For Emma, what could have been a simple dollars-and-cents decision was far more complicated.
The choice before her: whether to accept a scholarship offering nearly free tuition to attend law school at Indiana University in her home state — or to pay $45,000 a year at the University of Minnesota.
A few weeks ago, she moved to Minneapolis to start law school, a choice largely shaped by the fact that Emma is trans. She has felt increasingly like Indiana's government doesn't welcome her.
"Indiana went from a place that I'd be very happy to stay in," Emma says, to a place she felt "I do have to leave sooner rather than later." Emma asked that NPR refer to her only by her first name so she can choose who knows she is trans.
These are the kinds of tough decisions faced by some trans people in a political moment when they are being targeted by a slew of new state laws and executive orders from President Trump.
A political push with financial consequences
Since taking office a second time, Trump has used his executive orders to revoke federal diversity, equity, and inclusion practices; prohibit trans female athletes from participating in girls' and women's sports; ban trans people from the military; and try to end gender-affirming care for people under age 19.
Sixteen states now explicitly define "sex" as only male or female, typically based on the sex assigned at birth. A number of bills seek to prohibit gender-affirming care, while others would make it harder to get insurance to cover it. Some 25 states have already banned it for transgender youth.
The financial consequences of these policies are falling on a community that's long been financially disadvantaged, says Brad Sears, founding director of the Williams Institute at the UCLA School of Law, which researches gender identity law and policy. Sears says these disadvantages can begin early in life, when some transgender people are kicked out of their homes as teenagers, beginning a cascade of money problems.
"That's why we see such high rates of unemployment, people not finishing high school or college," Sears says. And those that do find work face high rates of discrimination, he adds, "whether it's being hired, fired, being verbally harassed, physically or sexually harassed in the workplace."
In January, following a White House executive order, the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission announced a number of efforts aimed at removing what they call "gender ideology" from federal policies and documents. EEOC staff were instructed to classify new worker complaints of gender-identity discrimination as essentially meritless, though the agency later shifted its stance to allow some kinds of complaints to move forward.
Changes to programs like Medicaid and SNAP under the One Big Beautiful Bill Act also disproportionately affect transgender adults, of whom 12% rely on Medicaid as their primary source of health insurance, compared to 7% of non-LGBT adults. In 2021, 21% of trans people in the U.S. lived in poverty, compared to 12% of non-LGBT people.
At a time when trans people in the workforce have fewer protections against discrimination, Sears says, "for those who are unemployed, that social safety net is also eroding."
Today, a U.S. map can be a stark checkerboard, where many Democrat-governed states offer a more welcoming environment for trans people, while many Republican-led states pass new laws to curtail their rights and protections.
After a request on social media for people to share their stories, NPR heard from trans people who described cross-country moves to safer havens, searching for jobs while their workplace protections erode, making important legal and document changes while they're still able to, and worries about whether their gender-affirming care will become more expensive and less accessible.
We spoke with Emma and two others who gave us a glimpse into their lives as they do their best to chart a path in a country that feels increasingly hostile to their existence.
Emma, age 23, she/her
"It's the difference between paying $200 in tuition and $45,000 in tuition"
"Basically however long I've been alive, minus 96 hours, that's how long I've lived in the state of Indiana," Emma said recently. Those 96 hours were the ones she'd spent so far in Minneapolis, where she'd moved at the end of August to start law school.
"It's funny — contrary to the really awful national situation, my personal situation is generally fantastic. My parents are super supportive" of both her identity and her law school plans, she says.
She had always been pretty content living in Indiana. "Is Indianapolis, like, the best city in the country?" she muses. "Maybe not, but it's a pretty good city. … The queer scene is really on the rise there, and I loved being a part of that."
She had planned to stay in Indiana, even after she began transitioning last year. But that changed after November's election.
Mike Braun took office as Indiana's governor and signed a law banning transgender women from competing in women's college sports, as well as an executive order saying that Indiana would only consider biological sex, not gender identity, when making laws. The Indiana legislature introduced a raft of legislation targeting trans people, from making it a crime for trans people to enter the bathroom that matches their gender identity to prohibiting changes to gender markers on birth certificates. Two of those measures have made it into law so far, making some trans people feel less welcome in the state.
Emma's decision to leave her home state is one with real financial consequences. Not only will she pay $45,000 a year in tuition, instead of the $200 her home state university would have charged her, but she'll pay a higher cost of living, too.
Her choice also means she will need to take out considerable federal student loans — which is its own concern. Emma worries about being in debt to the federal government under "an administration that is making curtailing my rights, legalizing discrimination against me — and even politicizing the very discussion of me at universities I'm going to — a focal point."
The deciding factor in Emma's choice of law schools was Minnesota's welcoming approach to trans people. In 2023, Minnesota became a "Trans Refuge State", and Gov. Tim Walz signed an executive order protecting access to gender-affirming care.
That's crucial to Emma, because she uses hormone replacement therapy, or HRT, which for her means a combination of the prescription drugs estradiol and spironolactone.
"Minnesota has said they will protect my care," she says. "Indiana has been very, very, very unclear about whether or not that will happen."
Minnesota has also been clear about letting people change their names and gender markers on state documents, like driver's licenses and birth certificates. Emma had been trying to make those changes in Indiana, but just before her hearing, the state department of health issued guidance to no longer process gender changes for Indiana birth records.
In her new state, meanwhile, getting an 'F' on her driver's license will be simple: She can do it once she has lived in Minnesota for six months. "It makes me feel free," she says.
For Emma, changing her state of residency has meant lifting an invisible burden. "Learning that I can live in a place where the government says, 'No, we want you to be who you are. We value you for who you are' — it just takes a weight off I didn't even know was there," she says.
"And now that I know it's gone, I understand how heavy it was for me and how heavy it is for everybody like me."
Ida, 32, she/her
"Now it just feels a little bit higher risk"
For Ida, the main effects the Trump administration is having on her life are uncertainty and fear: "terror that my existence will be criminalized," she says. Like Emma, she worries about continued coverage of gender-affirming care — and she has health conditions that make working harder. As an adult, she's attempting to reboot her career, but is currently just getting by.
Ida grew up in California. Ida asked that only her first name be used because she has been doxxed before and wants to avoid it happening again. At 18, she found herself essentially homeless and unemployed. Her parents were facing financial hardship and had to care for other family members.
She moved to Baltimore 13 years ago at the invitation of some people she met while crashing with friends in Oregon. She started her social transition at age 23 and hormones at 25, after several years of trying to get approvals from health care providers. Now 32, she has worked a series of jobs — in restaurants, food production, bars. As a self-described bookish person, she'd like to have a job where she can be creative and think, but so far has mostly had what she calls "banal labor jobs."
"I've never made much more than like $1,000 more than the poverty line in my entire life," she says.
When COVID hit, she lost her jobs as a hostess and bar back — but then came the COVID relief money, which opened up new possibilities. She began attending the University of Baltimore, did an apprenticeship in web development, and just received her bachelor's degree in simulation and game design.
With a college degree, Ida hoped to pivot away from demanding labor jobs, which are made difficult by her fibromyalgia, a chronic condition that causes pain and fatigue. But computer work has brought its own challenges, as prolonged standing and sitting are also tough, as she also has arthritis and a blood circulation disorder called POTS.
There aren't many openings in her field, and she's had only one interview. Money is tight. She pays about $400 a month on the mortgage for a house she co-owns with her two life partners, and another $250 for bills. She's relying on gig work, plus raising money on GoFundMe, to cover home repairs — but the roof is still leaking.
She says a lot of the trans women she knows are in similarly difficult circumstances: Many have degrees and professional experience, but nonetheless experience intermittent homelessness. Some get by on some combination of sex work and fundraising.
Like Emma, where Ida lives matters a lot to her. "Baltimore is a really good city," she says. "Maryland is a pretty decent state."
The Movement Advancement Project, which evaluates states based on their policies and protections for LGBT people, ranks Maryland highly. Maryland Medicaid covers medically necessary gender-affirming care, and the state's shield law was expanded last year to prevent the medical information of people who seek gender-affirming care in Maryland from being shared across state lines.
But Ida worries about changes at the federal level. Last year, she had her Social Security registration updated to identify her as female. Now she's concerned the government will change it back. Having an ID that matches how she presents herself is a matter of both dignity and safety, she says. She points to Florida, where the Department of Highway Safety and Motor Vehicles issued a memo last year stating that "misrepresenting one's gender, understood as sex, on a driver license constitutes fraud."
She also worries about Medicaid, the program that helps cover medical costs for some people with limited income. Ida relies on it to cover her various medications, some of which are expensive injectables. For a time, she was on Starbucks' employee insurance rather than Medicaid, and saw her costs skyrocket to $1,000 a month.
Medicaid coverage of gender-affirming care varies by state, with several explicitly excluding transgender-related health care. In the wrangling to pass the One Big Beautiful Bill Act, some Senate Republicans attempted — but failed — to bar Medicaid from covering it for adults. If Congress ever does strip federal funding, Maryland would have to fill in the gap — and Ida's not sure how that would go.
And she worries about her job search. To Ida, the rollback of federal civil rights protections makes it feels like employers can now legally discriminate against her. "I don't know how real the protections were previously. I've had plenty of workplace discrimination and negative interactions and stuff on the regular," she says. "But now it just feels a little bit higher risk."
Cam, age 21, they/them
"You're the first on the chopping block if you're the most controversial person there"
For Cam, who is trying to build a new life in Seattle, the Trump administration's moves have made everything a bit harder. Cam asked NPR to only use their first name, because they don't want future employers to find out about their gender identity on the internet.
Cam identifies as nonbinary and uses they/them pronouns. They had been hoping to find employment in the social services sector. But that's been tough going, and the rollback of protections for trans people in the workplace sometimes makes Cam feel like they need to choose between being themself and getting a job.
Cam grew up in small-town Texas. They were outed as gay at 14, and came out as trans at 17.
"Half my family blew up at me, and the other half kind of just iced me out entirely," Cam says. Their home life had already been precarious; after they came out, things got worse. They spent much of senior year of high school bouncing between friends' houses.
Eager to get out of the South, Cam enrolled at Washington State University, in the small town of Pullman in the eastern part of the state. They were drawn to Washington by the state's liberal politics and social services, and figured it would be easier to get on their feet in a smaller place. "I can do small towns because that's what I grew up with. I was like, 'OK, maybe I'm not ready for Seattle, but I can do Pullman first,'" Cam recalls thinking.
They used loans and scholarships to cover the first year's tuition and then qualified for a program called Passport to College that helps former foster youth or homeless youth pay for school.
Once the Trump administration took office, Cam and their partner made a big legal and financial decision: to get married. They worried that the Supreme Court might overturn Obergefell v. Hodges, the landmark ruling that legalized same-sex marriage. Cam says they wanted to ensure they have the same protections as other couples, and that if Cam died, their belongings and body would be returned to their partner, and not their biological family.
"I know they wouldn't honor what I would want," Cam says.
Now graduated from college, Cam and their partner are living in Seattle and trying to make ends meet. Their partner works full-time at a restaurant, and Cam has a part-time job at a library, making Seattle's minimum wage, $20.76 an hour.
"We pay the rent, the bills as they come," Cam says. "It's just there's no savings, there's no emergency fund. It's kind of just taking it day by day."
The job search has been a slog, and being trans adds a layer of complexity. Cam initially had they/them pronouns listed in their applications, but got more responses once they took them out. "And a lot of places are only hiring part time, so they don't have to give benefits, which is hard for me because I'm on HRT."
Cam is currently enrolled in Washington state's Medicaid program, which fully covers the cost of their testosterone. "If I were not on Medicaid, it's maybe $400 for my regular couple months' supply," they say.
They're worried about a new federal work requirement for able-bodied adults without dependents on Medicaid. A provision in the new tax-and-spending bill affecting states with Medicaid expansion will require some Medicaid enrollees to prove they're working, volunteering or getting job training at least 80 hours a month in order to keep their coverage, starting in 2027. And so far, 80 working hours are proving hard to get.
"I know that Washington state is a very progressive place, and so they're going to try their best to keep the people that are already on Medicaid on Medicaid. But I don't have high hopes within the next five years about it," Cam says.
They're also worried about the rollback of workplace protections. "You're the first on the chopping block if you're the most controversial person there," they say. "You kind of have to choose between being authentically yourself in the same way everyone else gets to be — and eating and paying rent and keeping the lights on."
Their partner, for instance, isn't out as trans at work. "They've got what they call their 'professional pronouns,' which is just 'him' and identifying as male while they're at work," Cam says.
One bright spot for Cam is the strength of their queer community: The couple hosts dinners and offers their couch to friends and acquaintances who are having a hard time and need a place to crash. "A lot of my social circle just passes the same $20 around," Cam says. "It's like: 'I've got you tonight if you'll get me tomorrow.'"
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