Trans Day of Visibility brought celebration, protests, and other events across the country at the end of March — but one of the most invisible groups of trans people still needs the support of the LGBTQ+ community. Incarcerated trans people — especially trans women — face significant challenges as they seek fair treatment, access to healthcare, and appropriate housing.
One of President Trump’s first executive orders called for incarcerated trans women to be housed in men’s prisons and attempted to end their access to trans-affirming healthcare. Despite multiple court orders blocking this policy from taking effect, many trans women have been forced out of women’s prisons into men’s facilities — where 99% of incarcerated trans women were already housed — and new inmates will now no longer be housed in gender-affirming spaces.
They often face harassment, violence, isolation, and inadequate care. Two trans women who were recently transferred to men’s prisons have allegedly already been abused.
State leaders who don’t comply with the executive order are beginning to face repercussions for their allyship. On April 8, the Trump administration announced it would pull all non-essential funding from Maine’s prison system because the state allows Andrea Balcer, a trans woman, to be housed at a women’s correctional facility.
One in six trans people has been incarcerated — and very little is even known about the lives of the nearly 5,000 trans people currently in prison. The few rights of this almost invisible group are getting ignored.
What’s it like in Pennsylvania?
Pennsylvania’s trans inmates can request to be housed in facilities that align with their gender identities — but a committee decides their fate.
Monica, Veronica, and Brandi — three trans women who were imprisoned at multiple facilities across Pennsylvania — were all housed in men’s prisons before their recent releases. PGN has withheld their last names for safety reasons.
“They’re supposed to be transgender-friendly, but they’re not,” Veronica said about the men’s prisons where she resided. “Most of the staff is very hateful, and most of the inmates are intolerant and hateful towards us too.”
Brandi, who attempted to transfer to a women’s prison after she was assaulted, said the Department of Corrections wouldn’t permit the transfer because they feared she could impregnate a cisgender inmate. Veronica, who said she was also raped and assaulted, was given a similar reason when she made a transfer request and was told she didn’t have enough feminine qualities to be housed with other women.
Rather than house trans women with other women, solitary confinement is often presented as the only option to keep them safe; approximately 90% of trans inmates have been placed there. State legislation prohibiting the use of solitary confinement on vulnerable populations — including trans people — was proposed in 2023 but failed in committee.
Brandi, who was threatened by a guard, said nothing was done to better protect her until another inmate spoke up on her behalf. But many of her fellow inmates were less kind. Some of the men snickered and made fun of her. The worst, she said, was when men would proposition her in private but call her slurs in public.
All three women started transitioning while incarcerated but had varying experiences with access to care and other reasonable accommodations.
Trans people can sometimes access makeup when it’s available through the commissary, but prisons are supposed to distribute trans-affirming clothing to inmates. Monica was given undergarments — but had to file three grievances to access a bra that properly fit.
A visit with a psychiatrist is required before HRT can be prescribed — and Brandi got access to HRT this way, but Monica noted that sometimes medical providers nitpick the language and experiences of inmates to avoid providing care. For instance, one provider denied her because she didn’t insist that others use her correct name and pronouns.
“Why would you do something you know is going to aggravate some people who are really set in their ways?” she said about the difficulties of self-advocating. “So it just never was a personal battle that I wanted to fight.”
“They were making me jump through hoops to get diagnosed with gender dysphoria,” said Veronica, who waited six months in between communications about next steps. She finally gave up and didn’t access HRT until her release.
“I was hurt. It made me depressed. It made me stressed. It caused anxiety because I couldn’t be who I truly am,” she explained. “It made me feel demoralized — like I was less than and below them.”
Correctional facilities are only required to provide care that is deemed “medically necessary” — but proving necessity can be tricky, especially for those seeking surgical interventions. Applying for this kind of care launches a lengthy process. It took the plaintiff in Kosilek v Spencer almost thirty years to receive surgery.
Trans inmates face significantly higher rates of self-harm, potentially because mutilation or extensive litigation are often the only paths to obtain access to surgical care.
A trans prisoner sued the Pennsylvania Department of Corrections in 2020 — citing bureaucratic hurdles, inadequate medical training, and invasions of privacy as the cause of their depression and eventual self-mutilation.
It can be an isolating experience, explained Brandi.
While incarcerated, Brandi and Veronica got connected to Hearts on a Wire — a grassroots organization that links trans people living in Pennsylvania prisons with those on the outside. It serves as a tool for establishing community, financial support, and other resources for incarcerated trans people and those who are emerging in re-entry.
The group also publishes a newsletter — offering space for creativity and expression in addition to news and updates.
“I got addicted to them,” said Veronica about the newsletters. “I couldn’t wait for the next one to come.”
For some people, touchpoints with such organizations and newsletters are their only connections to the world outside.
“I am part of the outside collective now, and I love it — because it’s so hard for us girls in prison,” said Veronica, who has written poems for the publication. “There’s so much hate, and it makes me feel good being part of something — doing the weekly meeting and being involved, actually feeling like I have a family now, and supporting other people who need the same.”
“That’s one thing I love about Hearts on a Wire,” Brandi added. “They’re nonjudgmental. They’re there for you.”
What happens when you’re released?
“Basically they give you sweatshirts, sweatpants, an EBT debit card that has to get activated [via phone call or website] in order to get the money from your account. But that was it,” Monica said. “Here’s your ID, your birth certificate, social security card — and if it wasn’t for having a mental health history, I would have been dropped off at the bus stop.”
People who are out on parole get slightly different treatment, she explained — as they’re sent to a halfway house. But “maxing out” doesn’t offer systematic support for people exiting the system.
Even those with temporary support are faced with challenges. Veronica was promised a bed in transitional housing in Scranton then told not to come just hours before her expected arrival — as the home wouldn’t accept a trans person.
Monica landed in Philadelphia after she was told there was no support for formerly incarcerated trans people in Bucks County where she was released. She was told to find help through services for homeless populations but underlined that many of the support spaces that serve trans people don’t serve previously incarcerated populations and that those serving former inmates don’t welcome trans people.
“It’s kind of hard to find a job without a residence, and I couldn’t find the residence without a job,” she explained. “Getting things like my EBT card and medical insurance card required an address. Can’t use the hotel, so I go to get a PO Box — but I’m going to need an address to rent a PO Box.”
The cycle of Catch-22s felt never-ending.
Brandi, who lived in a homeless shelter in Philadelphia after her release, now lives with her sister about two hours away. The stability is helpful but her sister isn’t supportive of her trans identity, so Brandi feels limited in the ways she can express herself at home.
“I found it a hell of a lot easier living as a trans woman in Philly than I do in the little small town where I’m living now,” Brandi said, noting that she often feels alienated by locals and that her community members at church refuse to acknowledge her trans identity. “I’ve been tempted to go back to the streets of Philadelphia because I can’t be myself here.”
Each of the women have had different issues accessing jobs, transportation, health and mental health records, medications, and the other resources they need to move forward with their lives.
This added hardship sets people up to reoffend, Monica explained — as it’s often easier to access resources (for instance, meals and shelter) in prison than during re-entry. She couldn’t even access a phone to call service providers once she got out — as pay phones are obsolete and she didn’t have a mobile device.
Monica, who has been sober for over 20 years, is now a certified peer specialist supporting other people in recovery — but even so, there are few opportunities to get paid to use her newly developed skills.
“I’m trying to turn all that negative into something positive,” she said.
Her only job is a weekly support group she runs. She hopes to continue her training and potentially go to college to become a social worker.
Brandi, who is facing housing instability again, is hoping to get her license reinstated so she can find steady employment. Veronica is still in early stages of getting connected to resources and called Brandi a “godsend” because she’s helped her navigate opportunities in Philadelphia.
But she, like many trans people leaving prison, is still impacted by turbulence and transphobia. She’s encountered unprofessional behavior by staff at halfway houses and threatening or negative encounters with other residents.
She noted that she won’t report some of her troubling encounters to the police because any police interactions could be viewed as a violation of her parole. Afraid of going back to prison, she’s forced to endure stressors and a chaotic environment on the outside instead.
How you can help
Stay in the know. Allies of incarcerated people should learn about the experiences of LGBTQ+ people who are imprisoned and educate others about what’s happening to them behind bars.
One way to keep abreast of the news and legislation is to keep in touch with those who are most impacted. Organizations like Hearts on a Wire are always looking for volunteers. Brandi noted that they currently need help transcribing the newsletter, for instance. And donations can make a tangible difference, offering people access to makeup and other commissary goods or supporting them during re-entry. Pen pals are also in high demand.
“Emotional support is even better than financial support,” said Brandi, who now visits incarcerated trans people virtually to offer some company, “because there are girls who don’t even have one person to talk to.”
“A lot of us girls don’t have anybody,” added Veronica — who also lacked connection while she was incarcerated. “And if you struggle with mental health issues like me, it would make you feel good about yourself knowing that you had at least one person by your side.”