Creating Change

For most of my adult life, the National LGBTQ Task Force existed to me in the same way a lot of national organizations do: as an idea more than a presence. A name that appeared occasionally in articles, on conference flyers, or at the bottom of policy statements I agreed with but didn’t actively engage in. I knew they were important. I knew they had history. I knew, in the abstract way many of us know such things, that they were “one of the good ones.”

But they were not part of my life.

I was living locally. Working locally. Loving locally. Building community in the messy, imperfect, deeply human ways that don’t always come with branding or national reach. My queerness… my transness especially; was shaped far more by chosen family, late-night conversations, barroom organizing, mutual aid asks passed hand to hand, and the constant low-grade vigilance that comes with simply existing in public. Institutions, even well-meaning ones, felt distant. Sometimes necessary. Rarely personal.

And then the past year happened.

It’s impossible to talk about this period without acknowledging the atmosphere we’ve all been breathing. Chaos doesn’t begin to cover it. The legislative attacks. The rhetorical escalations. The deliberate cruelty aimed at trans people; particularly trans women and trans youth, disguised as “debate” or “concern.” It wasn’t just policy; it was narrative warfare. Every headline felt like another reminder that our lives were being treated as theoretical, negotiable, or expendable.

There were moments when it felt less like weathering a storm and more like being asked to stand calmly while molotov cocktails were lobbed into the room… one after another… while we were still expected to smile, educate, and remain “reasonable.”

Even within the broader LGBTQ+ community, the pressure points were clear. Trans people were being isolated rhetorically, strategically separated, asked, implicitly or explicitly, to wait, to soften, to be patient for the sake of “the bigger picture.” It was exhausting. It was enraging. And at times, it was profoundly lonely.

Hope, in that environment, starts to feel naïve. Faith in “the movement” becomes harder to access when survival itself feels like full-time work. I believed in community, yes—but I wasn’t sure I believed in infrastructure anymore. Not really. Not the kind with national names and long histories. I didn’t distrust it; I just didn’t feel held by it.

That was the mindset I was in when an invitation arrived that would quietly, completely disrupt that distance.

When I was asked to serve as a local ambassador for the Creating Change Conference, my first reaction wasn’t excitement. It was pause.

Not because I didn’t want to help, but because I understood what that kind of invitation implied. Being a local ambassador isn’t ceremonial. It isn’t a title you wear for clout or a bullet point you add to a bio. It’s a role rooted in responsibility: showing up, helping others navigate unfamiliar space, representing not just an organization but a city, a community, and a set of values in real time.

It meant visibility. It meant accountability. It meant being present not only for the celebration but for the hard parts, the vulnerable moments, the quiet crises that never make it into recap posts.

And maybe most importantly, it meant stepping inside an institution I had only ever observed from the outside.

Accepting that invitation required me to interrogate my own distance. My own assumptions. My own tendency… born of both survival and skepticism, to keep large organizations at arm’s length. It asked me to move from observer to participant, from abstract agreement to embodied involvement.

Before the conference officially began; before badges were printed, rooms filled, and schedules took over; there were the gatherings that don’t always get remembered in formal recaps. The dinners. The informal meet-ups. The quiet moments where people showed up without an agenda, without a microphone, without needing to perform anything other than being present.

It was in those early spaces that something inside me shifted.

I met other local folks; people who lived in the same region, breathed the same political air, navigated the same cultural fault lines, who I might never have crossed paths with otherwise. Activists, organizers, volunteers, professionals, community members whose work didn’t always overlap with mine, but whose commitments absolutely did.

What surprised me most was meeting the national leaders of the Task Force. I had expected distance, polish, celebrity. What I found instead were genuine members of the LGBTQ community… authentic, grounded, human. People who wake up every day doing this work, absorbing the blows, building strategy, and carrying a fight I had been so afraid I was carrying alone.

By the time the conference doors officially opened, something fundamental had already changed. I was no longer walking in braced for disappointment. I was walking in accompanied.

The lobby of the Washington Hilton came alive with a DC go-go band, drums echoing through marble and glass, joy demanding space. I watched the exhibition hall take shape as vendors, nonprofits, local organizations, and national media arrived with rainbows and banners—reaffirming their commitment at a time when it often felt we were losing corporate allies for political convenience.

People arrived from all fifty states, Puerto Rico, and several countries beyond. They represented college campuses, Pride programs, faith-based queer organizations, healthcare providers, mental health professionals, political researchers, campaign managers, and so much more. For the first time since WorldPride, I felt the community exhale. For five days, we were safe. We could preach to the choir. We could regroup.

The programming covered everything, sexual health, trauma recovery, protecting trans youth, countering the weaponization of faith, preparing for legislative attacks, data and polling studies. There were caucuses for nearly every identity and experience. And there were moments that slowed us down… an Indigenous ceremony, asking permission to gather on stolen land.

We were also in mourning.

Renée Nicole Good was a lesbian with a wife. She was family to those of us at Creating Change. Her killing by ICE agents in Minneapolis was not abstract. It was spoken about in hallways and held in silence. It was a reminder that the violence was real, and the war had barely begun.

We knew the first year of this administration was not the apex… it was the opening shots. But we were better prepared now. We would not be caught flat-footed again. We were ready to fight. And we were ready to win.

This is where I want to end, with gratitude.

Thank you to the National LGBTQ Task Force for trusting me and allowing me to be a small part of something so impactful. Thank you to Washington, DC, and the Mayor’s Office of LGBTQ Affairs for keeping this city a safe space. Thank you to everyone who showed up and refused to be scared away.

I came into this skeptical and expecting disappointment. I found none. This was real. It was authentic. It was important. It was big. I was there. I learned I was not alone. I didn’t have to fight this war by myself. I got to be me. I got to feel love.

For that, I will always be grateful.