#non-binary 101

This weekend marks the anniversary of the Stonewall uprising, a pivotal moment in LGBTQ+ history that ignited a global movement for queer liberation. In the early hours of June 28, 1969, a police raid on the Stonewall Inn in New York City was met with fierce resistance from queer patrons, many of them trans women, drag queens, street kids, and gender-nonconforming people who had long been harassed, beaten, and silenced.

Stonewall wasn't the beginning of queer resistance, and it wasn’t the first riot led by transgender or gender-diverse people. But it was a turning point: a spark that united fragmented communities, radicalised a generation, and demanded visibility in ways that could no longer be ignored.

For non-binary, gender-diverse, and trans folks, especially those living at the intersection of racial and economic injustice, Stonewall was our riot. It wasn’t clean or corporatised. It was led by those who had nothing left to lose but everything to fight for.

At Enby Meaning™, we honour Stonewall not as a historic artefact, but as a living call to action. Today, as queer and trans people continue to face erasure, violence, and systemic neglect, it’s more important than ever to remember that Pride began as a protest. Our rights were not granted; they were demanded by those who refused to be invisible.

This post is a reflection, a reckoning, and a celebration. It’s about reclaiming Stonewall’s radical roots through a non-binary and gender-diverse lens, and reminding ourselves that we’re part of a legacy of resistance, resilience, and joy.

What Were the Stonewall Riots?

In the early hours of June 28, 1969, police raided the Stonewall Inn, a mafia-run gay bar in New York City’s Greenwich Village. But unlike countless other raids, this time the patrons fought back.

As officers attempted to arrest drag queens, trans women, butch lesbians, and queer youth—violently—people refused to be silent. Crowds gathered, coins and bricks were thrown, and for six nights, the streets around Christopher Street pulsed with protest, rage, and defiance.

The Stonewall riots didn’t come out of nowhere. They followed years of state-sanctioned violence: being queer could get you fired, institutionalised, or jailed. In many U.S. states, wearing "the wrong" clothes was a criminal offence. People were surveilled, outed in newspapers, and denied the right to gather in public.

What made Stonewall different wasn’t just the intensity of the resistance, but also the timing and momentum. The world was already changing: Black civil rights, feminist uprisings, anti-war protests, and liberation movements had lit a fire across the globe. The queer community was ready. Stonewall became a flashpoint for organising, and in the months that followed, new groups emerged to fight for the liberation of gay, lesbian, trans, and gender-diverse individuals.

Contrary to many mainstream retellings, Stonewall wasn’t a “gay men’s rebellion.” It was led by some of the most marginalised: street queens, homeless youth, and gender non-conforming people who refused to comply with respectability politics.

Their courage didn’t just open the closet door; it shattered it.

The Intersectional Roots of Stonewall: Race, Gender, Class, and Resistance

To understand the true legacy of Stonewall, we have to move beyond the whitewashed versions taught in (some) textbooks and parades sponsored by banks. Stonewall wasn’t a polished movement led by cis gay elites in suits; it was a messy, radical uprising led by those on the margins.

Among the first to resist were Black and Brown trans women, street queens, butch lesbians, sex workers, and homeless queer youth. Marsha P. Johnson, a Black drag queen and trans rights activist, and Sylvia Rivera, a Latina street queen, are two of the most recognised figures, but they were not alone. The riots were powered by the fury and resilience of those pushed to the edge by systemic racism, police brutality, class oppression, and gender violence.

Many Stonewall participants weren’t welcomed in white gay spaces. They were excluded, policed, and silenced by the very organisations that claimed to represent “homophile respectability.” At Stonewall, they took up space anyway and fought like hell to keep it.

That intersectional legacy is crucial. Stonewall wasn’t just about the right to love; it was about survival. It was about poor trans girls getting kicked out of shelters. It was about Black and Brown queers brutalised by police. It was about immigrants, sex workers, and those criminalised for living authentically. If we forget that, we forget what Pride means.

Liberation is only truly realised when it encompasses all of us, especially those most marginalised from mainstream narratives.

Why Stonewall Matters for Non-Binary Folks

Stonewall’s legacy isn’t just about same-sex marriage or rainbow crosswalks; it’s about liberation for non-binary, gender-diverse, and trans people, especially those living at the intersections of race, class, and disability, that struggle continues.

In 1969, there wasn’t a language like “non-binary” in mainstream discourse, but people existed beyond the binary then, just as we do now. The queens, femmes, butches, and street kids who led the riots were resisting not only homophobia but the violent policing of gender itself. They danced, fought, and lived outside cisnormativity, refusing to fit into a world that demanded conformity.

That’s the legacy we inherit.

For non-binary people today, Stonewall is a reminder that we have always been part of this fight, even when history books erase us. It’s a reminder that our visibility, our joy, our defiance, and our right to exist are acts of resistance. Whether we’re using they/them pronouns, creating queer art, or building mutual aid networks this is our continuation of the riot.

And in a world where gender nonconformity is still criminalised, pathologised, or mocked, Stonewall reminds us we’re not new, and we’re certainly not alone.

We must carry this legacy forward to continue empowering non-binary people not to assimilate, but to thrive. We must honour those who paved the way by creating spaces that reflect the full, messy, beautiful spectrum of who we are.

Who’s Been Erased from Stonewall, and Why That Matters

As Stonewall became mythologised, much of its radical, gender-diverse spirit was scrubbed clean. Media coverage, official monuments, and corporate pride campaigns often centre white cisgender gay men, leaving out the very people who threw the first bricks.

Marsha P. Johnson and Sylvia Rivera were once booed off the Pride stage for speaking about trans rights. Trans femmes of colour, sex workers, and non-binary people have long been pushed aside in favour of more “respectable” narratives. Even in 2025, references to trans and queer people were quietly removed from the U.S. National Park Service’s official Stonewall monument webpage sparking outrage and protests from across the LGBTQ+ community.

Erasure isn’t passive. It’s political.

When we flatten the story of Stonewall, we reinforce the very systems it resisted. We erase the contributions of people who didn’t fit into cisnormative, capitalist, or white-dominated frameworks. We betray the legacy of an uprising that was never meant to be palatable but intended to be revolutionary.

To honour Stonewall is to name those who were there. It’s to remember that the riot began because people were tired of being harassed for how they dressed, loved, or survived. It’s to recognise that non-binary and trans people were not just present; they were central.

How We Can Honour Stonewall

Commemorating Stonewall isn’t about rainbow capitalism or cute slogans; it’s about action, reflection, and remembering that Pride began as a form of resistance. Here's how you can honour the uprising in ways that centre the people it was really for:

1. Support Non-Binary and Trans-Led Initiatives by Donating to Organisations:

The Okra Project

For the Gworls

Tīwhanawhana (Aotearoa-based)

Gender Minorities Aotearoa

House of Tulip

or, us, here at Enby Meaning™

Even a small donation helps support those continuing the legacy of queer survival.

2. Read, Watch, and Learn: Educate yourself and others. Share stories that include the voices of Black, Brown, Indigenous, disabled, and gender-diverse people. Suggested content:

Happy Birthday, Marsha! (film)

Transgender History by Susan Stryker

Podcasts like Gender Reveal or Marsha’s Plate

3. Show Up—But Be Intentional: Attend Pride events that are trans-inclusive, decolonial, and anti-corporate, where possible. Or support grassroots gatherings in your community that honour Pride’s activist roots.

4. Challenge Norms in Your Own Life

Normalise sharing and respecting pronouns.

Uplift non-binary voices at work, at home, and in your networks.

Push back on binary thinking in everyday conversations.

5. Celebrate Queer Joy: Host your queer gathering, wear that outfit you've been scared to wear, or write a love letter to your younger self. Joy is resistance. So is rest.

Enby Meaning™ Spotlight: Carrying the Torch Forward

At Enby Meaning™, we’re choosing to mark Stonewall not just with words, but with intention. By building inclusive content, amplifying diverse voices, and holding space for the messy, complicated beauty of our community, we keep the riot alive.

Everything we create is rooted in the legacy of Stonewall—not as a branding moment, but as a responsibility. We’re not here to sell you an aesthetic. We’re here to build a home for the gender-diverse, non-binary, and queer community that honours where we’ve been and where we’re going.

Our platform exists because so many of us grew up never seeing ourselves reflected in media, in systems, in stories. Stonewall reminds us that change comes when we stop waiting for permission to exist.

Whether we’re sharing non-binary travel safety guides, celebrating queer joy through fashion, unpacking gender identity in our blogs, or creating space for intersectional lifestyle content—you’ll find Stonewall’s spirit in everything we do: radical, unapologetic, collective.

We’re not just here to look back. We’re building what comes next.

This Pride season—and every season—we invite you to be part of that vision. Share your stories. Speak your truth. Connect with others who are walking this path as well. Whether you're newly out or long out loud, there's space for you here.

Stonewall Was a Riot—And Still Is

The Stonewall uprising wasn’t the beginning, and it wasn’t the end. It was a spark—a moment of collective power when those most marginalised stood up and said no more. That legacy lives on every time a non-binary teen finds the language to name themselves, every time a trans woman fights for healthcare, every time we choose community over conformity.

Stonewall was not polite. It was not safe. It was not palatable. It was radical, defiant, intersectional—and deeply human. That’s what we choose to honour.

This weekend, as rainbow capitalism floods your feed, remember who lit the match. Remember Marsha. Remember Sylvia. Remember the butches, queens, hustlers, femmes, and street kids who built this movement with their bodies and their brilliance.

And remember this: Pride is protest. Pride is power. Pride is possibility.

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💬 Comment below: What does Stonewall mean to you in 2025?

Let’s keep telling the full story—loudly, proudly, and together.

How to Be Respectful and Supportive of Non-Binary People

It isn’t as hard as you might think to be supportive and respectful of non-binary people, even if you have just started to learn about them.

You don’t have to understand what it means for someone to be non-binary to respect them. Some people haven’t heard a lot about non-binary genders or have trouble understanding them, and that’s okay. But identities that some people don’t understand still deserve respect.

Use the name a person asks you to use. This is one of the most critical aspects of being respectful of a non-binary person, as the name you may have been using may not reflect their gender identity. Don’t ask someone what their old name was.

Try not to make any assumptions about people’s gender. You can’t tell if someone is non-binary simply by looking at them, just like how you can’t tell if someone is transgender just by how they look.

If you’re not sure what pronouns someone uses, ask. Different non-binary people may use different pronouns. Many non-binary people use “they” while others use “he” or “she,” and still others use other pronouns. Asking whether someone should be referred to as “he,” “she,” “they,” or another pronoun may feel awkward at first, but is one of the simplest and most important ways to show respect for someone’s identity.

Advocate for non-binary friendly policies. It’s important for non-binary people to be able to live, dress and have their gender respected at work, at school and in public spaces.

Understand that, for many non-binary people, figuring out which bathroom to use can be challenging. For many non-binary people, using either the women’s or the men’s room might feel unsafe, because others may verbally harass them or even physically attack them. Non-binary people should be supported by being able to use the restroom that they believe they will be safest in.

Love is something most of us crave; companionship, desire, emotional safety, and being truly seen. But for non-binary people, dating and relationships can feel terrifying and often like navigating a minefield.

You’re constantly weighing:

Will they respect my pronouns? Will I have to explain myself again? Can I be soft, sexy, and emotional, without it being filtered through cisnormative expectations? Will they hypersexualise me? Fetishise me?

The thoughts and fears go on…

Dating while non-binary can be beautiful and euphoric. But often it’s messy and exhausting. It can feel like an endless game of coming out, over and over again, even in queer spaces that claim to be inclusive.

In this post, I want to share what it’s like to love and be loved outside the binary. I’ll explore the unique challenges we face on apps, in sex, and long-term relationships, but also offer insights, validation, and honest advice from lived experience. Whether you’re non-binary yourself, questioning your gender, or someone hoping to understand better how to love us well, this post is for you. Because love beyond the binary is real, and it deserves to be seen, respected and celebrated.

The Emotional Terrain of Dating While Non-Binary

Dating as a non-binary person is often an emotional rollercoaster. There’s the thrill of connection, but also the constant calculation: Will this person understand me? Will I have to teach them everything about my gender before we even get to flirting?

Being seen in your whole, complex gender can feel euphoric. When someone uses the correct pronouns without hesitation or affirms your presentation without projecting expectations, that can be deeply intimate. For many of us, those small acts of respect are bigger than flowers or grand gestures—they’re safety. (Still bring the flowers though.)

But there’s also real grief that comes with dating outside the binary. Grief for the times you weren’t believed. For the partners who couldn’t hold space for your identity. For the people who loved the idea of you more than the truth of you.

Travis Alabanza once said that embracing their non-binary presentation eased their dysphoria but made them “very intimate with loneliness.” That hit me. For many of us, stepping into our gender more fully means stepping out of what others expect, especially in romantic contexts.

We navigate rejection not just on a personal level, but on a systemic one as well. The world is still learning what non-binary even means, let alone how to love us right. And for those of us who are also racialised, disabled, neurodivergent, or otherwise marginalised, the pressure to conform can be even stronger.

But despite the pain, there’s power in choosing authenticity by loving ourselves first and refusing to shrink just to be desired.

Dating Apps & Coming Out Fatigue

Dating apps are a mixed bag at best, and for non-binary people, they can be downright exhausting. We’re often stuck navigating platforms that weren’t built with us in mind. Some apps still force a binary gender selection at sign-up. Others let you list your identity but don’t offer filters or visibility that support non-binary users. And even when apps do include non-binary options, it doesn’t stop the messages from people who ignore them, misgender us, or ask invasive questions.

You start to learn that putting “they/them” in your profile doesn’t guarantee respect, it just filters out the worst, sometimes.

There’s also the emotional toll of coming out over and over again. Every new match brings uncertainty:


Do I have the energy to explain what non-binary means today? Will they get it, or will it turn into a quiz?


Even in queer spaces, the assumption of binary gender is still common. And for transmasc or transfemme people, attraction is too often filtered through assumptions about transition, anatomy, or roles. I’ve personally edited and re-edited my profiles dozens of times, trying to strike a balance between honesty, safety, and vibe. Too assertive and I get blocked; too soft and I get misgendered. It can feel like a performance instead of an invitation.

But there are ways to make it easier. Tips that might help include:

Use precise language that signals your boundaries and expectations (“non-binary, they/them, not here to educate but happy to connect authentically”)

Choose more inclusive apps like Lex, Feeld, or HER which tend to have more gender-diverse users

Follow your gut: If someone can’t even use your pronouns right in a message, it’s not your job to fix them

Dating apps can be a tool, but they shouldn’t drain your sense of self. Curate your experience, protect your peace, and know that you deserve matches who celebrate you, not just tolerate you.

The Reality of Queer Dating Spaces

You’d think queer spaces would feel like home. Sometimes they do and you don’t feel the need to explain your gender. Other times, though, it’s like being the invisible guest at someone else’s party.

Many queer spaces only centre on white cis gay male experiences. The language, norms, and even aesthetics often orbit binary expectations. If you don’t “read” as masc enough or as the “right kind” of femme—femme but still recognisably a man—you’re often overlooked and sidelined.

If you’re non-binary, trans, pansexual, polyamorous—or some combination—you might feel too “much,” too “new,” too “complicated” for the comfort of others. Not because you are but because all it takes is a few disrespectful glances and you know you’re in the wrong space. 

That tension is real. I’ve had dates in “inclusive” queer venues where I was still misgendered. Correcting people on my gender typically leads to comments labelling me as difficult or “politically correct”. GROSS! (not the republican talking points)

It feels like you’re constantly coming out, even inside the community that’s “supposed” to get it.

Dating cis queer people can be confusing. Some see your gender as fluid and expansive; others can’t stop projecting roles onto you. And while dating other non-binary or trans people often brings deep mutual understanding, it isn’t automatically simple. We’re all navigating our identities and traumas from outside and within the community.

But there are spaces where I’ve felt more affirmed:

Small queer house parties (usually friends or at least mutuals)

Online communities (like Discord servers, Reddit or queer TikTok)

Relationships that are built on curiosity, consent, and communication, not assumptions

Finding affirming queer dating spaces takes time. But when you do, it’s like exhaling for the first time in hours. You realise: I don’t have to fight to be seen here. And that’s worth holding onto.

What Makes a Relationship Affirming?

At its core, an affirming relationship is one where you feel safe, seen, and celebrated, not despite your gender, but with and through it.

For non-binary individuals, such love can feel rare. But it’s not impossible. The difference isn’t in our capacity to love or be loved; it’s in how the world (and our partners) treat us.

So what does “affirming” actually look like? It looks like someone who:

Affirms you fully as a person—your mind, your body, your identity. All of YOU.

Uses your correct name and pronouns, even when introducing you to Grandma. No hesitation.

Celebrates your gender expression instead of policing it. Whether you’re masked up in a binder or soft in a flowy dress, they see you—not a projection of who they want you to be.

Listens when you set boundaries around dysphoria, language, or physical touch, and honours those boundaries without making it about them.

Stays curious about who you are as your identity shifts and expands. We all grow, and no one should expect you to stay static.

I’ve had relationships where I was “accepted,” but not affirmed. There’s a difference. Acceptance says, “I’ll put up with this.” Affirmation says, “I love this part of you, it’s part of what makes you brilliant.”

Affirmation isn’t just about language; it’s about presence. It’s someone noticing when your voice drops because you’re feeling dysphoric. It’s them gently offering to cook dinner when you can’t face the mirror that day.

The best relationships I’ve had weren’t with people who “understood everything.” They were with people who stayed open, who asked rather than assumed, who made space for me to be whole. And those relationships—messy, kind, intentional—remind me that we’re just enough, exactly as we are.

Navigating Sex & Intimacy

For many non-binary people, sex and intimacy come wrapped in layers of joy, fear, hope, dysphoria, and healing. Our bodies are politicised, misunderstood, or projected onto. Finding intimacy that feels good requires more than just chemistry. It requires trust.

Sometimes, sex can be empowering. It can be euphoric to feel fully desired in your gender, to be touched in ways that honour your identity. But other times, intimacy can trigger dysphoria. Certain body parts, words, or positions might feel jarring or misaligned.

There’s no single “non-binary experience” of sex. Some of us are sex-positive and kinky. Others are asexual, demisexual, or simply uninterested. Some crave intimacy but not sex. Some love sex but need it on their terms. What matters is that we get to define what intimacy looks like for ourselves and that our partners honour those definitions.

Here are a few things that can make intimacy more affirming:

Use language that aligns with our body and experience. Don’t assume words for body parts. Ask! Some of us say “chest” instead of “breasts,” or prefer “strap” to more medicalised terms.

Talk before you touch. A consent-based conversation about boundaries, desires, and dysphoria isn’t awkward, it’s respectful. Respect is hot.

Take your time. Slow, intentional intimacy makes space for connection and check-ins. There’s no rush to perform.

Stay adaptable. Dysphoria can shift. What felt good yesterday might feel awful today. That’s part of being human.

When I’ve had sexual partners who listened, who didn’t rush, didn’t make assumptions, and didn’t need me to perform, I’ve felt more connected to my body than ever.

Sex outside the binary isn’t about fitting a script. Especially not hetero or cis normative expectations. It’s about co-creating an experience that feels nourishing, real, and safe for everyone involved. That’s the kind of sex worth having.

Dating Allies: Do’s and Don’ts

If you're dating someone who’s non-binary, first of all, congrats! We’re a delight.

But seriously, showing up as an affirming partner means doing more than swiping right and hoping for the best. It means learning, unlearning, and being willing to sit with some discomfort, not because your partner is “too complicated,” but because gender is.

Here’s a quick guide for allies who genuinely want to date non-binary people with respect and care:

DO:

Use our correct name and pronouns, and correct others when they slip. It shouldn’t always be our job.


Educate yourself on gender, terminology, on the difference between sex and gender identity. There are endless free resources.


Ask, don’t assume. What words do we use for our bodies? What does intimacy mean for us? What makes us feel seen?


Stay open. Gender is not a fixed point, and your partner’s identity may evolve. That’s not a red flag—that’s life.


Reflect on your conditioning. How have you internalised the gender binary? How might it affect how you show up?

DON’T:

Fetishise us. We're not here to be your “androgynous fantasy” or gender experiment.


Expect us to educate you constantly. Curiosity is great. Google is better.


Reduce us to our trauma. We want tenderness, not pity.


Police our expression. Just because we wore a dress last week doesn’t mean we’ll always present that way.


Assume you're a good ally just because you're queer. Privilege exists within the LGBTQ+ community, too.

Loving a non-binary person means seeing them for who they truly are, not who you think they are or who you want them to be. It means choosing to honour complexity, fluidity, and growth.

When you love us right, you get to witness something extraordinary because we are.

Love Outside the Binary: Why It’s Worth It

Despite the challenges, the microaggressions, the rejections, and the conversations that make your stomach sink, loving and being loved outside the binary is one of the most freeing experiences I’ve ever known.

When we stop trying to fit into boxes we were never made for, we open ourselves to something far more expansive: love rooted in truth. In mutual becoming. In co-creating intimacy that doesn’t rely on scripts or stereotypes.

Non-binary love is often an act of resistance. It says: We are worthy of tenderness, even if the world refuses to see us. It says: There are infinite ways to love and none of them require erasing who we are.

I experience love where I feel more myself than I ever thought possible. Moments when my partner sees me in all my contradictions, soft and strong, fluid and grounded, maybe slightly neurotic, and didn’t flinch. Those moments remind me why it’s worth holding out for people who get it, even if it takes longer to find them.

Queer love, mainly when it includes trans and non-binary folks, is often messier, more honest, and more intentional. It demands reflection, care, and a willingness to break the mould. But in doing so, it creates something real. Something that affirms who we are and who we’re becoming.

So if you’ve felt lonely or unseen, please know you’re not asking for too much. You’re asking for what you deserve. And there are people out there who will meet you where you are, without trying to change you.

Love beyond the binary exists. And it’s not just valid; it’s revolutionary.

Final Tips & Takeaways

Dating while non-binary is complex. There’s no perfect formula, no “right” way to love or be loved outside the binary. However, there are tools, communities, and practices that can help you feel more grounded and less isolated during the process.

For non-binary readers:

You don’t owe anyone your gender story. Share when it feels right, not out of pressure.

You’re allowed to have boundaries. Especially in areas such as language, intimacy, and energy.

You are not “too much.” You are a full-spectrum human, and the right people will honour that.

Build community. Friendships and queer chosen families can be just as validating (sometimes more so) as romantic relationships.

Take breaks from dating apps. Protect your peace and recharge when you need to.

For allies and partners:

Listen more than you speak.

Respect that gender journeys evolve. Be willing to grow alongside your partner.

Love without assumptions. Honour the person, not the idea.

If you’re still searching for love or trying to navigate your first affirming relationship, know that you are not alone. There’s a whole community of us learning, stumbling, laughing, grieving, healing, and loving in real-time.

And we’re all just trying to figure it out. Together. 

Let’s Keep the Conversation Going

Have you navigated dating as a non-binary person? Are you learning how to show up better for the non-binary people in your life? I’d love to hear your thoughts, stories, or questions in the comments.

This space is built for connection, for naming things we’ve carried in silence and for finding each other in our stories. 

Share your experience below or send me a message if you’d rather connect privately.


Want more reflections like this? Subscribe to the blog or follow Enby Meaning on your favourite platform.


And if you found this post helpful, consider sharing it. We deserve more non-binary perspectives on love, sex, and relationships in the world.

For Gen Z, many of us recognised that gender isn’t something fixed; it’s fluid, expansive, and unapologetically diverse. We’re not just questioning the binary; we’re actively dismantling it. From TikTok to classrooms, from protests to private group chats, we’re building space for identities that reject old rules and embrace personal truth.

More than half of our generation believes there are more than two genders, and we’re not just talking about it. Most of us know someone non-binary. For many of us, gender isn’t a box to check or a role to perform. It’s something we shape ourselves, day by day, moment by moment.

In this post, I want to explore how Gen Z is leading a global shift toward gender liberation. We'll examine the data, the culture, and our stories, and celebrate the power we hold not just to imagine a freer world, but to make it a reality.

The Numbers Don’t Lie: We’re Changing the Conversation

If you want proof that our generation is reshaping the gender landscape, look at the stats.

According to the Pew Research Centre, over 50% of Gen Z respondents say gender isn’t limited to just “man” or “woman.” That’s a massive contrast to older generations—less than a third of Baby Boomers agree.

It’s more than just belief. In the U.S., 1 in 5 Gen Z adults now identify as LGBTQ+, with growing numbers specifically identifying as non-binary, genderqueer, or genderfluid.

We’re also much more likely to know someone who uses they/them pronouns or who identifies outside the binary. This isn’t abstract. These are our classmates, our chosen family, our co-creators. This is us.

More Than Two Genders: This Is Our Norm

For a lot of us, the gender binary feels irrelevant. We’re embracing language like non-binary, genderfluid, agender, bigender, and two-spirit as part of how we express our truths. But for many, the point isn’t to pick a new label but to reject the idea that we need to choose at all.

A 2021 Gallup poll showed that 12% of Gen Z adults identified as transgender or non-binary. And as more of us grow up in affirming environments, that number’s only rising.

35% of Gen Zers personally know someone who uses gender-neutral pronouns, compared to just 16% of Baby Boomers. We’re normalising conversations that were once considered radical or not allowed.

Gender isn’t an either/or. It’s a spectrum, a mosaic, a journey. It’s both/And. Anything/Everything/Nothing.

What’s Fueling the Shift? What’s behind this gender revolution we’re part of?

It’s not random. It’s not a phase. We’re growing up in a world that’s giving us tools previous generations never had. Tools that help us see ourselves, find each other, and fight for something more. It’s cultural, digital, educational, and personal. Here are a few of the most significant forces shaping how our generation relates to gender:

Social Media: Where We See Ourselves

For many of us, social media was the first place we saw someone like ourselves. Whether it was a TikTok, a Tumblr post, or a YouTube vlog, the internet gave us language and mirrors. We learned pronouns through memes. We found community in the comment sections. We watched creators like @jeffsreeves, @tyfrench, and @venusianx discuss openly their experiences as non-binary, genderfluid, or still figuring it out, and we felt less alone.

The algorithm doesn’t always get it right (I have plenty of thoughts on that). But when it does, it reflects the truth that gender can be soft, loud, messy, joyful, but most importantly, ours.

Inclusive Education: Learning Beyond the Binary

Some of us were fortunate enough to attend schools with inclusive sex education or teachers who asked us for our pronouns. Others had to unlearn everything we were taught. Either way, some schools today are adopting gender-affirming practices, like using inclusive language, offering gender-neutral bathrooms, and letting students express themselves without punishment.

Today, there are often Queer-Straight Alliances, support groups, and classroom conversations that include us. That makes a difference. Even reading a single queer book in high school or seeing a non-binary character in a story tells us: you’re real.

Youth-Led Activism: We’re Not Asking for Permission

We’re organising. We’ve walked out of classrooms over anti-trans laws. We’ve created zines, podcasts, and protest art. We’ve raised mutual aid funds for gender-affirming care and stood up for each other in courtrooms and comment sections alike.

Movements like #ProtectTransKids and #TransRightsAreHumanRights aren’t distant hashtags. They’re personal. They’re now. And a lot of them are led by queer BIPOC youth who’ve been fighting for survival and joy all at once.

We’re not waiting for institutions to change. We’re changing them ourselves.

Authentic Voices: Stories from Our Generation

When people discuss Gen Z and gender, they often focus only on statistics. But the truth is in our stories. We’re the generation living this. We’re growing up finding ourselves in usernames, voice notes, thrifted outfits, and late-night Discord chats. Some of us have words to describe our identities. Some of us are still figuring them out. Either way, we’re not alone.

Here are just a few stories drawn from the voices I hear in my circles every day:

Kai (they/he), 19, Aotearoa New Zealand

“I didn’t have the language for being non-binary until I saw a TikTok that described exactly how I felt. I’d always struggled to relate to being a girl or a guy. Now I know I’m just non-binary. I use they/he pronouns, and I finally feel like I make sense to myself.”


Jules (they/she), 22, USA

“In school, I was called a tomboy or told I’d ‘grow out of it.’ But I didn’t. I came out as non-binary in college, and suddenly things clicked—my gender shifts. I love playing with fashion and expression, depending on how I feel that day.”


Aari (xe/xem), 18, UK

“My family doesn’t get it. But online? I found people who got me. Tumblr and queer subreddits are my home. They helped me find words like xenogender that made my feelings feel valid.”


Mar (he/they), 20, Philippines

“People tell me being non-binary is a ‘Western thing,’ but they don’t know our history. In the Philippines, we’ve always had gender-diverse identities before colonisation. Knowing that helped me reclaim myself. I’m trans, non-binary, and Filipino. I don’t need to explain that to anyone.”


Non-Binary Awareness Week 2025: Why It Matters

Every July, we take a moment—not just to be visible, but to be seen.

Non-Binary Awareness Week (July 14–20, 2025) is more than a hashtag. It’s a space (one that we’ve carved out for ourselves) to celebrate, educate, and agitate. For many of us, it’s a lifeline. It’s one of the few times we get centre stage to acknowledge our identities, our voices, and our futures.

The week culminates in International Non-Binary People’s Day on July 14. Still, it’s the days in between that holds something sacred: a timeline full of storytelling, selfies, protest art, TikTok rants, and reminders that we’re still here.

However, we’re still navigating systems that weren’t built for us. We’re still watching lawmakers debate whether we’re allowed to exist. Visibility without protection doesn’t save lives, it just makes us easier targets. That’s why this week is more than just a celebration, it's about organising, protecting, and claiming joy on our terms.

How We Show Up During the Week (and Beyond)

We share our stories because representation isn’t a trend, it’s a matter of survival.

We hold space for grief, for rage, for discovery, for all the feelings that come with living outside the binary.

We take action by educating, donating, creating, voting, and showing up in both digital and physical spaces.

We celebrate each other and our creativity, our uniqueness, our resilience, our vulnerability, our passion.

At Enby Meaning, we believe visibility should not be conditional. We believe in radical joy. We believe in gender freedom. We believe in a future where being non-binary doesn’t require explanation or defence. We believe gender diversity deserves to be recognised, respected, and celebrated.

This week is for us. But the revolution? That’s every day.

What This Means for Allies, Parents & Educators

If you're not non-binary, but you're here reading this, thank you. You’re showing up, and that matters. But support isn’t passive. If you care about someone like me or anyone in your life who exists outside the binary, this is what we need from you.

Start by Listening—Genuinely: We don’t need you to have all the answers. We need you to stop assuming. Ask us what words we use for ourselves, and respect when those words change. Don’t correct us. Correct others when they make a mistake.

Normalise Pronouns and Names: It might feel new to you, but it’s not new to us. Use our pronouns. Use our names. Even when we’re not in the room. Add your pronouns to your email signature, introduce yourself with them, and help make it a habit in your workplace, school, or friend group.

Make Spaces Safer for Us: If you’re a teacher, coach, parent, boss, or organiser, your space sets the tone. That means:

Gender-neutral bathrooms

Inclusive dress codes

Books, posters, and lesson plans that reflect all kinds of people

Zero tolerance for transphobia, misgendering, or “debates” about our right to exist

Educate Yourself Without Expecting a Guide: We’re tired of having to explain ourselves just to be respected. Read the books. Watch the videos. Follow non-binary creators. Learn without making it someone else’s emotional labour. Some good places to start:

They/Them/Their by Eris Young

Beyond the Gender Binary by Alok Vaid-Menon

Podcasts like Gender Reveal, NB: My Non-Binary Life, and Enby Sounds

Advocate Publicly, Not Just Privately: Support is easy in a DM. But what about at school board meetings, family dinners, or workplaces? Speak up even when it’s uncomfortable. Vote like our rights matter. Don’t just celebrate us; fight for us.

We’re not asking you to be perfect. We’re asking you to care enough to keep trying.

The Future Is Fluid

We’re not waiting for permission. Gen Z is already reshaping the world by existing, by resisting, by imagining something freer. We’re showing that gender isn’t fixed, linear, or binary. It’s layered. It’s lived. It’s soft and loud and messy and beautiful.

This isn’t a passing moment. This is a generational shift. From our pronouns to our protests, from the memes we make to the language we reclaim, we’re creating a culture where identity doesn’t have to be confined. And even though the world still tries to police us, punish us, or put us in boxes, we keep expanding.

If you’re reading this and you’re non-binary, trans, gender-diverse, or still figuring it out: you’re not alone. You don’t need to have the right words yet. You don’t need to prove anything. You get to exist. And that’s enough.

If you’re here to learn, grow, and stand with us, thank you. There’s room for you here. The future isn’t male or female. It’s not even a spectrum. It’s a galaxy. It’s all of us shifting, becoming, and building something better.

We are that future. And the future is fluid.

Resources & Further Reading

If you found this post helpful, here are more articles from Enby Meaning™ that explore Gen Z identity, gender diversity, and non-binary experiences in depth:

Enby Meaning: Understanding Non-Binary Identity in 2025 & Beyond: Your essential primer on non-binary identity, written for now and the future.

What Does “Enby” Mean?: Understand the origin, usage, and evolving meaning of the term “enby”—and why it resonates so profoundly with Gen Z.

You Don’t Have to “Look” Non-Binary: A breakdown of gender expression, internal identity, and the myth of what non-binary “should” look like.

What It Means to Come Out as Non-Binary—More Than Once: Coming out isn’t always a single moment—it can be an ongoing, nonlinear, and complex process, especially for younger generations.

Living Out Loud: A celebration of non-binary joy, creativity, and thriving beyond survival.

Non-Binary and Neurodivergent: Explore how ADHD, autism, and C-PTSD intersect with gender identity, particularly in Gen Z communities where both are more openly discussed.

The Power of Pronouns: Why pronouns matter to non-binary youth, how to use them correctly, and what respect looks like.

How to Talk About Being Non-Binary with Older Family Members (2025 Guide): Especially helpful for Gen Z readers navigating intergenerational conversations about gender.

These pieces expand on the core themes of this post: visibility, authenticity, and the future of gender through the lens of Gen Z. We encourage you to dive deeper, explore the archives, and stay connected.

📩 Subscribe to our newsletter for new posts each week.


🗨️ Comment below with your reflections or experiences.


Read at https://www.enbymeaning.com/read/nonbinary-neurodivergent-adhd-autism-cptsd

I didn’t just come out once. I’ve come out over and over again, first as queer, then non-binary, then neurodivergent. ADHD explained why my brain worked the way it did. CPTSD explained why the world sometimes felt unbearable. Naming those parts helped me understand myself but it was only when I began unmasking my gender that everything started to click.

There’s growing recognition that gender identity and neurodivergence are deeply linked. From ADHDers who struggle with binary gender expectations to autistic folks who experience gender as fluid or indescribable, our stories often fall through the cracks of mainstream narratives. Being neurodivergent doesn’t cause queerness, but many of us come to realise we don’t fit into a world that was never designed for minds or bodies like ours.

In this post, I’ll share what it’s like to live at the intersection of being non-binary and neurodivergent, particularly with ADHD and complex PTSD. I’ll explore why so many of us find freedom in gender expansiveness, how trauma complicates identity formation, and what systems still fail us. This isn’t just a personal story: it’s a political one. And it’s part of a much bigger conversation about neurodiversity, queerness, and collective liberation.

Why So Many Neurodivergent People Are Queer (And Vice Versa)

Search any ADHD or autism forum and you’ll likely find threads about gender identity. It’s not a coincidence. Studies and lived experience alike show that neurodivergent people especially those with ADHD, autism, or CPTSD are more likely to identify as LGBTQ+, and particularly as non-binary or gender-diverse. But why?

One reason is that neurodivergent people tend to question norms by default. Many of us grow up feeling out of step with social expectations, including gender roles. If you already struggle to perform “normal” in school, work, or relationships, the pressure to perform a narrow version of masculinity or femininity might not just feel uncomfortable but maybe irrelevant.

Autistic people, for instance, often describe gender as something external, scripted, or disconnected from their inner experience. The concept of monotropism—deep, focused attention on specific areas of interest—may also make autistic people more likely to deeply examine their identity. ADHDers, on the other hand, are often more attuned to feelings of restlessness, impulsivity, or identity shifts, which can sometimes lead others to misunderstand our gender journeys as “just a phase.” But it’s not a phase—it’s discovery.

CPTSD adds another layer. When you’ve survived trauma, especially trauma related to control, shame, or violation, your relationship with your body and selfhood can become fragmented. For many, reclaiming gender identity becomes part of trauma healing. It's about saying: this is who I really am, not who I was forced to be to survive.

These aren’t deterministic links, but they are relational. Neurodivergence doesn’t make someone queer but it can offer a lens that makes queerness easier to see, understand, or accept. And when we stop pathologising difference, what emerges is not confusion, but possibility.

My Lived Experience: ADHD, CPTSD, and Being Non-Binary

For me, being non-binary isn’t just about gender, it’s about survival, adaptation, and truth. I didn’t grow up with the language to describe myself. Instead, I grew up with misdiagnoses, meltdowns mistaken for mood swings, and a deep, quiet sense that I wasn’t quite what people expected. Not in how I acted. Not in how I presented. And definitely not in who I was becoming.

When I was diagnosed with ADHD, things started to make sense. The sensory overwhelm, the chronic lateness, the bursts of inspiration followed by burnout—none of it was a personal failure. But ADHD also helped me realise how much of my gender expression had been masked, managed, or muted to fit in. Executive dysfunction made performing gender exhausting. Hyperfixations and mood shifts often aligned with new names, styles, or identities, something many non-binary ADHDers know well.

Later, my diagnosis of complex PTSD gave me a different lens. I started seeing how trauma had shaped my perception of safety and selfhood. People with CPTSD often dissociate from their bodies or identities in order to survive. For a long time, I couldn’t tell where my trauma ended and my gender began. But healing taught me this: not everything that came from pain was a lie. Some of it was clarity.

Living as a non-binary, neurodivergent person means constantly navigating systems that don’t account for me. Forms rarely allow you to tick all your truths. Clinicians still struggle to separate identity from pathology. Even queer spaces can feel inaccessible when your brain doesn’t process stimulation, time, or social cues in “typical” ways.

But within that messiness is a kind of freedom. ADHD, CPTSD, and queerness have taught me how to shape-shift, how to unlearn, and how to rebuild identity on my own terms. My gender is not a stable destination; it’s an evolving home. And being neurodivergent means I get to decorate it however I want.

Social and Structural Barriers at the Intersections

Being non-binary and neurodivergent isn’t just about personal identity—it’s about survival in systems that weren’t made for us. The overlap of ableism, transphobia, and medical gatekeeping creates a web of barriers that can feel impossible to navigate alone.

Take healthcare. Many gender-affirming services like hormone access or name change support assume a neurotypical, binary-transitioning pathway. Autistic and ADHD individuals may communicate differently, express gender non-normatively, or struggle with linear storytelling in assessments. This can lead to misinterpretation or outright denial of gender-affirming care.

Mental health systems are no better. Some clinicians mistake queerness or non-binary identity as a symptom of neurodivergence or trauma especially in people assigned female at birth. Others still treat ADHD, autism, or CPTSD in isolation, ignoring how these conditions interact with gender and sexual identity. Many of us are forced to mask one part of ourselves just to be believed about another.

Even within queer and trans spaces, neurodivergent people often feel like outsiders. Events may be overstimulating. Community organising can be chaotic or exclusive. Expectations around activism, language, or emotional labour aren’t always neurodivergent-friendly. On the flip side, neurodivergent spaces often lack awareness of gender diversity, especially when built around outdated diagnostic norms.

These intersecting barriers hit even harder when race, class, disability, or migration status come into play. Black and brown neurodivergent trans folks face higher rates of surveillance and violence. Poor and working-class enbies are often left out of access-focused care. Migrants may fear being pathologised, institutionalised, or deported.

What ties all this together is erasure. The systems say: you’re too much, you’re confusing, you don’t belong here. But we do belong. Not despite our complexity but because of it.

Language, Labels, and Liberation

Words are powerful. For many of us at the intersection of being non-binary and neurodivergent, finding the right language can feel like finally being able to breathe in our own truth. But language can also constrain. It can invite misunderstanding, medicalisation, or oversimplification of something deeply fluid.

Terms like non-binary, neurodivergent, ADHD, autistic, CPTSD survivor—these are all labels I’ve tried on. Some fit better than others, some shift with time. What they all gave me was permission: to understand myself, to find community, and to advocate for care. But none of them fully contain me.

This is especially true when our experiences are non-linear or hard to explain. How do you describe being genderfluid when your executive function fluctuates? Or explain sensory dysphoria that overlaps with gender dysphoria? How do you tell a clinician you’re not sure whether a shutdown is from autistic overwhelm or emotional flashbacks—especially when the systems demand clarity you don’t yet have?

Still, reclaiming language is part of liberation. Many of us find strength in words like:

Enby: a soft, adaptable term that resists binary expectations

Neuroqueer: the refusal to separate queerness from neurodivergence

Genderflux / genderfae / agender: new vocabularies for non-linear gender

Masking / unmasking: ways to talk about performing “normal” to survive

And sometimes, the best language is poetic. Maybe you’re a fog rolling over mountains. A glitch in a binary code. A river that never flows the same way twice.

Labels can be tools but they’re not cages. You don’t owe anyone a fixed definition of who you are. You can hold contradiction. You can change. You can just be.

Strategies for Thriving at the Intersections

Living as a non-binary, neurodivergent person—especially with ADHD and CPTSD—isn’t always easy. But it’s also not hopeless. Many of us are finding ways to not just survive, but thrive, by building systems of support that honour our full selves.

Here are strategies that have helped me—and others in our communities—navigate the chaos:

Neurodivergent Tools That Honour Queer Identity

Body doubling: Doing tasks with a friend (virtually or in person) to stay focused without masking

Visual planning systems: Using colour-coded calendars, apps like Notion, or sticky-note walls to track dysregulated days

Stimming without shame: Embracing sensory tools like putty, weighted blankets, or music rituals

Flexible expression: Allowing your gender to evolve with your neurostate—there’s no “wrong” version of you

Trauma-Informed Self-Care

Somatic grounding: Practices like dancing, stretching, or weighted pressure that reconnect body and identity

Queer trauma therapy: Working with professionals who get both the neurodivergent brain and the queer experience

Reclaiming safety: Curating spaces (online or physical) where you can unmask, express, and explore without fear

Unmasking and Identity Work

Slow unmasking: You don’t have to come out everywhere, all at once. Let your truth surface on your own timeline.

Mirror rituals: Daily moments of affirming your gender expression or sensory comfort in front of the mirror

Journaling: Writing about how your identity shifts with mood, season, or focus can create long-term clarity

Building Neuroqueer Community

Find others at the intersection: Follow creators, join Discords, seek queer neurodivergent mutual aid spaces

Adapt queer spaces: Advocate for accessibility in queer events—low-sensory zones, captioning, structured social time

Celebrate difference: Host rituals or moments with chosen family that affirm your unique way of being

Systems, Not Hustle

Create sustainable rhythms: Your identity and brain work better with flow than with force. Honour that.

Forgive inconsistency: You're not lazy, flaky, or confused. You’re responding to a world that doesn’t fully see you—yet.

Closing Reflections: The Power of Naming and Nuance

There’s no single story of being non-binary and neurodivergent. No neat timeline. No tidy outcome. What we have instead is nuance—an endless, shifting dance between identity, environment, and survival. And in a world obsessed with clarity, that’s a radical thing.

For me, naming ADHD, CPTSD, and non-binary identity wasn’t about boxing myself in. It was about carving out space where I could finally exhale. These words became tools for connection, language for liberation, and mirrors where I could see myself more clearly.

But they’re not the full story. Sometimes I still feel foggy. Sometimes my gender expression doesn’t match how I feel inside. Sometimes trauma pulls me backwards, and ADHD pulls me sideways. And yet—I am still here. Still worthy. Still whole.

If you’re reading this and feel like no label fits, or too many do, that’s okay. You are not broken. You are not faking it. You are living a beautifully complex truth that deserves space, support, and softness.

As we move forward, let’s build communities that make room for all of it—for the contradictions, for the unmasking, for the in-between. Let’s stop asking people to prove who they are and start asking how we can hold them better.

You are not alone at this intersection. You’re part of a wider, wilder map—one that we’re drawing together, in real time.

Join the Conversation

Read at https://www.enbymeaning.com/read/how-to-talk-about-being-nonbinary-to-family

Talking to older family members about being non-binary is hard, like really hard—and honestly, I’m still figuring it out.

No script magically makes someone understand. No single conversation wraps it all up neatly. For many of us, coming out isn’t a one-time moment; it’s a series of choices, conversations, tensions, silences, and sometimes even backtracking. It’s deeply personal. And it’s never simple.

When I first tried to explain my identity to my family, I was hopeful but terrified. I spent weeks overthinking my words. Rehearsing. Wondering if I was overreacting. Wondering if I’d be rejected. Some things landed. Some didn’t. Some still don’t.

This guide isn’t here to promise a perfect outcome, because there’s no one-size-fits-all answer. Instead, it’s here to offer support. I want to help you prepare for whatever version of this moment feels right. I want to remind you that you’re not alone in navigating this conversation, even if it feels like no one else around you gets it.

Why It’s So Hard to Talk About Gender with Older Family Members

Let’s be honest: it can feel like we’re speaking different languages. And in a way, we are.

Intergenerational lingo is different. Throw in some queer culture and identity language, and even a Gen-Z cishet person might find it unfamiliar. The beauty of language is that it’s constantly evolving, and queer and trans people are often the ones shaping it. We name what was unnamed. We create ways to exist out loud.

But these conversations are shaped by more than just age or proximity to queerness. They’re influenced by culture, religion, migration, colonisation, language, trauma, ableism, racism, classism—layers and layers of identity and experience. For some of us, talking to family means navigating not just generational gaps but entirely different worldviews built from diaspora, survival, or silence.

Ideas like “non-binary” or “genderqueer” may not have existed in our families’ worlds, not publicly, at least. Their understanding of gender might be rooted in strict binaries, passed down through tradition, reinforced by faith, or never questioned. That doesn’t excuse ignorance or harm, but it helps explain why these conversations often carry so much weight.

You might be met with confusion, discomfort, or even resistance because your identity challenges a worldview they’ve never had to rethink. For some, your truth might feel like it unravels everything they’ve been taught about who people are supposed to be, and who they are supposed to be concerning you.

And still, this isn’t about them. It’s about you.


What you’re bringing into the conversation: Fear. Hope. Longing. Grief. Joy. Guilt. Maybe strength you didn’t know you had. Recognising that this challenge is shaped by history, identity, trauma, culture, and love, can help you set realistic expectations.

You’re not trying to win a debate.

You’re trying to be understood. And sometimes, that’s a slow process.

Preparing What You Want to Share (and What You Don’t Have To)

Before you say anything to your family, take a moment to check in with yourself:


“What do I actually want from this conversation?”


Not what you should want—but what feels right to you, here and now.

Maybe you just want them to start using your name or pronouns.


Maybe you want to clear the air before a big family event.


Maybe you’re tired of hiding.


Maybe you’re not ready to say much at all, and that’s completely valid, too.

Coming out isn’t a performance. There is no template. It’s an act of communication, and it’s okay if your version doesn’t look like anyone else’s. Especially if your family dynamics are shaped by things like language barriers, cultural taboos, religious pressure, or past trauma, you might need to take a different route.

Some Questions to Help You Get Clear:

What am I hoping they’ll understand or respect?

What would feel like a small win for me?

Are there words or phrases I want to avoid?

Do I feel safe having this conversation? If not, what are my options?

It’s okay to write out what you want to say ahead of time. Some people find it helpful to practice in the mirror or with a friend. Others write a letter or text and choose not to have the conversation face-to-face at all.

Your boundaries matter. You’re not obligated to educate anyone if it drains you. You don’t owe full explanations. And you’re allowed to say, “This is who I am, and I’m still figuring things out.”

Talking Points and Scripts You Can Use

There’s no one right way to come out or explain your gender. But sometimes having a starting point—a few words you can make your own—can help ease the pressure. These scripts aren’t about saying the perfect thing. They’re here to give you structure when your heart is racing or your brain goes blank.

Use What Feels True. Leave the Rest.

For Parents or Guardians

“I want to share something important about who I am. I’m non-binary. I don’t see myself fully as a man or a woman. I’ve spent time understanding this, and I feel more like myself now than I ever have.”

“I know this might be new to you, and I’m not expecting you to understand everything immediately. What I do hope for is respect. I’d appreciate it if you could use [name] and [they/them or other pronouns]. It means a lot to me.”

For Grandparents or Elders

“I know this might be hard to understand because gender wasn’t talked about the same way when you were growing up. But I want you to know that I’m still your grandchild, and I always will be. I just need to live my life in a way that feels true to who I am. That means using a different name and pronouns now.”

“You don’t have to fully ‘get it’. I just ask that you try to meet me with kindness.”

For Religious or Conservative Family

“I know your beliefs are important to you. My identity doesn’t take anything away from your faith; it’s just the truth of how I experience myself. I’m not trying to disrespect you or the way you were raised. I’m simply trying to live honestly, even if we see some things differently.”

For Cross-Cultural or Migrant Families

“This may not be something we had language for in our culture, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t exist. It just means we didn’t talk about it. I am still part of this family, part of this culture. I carry it with me. I just need you to see me as I am, and not just who I was expected to be.”

Optional: Setting a Boundary

“If this is hard to talk about right now, that’s okay. But please don’t dismiss it or make jokes; this is serious to me. We can come back to it later if you need time, but I ask that you still respect my name and pronouns in the meantime.”

Tip: Scripts aren’t a substitute for consent or safety. You get to choose who you share your identity with, how, and when, or if at all. And you can revise what you say as your language, understanding, or comfort level shifts.

If It Doesn’t Go Well: Protecting Your Peace

Sometimes, no matter how gently or clearly you speak, the response still hurts.

Maybe they interrupt.
 Maybe they go silent.
 Maybe they say something that makes your stomach turn. 
Maybe they say nothing at all.

It’s devastating to be vulnerable and not be met with love. Especially from family. Especially when you’ve already spent so long preparing, doubting, rewriting, and hoping.

If this happens to you, please know this: it’s not a reflection of your worth. Their reaction is about their own fear, confusion, or conditioning; not your truth. You deserve to be seen for who you are, even if they’re not ready (or willing) to do that yet.

What You Can Do in the Moment

Pause the conversation. You can say:
 “This is a lot right now. Let’s take a break and come back to it later.”


Affirm your boundary: 
“I’m open to questions, but I won’t tolerate disrespect or denial of who I am.”


Leave the room or end the call if you need to. Protecting yourself is necessary.

What You Can Do Afterward

Reach out to your chosen family, community, or support network. Let someone remind you that you’re not alone.

Feel your feelings. Anger, grief, numbness, relief, exhaustion—they’re all valid.

Reclaim your space. Do something that affirms your identity: put on a playlist, wear an outfit you love, re-read a note from a friend who gets it.

What Not to Do

Don’t blame yourself for their discomfort.

Don’t rush to over-explain or justify.

Don’t abandon your boundaries to keep the peace, especially if that “peace” comes at your expense.

Remember: Understanding can take time. Some relatives may come around months or years later. Others may never do the work. You don’t need to wait for their approval to be whole, to be proud, or to move forward.

You are not too much.
 You are not confusing.
 You are not alone.
 And you are not the problem.

You’re Not Alone — And You Deserve Respect

No matter how your family responds, you deserve to feel seen, supported, and safe. Coming out is hard enough. You shouldn’t have to do it alone.

If your relatives don’t understand or aren’t ready to try, you still have people who will. People who do. People who’ve had the same conversation, with the same lump in their throat. People who will use your name without question, who will hold you through the grief of it all, and who will celebrate every tiny win with you like it’s a revolution because it is.

Your community may not always be your blood. But it can be your truth, your lifeline, your home.

Where to Find Support

Online spaces like Reddit (r/NonBinary, r/asktransgender), Discord servers, or Tumblr can offer advice and solidarity in the moment.

LGBTQ+ support orgs (like The Trevor Project, RainbowYOUTH, Trans Lifeline, GALZ, etc.) can help if you’re in crisis or just need someone to talk to.

Queer group chats, DMs, and safe social spaces. Even just one friend who listens can make all the difference.

And if you don’t have those people yet? You’re not behind. Keep reaching. Keep trying. The right people will meet you where you are.

Want a Little Help?

We're creating a downloadable "Coming Out Glossary + Talking Points Pack" just for moments like this; something you can print, send, or use as a script when you don’t have the words.