Why don't I visit states with bathroom bans even though I "pass"?

Hypervigilance, survival mode, safety, and privilege

In early 2024, the day the Utah legislature passed a bathroom ban, I told my family there that my husband and I could not (and cannot) visit them. As long as trans bathroom bans and other anti-trans laws are in place, I’m not coming. This means the West Coast, a couple of gems in the middle, such as Colorado, New Mexico, Illinois, Minnesota, and the Mid-Atlantic/Northeast (with exceptions). I’d be happy to meet in Canada or Mexico or several other countries, but with the passport situation being what it is in 2025, that doesn’t feel safe either. (Getting out is one thing; getting back in is another.)

One family member pushed back, asking why I can’t come if I “pass” as a man. They insisted, “You’ll be safe! You’ll be fine! No one cares [that’s your trans]! Why are you so scared?” They raised the question again just weeks ago.

They just don’t get it.

Considering their sincere questions, I realized what they hear and what I mean when I say “safety” are miles apart. As people who fit into the majority in their state—cisgender, straight, White, able-bodied, hearing, faithful members of the dominant religion—they haven’t had to think about it much—particularly the men.¹

How do I explain privilege (as an unearned advantage) to people who do not see the world in terms of systems? Systemic oppression, White supremacy, ableism, cisgenderism? With an individualistic worldview, they think, “Well, I don’t yell slurs at gay people, so I’m not homophobic.” Or “But I have a trans brother and I love him, so I can’t be transphobic!” Or the better-known “I don’t see color!” and “But I have a Black friend, so I’m not racist.” This isn’t how it works.

In the conversation I had with a male family member the other day to help him see, I explained two main points.

The hypervigilance of minority stress

I used the things I thought he could come closest to relating to: his wife and daughters facing misogyny. Having lived as a woman myself for nearly 40 years, I know what it feels like to be scared to walk alone, especially at night. To be on edge as a potential target of any random man’s misogyny, from leering to SA. Back in high school, his wife was the one who taught me to hold a key sticking out between my fingers as a weapon.

It’s horrible to have to feel perpetually scared that a man—a date, a stranger, a relative, a boss—may attack and overpower you. You know, the whole “Man or Bear” conversation (100% the bear). You must be aware and vigilant whenever out of the house. And that is stressful. Even if a man never physically attacks you in your lifetime (let’s hope not, but we know this is extremely common).

I told him, “So you know how your wife feels walking alone at night in a city? I feel that constantly. I am in fight-or-flight mode all the time, and have always been, since I was a kid. When I am talking about safety, I’m talking about that.”

I’m not worried that if I go to Utah, I’ll get beat up, or arrested (unless I use the women’s room—the one they legally require me to use). I doubt people are going to yell slurs at me. Utahns are nice, after all. In 2022, my husband and I walked around Temple Square in Salt Lake City, looking quite gay and in love. No one said a thing. (We expected the sister missionaries would approach us, but I guess they determined us beyond hope.) People will most likely keep quiet if they are uncomfortable.

But I certainly won’t feel welcome. I won’t be able to let my guard down. I will feel like an outsider. An outcast, even, knowing the homophobia the church preached as I grew up (and the addition of explicit transphobia since then).

To be trans in this social and political moment is to be hypervigilant—as the default mode. Like prey being hunted, we must always be aware, ready to fight or flee. Our bodies live in survival mode. In my state, I can relax a bit more. In Utah, I cannot.

Community: Standing with my siblings who do not “pass”

The second point I made is about my principles. Yes, I pass—I get read as a man all the time, and I’ve used men’s bathrooms for years without trouble from others. Same with my husband. But that is “passing privilege,” which so many of my trans sisters and siblings and even some trans brothers do not have. Some will never have. (What does “passing” even mean to nonbinary people?!?!)

I could not feel good about myself if I used my passing privilege for my own singular advantage, knowing my actual trans niblings (who do live in Utah) are at risk of violence victimization in public bathrooms. As long as other trans people are put at risk with these bathroom bans (which protect no one, and only put trans people at more risk), I will avoid those places as much as humanly possible.

This isn’t just about me. This is about my communities, my people. My goal is to use my White, male, passing privilege to help others, to amplify their voices, to fight for their needs. This is why I choose to be visible when I can be invisible.

1. In terms of understanding privilege and oppression, LDS church members—particularly those who live outside of Utah or other pockets of majority Mormons—can have a taste of minority stigma and the negative consequences of that—extra stress that leads to negative mental and physical health.

Like many stigmatized minority groups, the LDS church teaches its members to turn that persecution into pride, resilience, and in-group cohesion. They lean into their reputation, declaring, “Yes, we are a peculiar people!”