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The views expressed below are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect those of the Carr Center for Human Rights Policy or Harvard Kennedy School. These perspectives have been presented to encourage debate on important public policy challenges. 

Though this moment feels grim, one day we may look back on it not as the moment transgender people were broken, but as the moment they broke through.

A few days ago, on March 12, 2025, the Wisconsin State Assembly debated AB 104, a bill that would ban gender-affirming care for trans people. In the midst of what felt like another predictable attack—one of the many we've come to expect under the new Trump era—something remarkable happened.

After waiting seven hours to speak, an older man wearing a baseball cap and vest walked to the microphone. As he waited for his turn to speak, he listened—really listened—to trans people tell their stories. And his heart changed.

“I was invited here to give my support to Bill 104,” he said. “I have very little knowledge of gay people and things like that. So when I came here my eyes were opened.” He paused, gathering his words. “I was one of the critics that sat on the side and made a decision there was only two genders. So I got an education that was unbelievable. And… my perspective for people has changed. I’d like to apologize for being here, and I learned a lot about this group of people.”

The sincerity in his voice was unmistakable. There was nothing revolutionary in what he said—no great speech, no rally cry. Just a man, listening, reckoning, arriving at a new understanding.

This profound moment holds within it a blueprint for transformation, and there are two specific aspects I’d like to highlight.  

The first is that efforts to suppress rights often create moments of intensified visibility.  

Every assault turns up the heat. And with the heat, comes societal tension. And with tension, attention. Suddenly, those who had the luxury of ignorance begin to feel something—curiosity, discomfort, maybe even conscience. These are the moments history hands us—not polished or perfect, but sharp, brief, burning. These rare moments of public learning are difficult to manufacture—yet in a twist of irony, they are now being delivered by the very people attacking the community.  

Every bill that is introduced, every attack that is launched, also creates a platform—a moment when the issue is in the public eye, and when people are paying attention. A chance for trans people to tell their stories and shift the narrative. It is up to advocates to use that platform. Visibility has always been a double-edged sword—it invites attack, but it also drives progress.

Every bill that is introduced, every attack that is launched, also creates a platform—a moment when the issue is in the public eye, and when people are paying attention.

The key now is how the LGBTQI+ community organizes. When a bill like AB 104 is introduced, when opponents gather, we must be there too. We must turn their stage into ours. We must treat every hearing, every town hall, every hostile room as a space for transformation. Because as that man in Wisconsin reminded us, the other side is not monolithic. Hearts can change. Every time they launch an attack they create a spotlight, and if we step into it with courage, we can shift the entire narrative.

This is a lesson that history offers us and a pattern I teach in the course,“Queer Nation: LGBTQ Protest, Politics, and Policy,” with Dr. Timothy Patrick McCarthy at the Harvard Kennedy School. In the 1970s, Anita Bryant’s “Save the Children” campaign galvanized LGBTQI+ resistance. In 2006, the proposed constitutional amendment to ban same-sex marriage sparked a wave of organizing and public engagement. These weren’t moments the movement sought—but they became moments the movement seized. The same opportunity exists now—if we’re ready to take it.

The second aspect is that personal narratives are the key to changing hearts and minds. We must not only show up—we must show up with stories that connect, educate, and shift the ground beneath those who have been misled.

In recent research from the Journal of Applied Psychology, Harvard Associate Professor Julia Minson and her colleagues found that people are more likely to trust and collaborate with ideological opponents when they express their beliefs through self-revealing personal narratives rather than through data alone.

Why? Because vulnerability builds trust. The study found that when someone tells a personal story—especially one that reveals something sensitive—it increases their perceived trustworthiness.  

That doesn’t mean we abandon the facts. It means we must build bridges for them—with stories that give them meaning. Because statistics can tell us that trans youth are at higher risk of suicide. But only a story can make someone feel the weight of a mother standing outside her child’s hospital room, praying they live to see tomorrow.

That’s exactly what happened in Wisconsin. One man came in prepared to support a bill targeting trans people. And by the time he reached the mic, he apologized for even being there. That didn’t happen because someone yelled at him. It didn’t happen because he was cornered with data. It happened because he listened to real people, telling real stories.

And that’s exactly why this moment, as painful and exhausting as it is, is also one of possibility. A chance for trans people to tell their stories and shift the narrative with a reach that they have never had before.  

Harvard Professor Marshall Ganz’s Public Narrative framework offers a concise way to transform our personal narratives into moments of action. It consists of three parts, the Story of Self, the Story of Us, and the Story of Now. The Story of Self grounds our leadership in our personal experience, the Story of Us connects that experience to the broader community, and the Story of Now places us in the urgency of this moment, calling us to action.  

The framework is elegant. But its power lies not in the simplicity of its design—it lies in the courage it demands. To tell your Story of Self is to risk being vulnerable with others. To tell the Story of Us is to claim kinship in a world that tries to divide. And the Story of Now is not just about urgency, it’s about leadership. This is a craft that we should all teach and incorporate into our trainings, conversations, and organizing.  

This is the truth of the moment: every attempt to attack the community also amplifies us, but visibility alone is not enough. What matters is how we meet it—whether we show up not just with presence, but with story, with strategy, with the courage to be fully seen.  

Though this moment feels grim, one day we may look back on it not as the moment transgender people were broken, but as the moment they broke through. On this International Day of Transgender Visibility, I hope we all remember this and feel empowered.  

Diego Garcia Blum, Program Director, LGBTQI+ Program, Carr Center