I grew up believing that laws protect us.
That’s how the world was explained to me. There are structures that hold us- first family, then community, and eventually, the law. As children, we’re told that parents protect us because they know better, because they’re responsible for us, because they can hold what we cannot yet hold ourselves. And slowly, that idea expands outward.
Family becomes society. Protection becomes rights.
And the thing that is supposed to hold all of that together is the law.
We’re told that laws don’t just keep us alive, they make it possible for us to live. To feel safe enough to soften. To not constantly scan for danger. To not exist in survival mode all the time.
At their best, laws are supposed to create the conditions for something more than survival. They are meant to make space for people to grow into themselves… to become, to explore, to love, to belong. To blossom into who they are without fear.
But what happens when that very structure does the opposite?
What happens when the thing that was supposed to calm your system becomes the thing that activates it?
What happens when the law itself starts to feel like a threat, not just to your ability to thrive, but to your right to exist?
Today, sitting with the reality of the Trans Amendment Law that was passed this morning, I find myself asking these questions not just as a citizen, but as a therapist.
And I don’t feel steady.
Because how do I hold space for someone whose right to define themselves has just been taken away?
How do I sit across from a client and say, “You are allowed to exist as you are,” when everything outside that room is saying something else?
There is something deeply unsettling about having your identity invalidated, not by a person, but by a system that was supposed to protect you. Identity isn’t a small thing. It’s not surface-level. It’s foundational. It shapes how safe you feel in your own body, in your own life.
And when that foundation is shaken, the mind doesn’t just “adjust.” It goes into survival.
Hypervigilance. Fear. Grief. Anger. Numbness.
A kind of abandonment that is hard to name.
As a mental health practitioner, I’m not just thinking about policy on paper. I keep thinking about what this does to people. The kind of trauma it leaves behind—in real bodies, in real lives.
I keep thinking about what it must feel like to wake up and realise that something so core to who you are is no longer recognised- not just socially debated, but structurally dismissed.
And I keep thinking about the years it takes for so many trans individuals to come into themselves… to claim their identity, often in the face of resistance, rejection, and pain. And how something like this can disrupt that in a matter of days.
That part is hard to sit with.
Especially in a country where we are used to things taking time. Where justice is slow. Where decisions drag on for years. And yet, this- something so deeply life-altering, moved so quickly.
A few days.
No real space for the community to speak. No time to process. No sense of urgency that would justify that kind of speed.
It makes me wonder, whose lives are treated as urgent, and whose are not.
I am not a member of the trans community.
I want to say that clearly. Because I know this is not my identity that has been targeted.
And still, today, I feel… heavy.
Guilty. Helpless. Strangely speechless.
I know I didn’t pass this law. I know where I stand. I’ve been vocal about it. And yet, there’s this uncomfortable feeling of being part of a system that allowed it to happen.
And then there’s the therapy room.
A client brought this into session recently, the confusion, the fear, the impact of what this law means for them. And I remember sitting there, listening, trying to hold space…
…and feeling completely helpless.
Not in a reflective, contained way. Just… helpless.
I didn’t know what to say. I knew that whatever I said wouldn’t be enough. There was this silence that didn’t feel therapeutic- it just felt heavy. Like something had shifted outside the room, something irreversible, and I had no way of protecting them from it.
And alongside their pain, there was my own.
Guilt- for not being able to do more.
Helplessness- for not being able to even soothe this.
And this quiet question sitting underneath it all:
What does it mean to hold space when the world outside is actively dismantling that space?
There’s also fear.
Because this law doesn’t stay “out there.” It enters the room with us.
It brings with it the possibility that affirming a client’s identity could be misunderstood, or worse, accused as something else. That simply saying, “I see you,” could be interpreted as “influencing” or “converting.”
And that changes the room.
It brings in hesitation where there should be openness.
Doubt where there should be clarity.
Fear where there should be safety.
And honestly, it makes me angry.
Because earlier, even if imperfectly, I could stand on the principle that a person has the right to define who they are. I could hold that firmly with my client.
Now, that ground feels uncertain.
Not because my belief has changed- but because the consequences of expressing it have.
It doesn’t just impact my client’s identity.
It also takes something away from me as a practitioner, the freedom to fully, safely affirm the person sitting in front of me without fear of that being twisted into something else.
And yet…
Even with all of this, I keep coming back to one question:
What can I still do?
Because even when the law fails, people don’t have to.
Even when systems withdraw recognition, we can still offer it to each other.
The law has been passed. That is real. But does it get to decide how we show up for one another?
Can it stop us from creating spaces where people are seen and respected?
Can it stop us from sitting across from someone and saying, “You are not alone”?
I don’t think it can.
So I come back to the basics.
I can sit.
I can listen.
I can name what is unjust.
I can refuse to pretend this is okay.
I can hold anger and grief in the room without trying to tidy it up.
I can continue to affirm, even when it feels complicated.
And maybe that doesn’t feel like enough.
But maybe “enough” is not the point right now.
Maybe what matters is showing up anyway.
Being present anyway.
Refusing to erase, anyway.
Because no law gets to decide the entirety of who someone is.
And even if systems forget that, people don’t have to.
So maybe this is where we begin again; not from certainty, not from strength, but from a kind of shared commitment.
To keep showing up.
To keep witnessing.
To keep standing beside each other.
And to keep creating spaces,however small, where people are allowed to exist, to breathe…
…and, someday, to find their way back to themselves..