” on the American Community Survey.

Vance introduces legislation to forbid using the X gender designation on US passports. The Passport Sanity Act would require that application documents only include male and female genders.

2024 Presidential Election

July 19, 2024

The Washington Post discovers that Vance held up “the nominations of dozens of diplomats” for more than a year, after giving them a questionnaire asking would-be ambassadors if they would increase the number of “gender-neutral bathrooms” in US embassies, boost resources for “gender dysphoria and gender transition care” and raise the “Progress [Pride] flag” during “regional Pride celebrations.

If objective, nonpartisan, rigorous, LGBTQIA+ focused journalism is important to you, please consider making a tax-deductible donation through our fiscal sponsor, Resource Impact, by clicking this button and selecting “Uncloseted Media” from the dropdown:

Donate to Uncloseted Media

The post J.D. Vance’s complete track record on LGBTQIA+ issues appeared first on GAY TIMES.