By Darwin Del Fabro– This year has been filled with magic—the magic of finally finishing my surgeries, of looking in the mirror and saying with certainty, I am a woman. It’s a feeling I’ve dreamed of for so long, a moment of quiet joy and self-acceptance that I thought would never come. But as I stood in front of my reflection, feeling whole, I turned to the TV and saw something that shattered that serenity—Donald Trump, once again, dismissing the very process that allowed me to become myself.
In that moment, I thought of those who are still discovering themselves, those who have not yet found their reflection staring back at them with love and certainty. I thought of the younger generations, the ones who need help—help from doctors, from psychiatrists, from a government willing to support them rather than erase them. Transitioning is not just a personal journey; it is a societal one. It requires resources, understanding, and access to financial support, education, and opportunities in workplaces. Because for many, the path to becoming themselves is far more challenging than what is considered “normal” in this world.
Eight years ago, I moved to America with a dream—to be an artist, to be myself. I worked tirelessly to build a life where I could afford to transition on my own terms. I put my career on pause, saving every penny to ensure I could do it exactly as I envisioned. I was fortunate to have that chance. But I know not everyone is so lucky.
I may not have the historical knowledge that my Harvard-educated friends possess, the kind that allows them to name every president and analyze policies with precision. But I do have something else—something lived and felt. I know the weight of fighting for an identity that many seek to erase. I understand what is right and what is wrong, not through textbooks, but through experience.
And I know that words—especially words spoken by leaders—carry consequences far beyond their moment in the spotlight. Trump’s words cannot be dismissed as just another passing statement, something we forget after scrolling through TikTok. It cannot be like that. I’ve seen what happens when words of hate are given a stage. I experienced it in Brazil, when Bolsonaro spoke about “freeing” children from so-called harmful influences. Those words gave permission to those who already hated us. They empowered them to say, Yes, we can speak it now. We can say it to their faces because our president said it’s right.
Presidents will change, but the mentalities they unleash will not fade so easily. That is where my fear sleeps—in the lasting permission granted to those awho see us as less than human. Hate, once validated, does not go back into hiding. It lingers. It festers. It finds new ways to manifest in laws, in schools, in homes, in the quiet corners where young people struggle to exist.
Art, to me, is the most powerful thing in the world. And that is why it’s always the first thing they try to take away.
When I saw the applause for Trump’s words—his assertion that “there are only two genders”—I felt the same ache I did when I heard Bolsonaro’s rhetoric in Brazil. It reminded me of the fear of being erased, of having to fight simply to exist. But despite the fear, I know one thing for certain: we will not disappear. We will keep moving forward, even when the world tries to push us back.
This article doesn’t offer definitive answers, because life itself offers none. But I do know that I will keep writing, singing, and acting—even if only in my own living room, even if only to myself. Because in those moments, I remind myself that happiness is real. That beauty exists. And when I look in the mirror, I finally see it.
I can only hope that the beauty I’ve found—the one I fought for, the one that feels so new and yet so familiar—can be seen by others. That the world, in its own time, will catch up and learn to see it too. And for those who are still searching, still fighting, I hope they know that their reflection is waiting for them, that their moment will come.
Until then, I will continue. Not because it’s easy, but because I must. Because joy—my joy—is an act of resistance.
And with that joy comes the knowledge that there are not just two genders, but many—many more, and many more to come. If it means making a human being a better person, a happier person, a person with a fuller heart and soul, then why should we limit what we cannot fully understand?
Whatever I can do to help others on their journeys, I will. Even if it means sacrificing a little of my own. Because in the end, our journeys are not just ours alone—they are woven together, each of us carrying the weight and the beauty of those who came before us, and those who are still yet to come.
