Trans Joy is a Privilege
Trans Joy is a Privilege, and More People Need to Acknowledge That
There’s a phrase that does the rounds in queer spaces — especially among trans people — and that’s “trans joy.” You see it in photos taken just after surgery, in posts celebrating HRT milestones, in little exchanges of “your name really suits you” and “I love how you’ve grown into yourself.” And it makes sense. For a community that’s spent so long being defined by trauma, shame, and sheer survival, the idea of joy feels almost revolutionary. It’s resistance. It’s hope. It’s a reason to keep going.
But here’s the truth I’ve had to sit with: trans joy is a privilege. And we don’t talk about that nearly enough.
First of all, lets actually define what I mean. “Trans Joy” — often referred to as gender euphoria—is the profound, affirming sense of happiness, peace, or rightness that many trans people experience when their gender identity is acknowledged, respected, or reflected accurately in their body, social interactions, or environment. It’s the emotional opposite of gender dysphoria: not merely the absence of distress, but the presence of alignment.
I have written before, and coined a term — comphoria — about the deep sense of interpersonal joy one can feel when someone else is feeling deep joy in their gender, but in this case, I want to hone in on the individual personal experience.
To be joyful as a trans person, you need more than just a strong sense of self. You need material support. You need access to healthcare, to stable housing, to community. You need a secure safety net — both physical and emotional. And you need freedom from the daily grind of dysphoria, precarity, and social alienation. For many of us, those conditions are far from guaranteed.
A habit or trope I have found myself fall into is to romanticise trans joy as if it's something we can all access with enough inner work, therapy, or community support. But for someone stuck on a multi-year waiting list for essential care, or someone whose family has cut them off, or someone juggling three jobs to afford the basics while being misgendered daily—joy may feel unreachable. And then, to see others experiencing it—to be told that it should be your goal—can feel isolating and even shaming.
As someone living in the UK, with transphobia now firmly institutionalised with recent political moves and years long waitlists, joy is… difficult. Every few weeks, a different friend will post in our big, shared Discord server (no, you can’t join) about getting surgery consults or surgery dates or that they’re getting on a plane to Thailand for bottom surgery or whatever. I sit in the same queue, trying not to let the jealousy rot me from the inside out. I've wanted to be happy for people. But I’ve also felt the bitterness rise. And that reaction—that guilt-inducing blend of grief, envy, and self-disgust—isn’t because I’m a bad person. It's because the systems that should support us are broken, and have forced us to forego key life experiences—buying a house, travelling, going to gigs, etc.—to access a fundamental human right that should be provided in a timely manner and free at the point of access, by the NHS.
The other really big thing to hone in on is that most trans people’s life before transition can be split, stereotypically two ways, with one group being like (to use the example of a trans woman as this is the experience I can experientially relate to) “oh yeah I knew I was a girl when I was 4 years old and I was able to transition really young… blah… blah… blah…” whereas for others, it’s just pure dissociation. Barely any real knowledge of having had a childhood. Not even memories—just logbook-like entries. Places and facts, but no feelings. A ship’s log, with the soul left out. No feelings. No emotions. It’s like how I used to keep my journal—it was a very matter-of-fact recount of what had happened that day or week.
Interestingly (slight tangent), it was only when I started to journal properly, with feeling and emotion and reflection, that I began to actually peck cracks in the interior of my egg and begin to open up my sense of self. Its probably no coincidence that those periods of deep repression during my undergraduate years were also the periods when I wasn’t writing in my journal.
Thing is, a lot of trans people don’t have that. They don’t have that to look back on because they simply weren’t present enough in their lives. They were drifting from experience to experience—passing through each chapter of their lives like leaves on a wind. More darkly, I know people, heck I consider some of them friends, who dealt with dysphoria prior to transition through drink and drug abuse, as well as self-harm of various forms—I won’t go into any further depth than that to protect my friends.
When I was discussing this with my chosen sister Lucy, she remarked something that I thought was deeply apt:
“There’s joy in being trans, absolutely — but it doesn’t cancel out the grief. I’ve lost most of my childhood to dissociation. From puberty through to college, I was just numb. I wouldn’t trade those missing years for the joy of becoming myself; I’d take them back in a heartbeat. I’ve made peace with being trans, but if I’d had the choice, I wouldn’t have picked this path.”
This wasn’t my experience though. Before transition, my experience of my life wasn’t negative or dissociative. I was fine. I had hobbies. I had good friendships, many of whom I remain good friends with today. I played guitar, played rugby, was really into PC games. When you recount the childhood that I had… there’s nothing there that suggests it was bad or traumatic. When I made the decision to transition, it wasn’t because living as a guy was impossible—gun to my head, if someone had put a life-changing incentive in front of me and said “give it another 5 years, and that’s yours”, I probably could have powered through. Living as a guy though… it just wasn’t what I wanted anymore and wasn’t a way I could happily live my life. But, my childhood, my parents would be glad to know, was not a bad one. I never wanted for anything. I could access sport and hobbies. I was supported in my interests, and I was disciplined appropriately when I screwed up. Sure, no one is perfect as a parent, but even now, even after several hours worth of therapy sessions, I still don’t blame my parents for how they raised me—they did the best they could.
And so, when I reflect on who I am now, I don’t wish my life had gone differently. I wouldn’t trade my past for someone else’s perfect girlhood. I was loved. My parents bare no blame for not figuring out I was trans earlier - I didn't properly figure it out until I was twenty-two. And even now, after hours of therapy, I don’t think I’d have become a better person if I’d been born cis. Maybe I’d have been happier younger, but would I be the same empathetic, self-aware woman I am today? I’m not so sure.
Trans joy is real. And it’s beautiful. But it’s not universal. Not yet.
So, let’s be careful about how we talk about it. Let’s stop presenting it as something everyone can or should feel all the time. Ultimately, persistent dysphoria is a systemic failure—its not something that can be called a personal failing.
Demanding joy from one another is unfair and unrealistic. Instead, we should be demanding a healthcare system that actually works—one that provides timely, compassionate care without forcing us into endless waiting rooms or impossible choices. We need safe housing, legal protections, and support networks that are accessible to all, not just those with the loudest voices or the most privilege. And, whilst the current system exists, focus on supporting each other through this mess.
Our goal must be a world where trans joy isn’t a rare luxury or a distant hope, but the everyday baseline for everyone. Until then, let’s make space for all the complex feelings that come with this journey: the bitterness, the grief, the envy. None of those make us less worthy or less valid. They mean we’re human—and that we deserve so much better.
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