Living on the Edge of an American Nightmare

BALTIMORE (April 8, 2025) – I wake up every day in a body that’s been politicized beyond recognition. I’m a queer, trans, disabled, neurodivergent grad student in Maryland, trying to survive in a country that feels like it’s actively trying to erase me. Every headline is another blow. Every rollback, every cut, every silence is a reminder that my existence is seen as disposable. I’m studying to be a social worker, and yet I don’t know if the systems I’m training to work within will even exist by the time I graduate. The dread in my chest isn’t paranoia—it’s informed. It’s historical. And it’s personal.

I Don’t Take Stimulants. But I Still See What’s Happening

I don’t take ADHD meds. That doesn’t mean I’m not affected by the national shortage or the way regulation is weaponized to police neurodivergence. I see the ripple effects in my community, in the people I’m training to serve, in the harm caused by disrupted access to essential care. When telehealth providers were cracked down on, it cut off tens of thousands from their medication refills almost overnight. The CDC warned that people could turn to unsafe alternatives, or that untreated ADHD could lead to substance use or worse. And I’ve watched that play out.

As someone with AuDHD, I know how important reliable access and nonjudgmental care is. I know how quickly stigma leads to criminalization instead of support. This isn’t just about meds. It’s about whether we see neurodivergent people as worthy of functioning and thriving—or as problems to contain. Right now, the system is choosing containment. And I worry every day about who we’ll lose to it.

Trans Healthcare in Maryland: Safe, But Slipping

Maryland is considered a safe state for trans people. We have laws protecting gender-affirming care, and I’m grateful for that. But those protections don’t mean I’m immune to what’s happening nationally. I’ve already had to wait nearly a year just to get a routine hormone appointment. Clinics are overwhelmed. Staff are underpaid and overworked. And the federal government is sending clear signals that they want to gut our care wherever they can.

When Trump signed that executive order cutting federal support for trans youth healthcare, it didn’t stop at youth. It chilled providers. It threatened funding streams. It created a hostile climate where even blue states like mine are bracing for backdoor attacks. I’m lucky to have access to estrogen and blockers, but I’m terrified that could change with one more funding cut, one more staffing shortage, one more legislative game. If you cut the pipeline for hiring qualified professionals, if you strangle public health budgets, trans care becomes a casualty even in “safe zones.”

And let’s be clear—this isn’t some abstract worry. It’s already happening. The VA announced it would phase out coverage for gender dysphoria care. The House is pushing $2 trillion in budget cuts. Medicaid hangs in the balance. I’m disabled. I rely on that system. And now I’m being told I might have to choose between staying alive and being myself. That’s not healthcare. That’s coercion.

They’re Not Just Coming for Us—They’re Trying to Erase the Record

One of the most insidious parts of this moment is how information itself is being rewritten. Pages on LGBTQ+ health? Vanished. Datasets on HIV, reproductive access, gender-based violence? Gone. Government websites are being scrubbed clean—not by accident, but by design. And when you erase the data, you erase the people behind it.

The CDC deleted its Youth Risk Behavior Survey after it included questions about gender identity. NIH resources on queer health were wiped. Even the Social Vulnerability Index used to prepare for disasters was taken offline. This is not maintenance. This is narrative control.

As someone studying trauma and systems of care, I know what this tactic is. It’s not just policy—it’s psychological warfare. When you delete someone’s presence from public records, you’re not just making life harder. You’re telling them they don’t matter. That they never did.

We’ve seen this before. Nazi Germany targeted queer clinics and disabled communities. The U.S. government has a history of burning documents that contradict the state’s preferred version of reality. Now, we’re living through our own version—one database at a time.

Solidarity Is Our Survival Strategy

If I have any hope left, it’s because of the people around me. Black, Indigenous, and Latinx friends who’ve known this fear longer than I have. Immigrants who’ve built entire safety plans around ICE raids. Disabled folks who’ve fought tooth and nail for dignity in systems designed to deny it. We’re scared, yes—but we’re also organized.

We know the script. We’ve seen how marginalized groups are pitted against each other. We’ve seen how fascism always begins by dividing. But we’re rejecting that. We’re showing up for each other. When a queer youth center had its funding slashed, BIPOC leaders stepped in. When immigration raids spiked, trans folks fundraised for legal defense. We aren’t just resisting—we’re building.

We’re doing this because we know the truth: None of us are safe unless all of us are. And right now, we are all under threat.

April 20 Is Coming. And We Are Paying Attention.

One of the most terrifying things looming is the April 20 deadline Trump set to potentially invoke the Insurrection Act. If that happens, it would give him unprecedented military authority on U.S. soil. Under the false banner of a “border emergency,” he could use active-duty troops to round up immigrants—or, just as easily, to suppress protests. Pride marches. Mutual aid drives. Us.

This is not fear-mongering. It’s what he said he would do. He already deployed 9,000 troops to the border in January. His allies are calling for martial law. His advisors are floating mass deportations. We’ve seen how this ends in other countries.

I’m a student of social work and history. And I know what this moment looks like.

We’re Not on a Slippery Slope. We’re Already Sliding

This isn’t about what could happen. It’s about what already is. Budget cuts are hitting Medicaid. Gender-affirming care is being choked off. Trans kids are being denied schooling. Black voters are being purged. Neurodivergent people are being treated like liabilities. And the federal government is actively deleting us from its records.

This is what fascism looks like before it’s named out loud. And I refuse to pretend otherwise.

I’m Scared. But I’m Still Here.

I’m not going to lie and say I’m doing okay. Most days, I’m not. The fear is constant. The grief is loud. The anger is sharper than ever. But I’m still here. I’m still fighting. I’m still calling senators and organizing mutual aid and writing about what it feels like to live through this as a real, breathing person—not just a headline.

And I’m asking you to fight with me. To listen. To speak up. To remember what’s being erased and to refuse to let it stay buried.

Because despite everything, I still believe we can make it through. Not by trusting institutions, but by trusting each other. By building something better. Together.

We have always existed. We will not be erased. And we are not done fighting.