I'm a trans woman of color in an all-male prison. I had to fight for my right to gender-affirming care behind bars.

• I went to prison at 21 years old as a transgender woman of color.
• In the all-male prison, I couldn't get hormone-replacement treatment and the workers abused me.

Having witnessed my mother's murder at 6, I grew up as a ward of the state of Maryland and had a traumatic, painful childhood full of abuse and disappointment. At 17, I ran away to Georgia and used sex work to get by — something I'd done since I was 14.

Eventually, I found myself facing felony charges and was sentenced to 14 years in prison for conduct that occurred when I was 19. In 2012, I entered the Georgia prison system as a 21-year-old trans woman of color.

I had to fight for my medical rights behind bars. I didn't know I had it in me, but my experiences and my eventual victory within the Georgia Department of Corrections were pivotal in showing me just how much strength and potential I have.

When I was a preteen, I knew there was something different about me

While I was unfamiliar with much of the terminology and most of the science, I've identified as trans since I was 11 years old. At that young age, I would simply tell people I wanted to be a girl. My feelings about my identity really coalesced when I was 13.

I began bartering for my girlfriends' birth-control pills in high school, wishing the modicum of estrogen in the pills might hyperfeminize me — or at the very least keep me from being masculinized by male puberty.

Growing up in the foster- and group-home system was difficult for me, especially as a young trans woman. I felt isolated and struggled with my identity. When I ran away from that life, I found myself in a new state and a new environment, where I encountered even more challenges. At 19, I was caught up in drugs and facilitating sex work, which led to my arrest and subsequent conviction of pimping and pandering a 17-year-old.

Prison is everything you'd think it would be — and everything you wouldn't

Prison is flat-out terrifying, especially for a young trans woman incarcerated in a Deep South men's facility. The years I've spent in prison have been challenging, to say the least. Throughout my incarceration, I've suffered from the cruelty of both officers and prisoners; however, I also was touched by some of the greatest acts of kindness and compassion from officers and prisoners alike.

As a trans woman, I've faced numerous dangers: harassment, violence, discrimination, and lack of access to medical care. I've also been physically and sexually assaulted on several occasions. As happens with many victims, I was accused of lying about it.

The amount of fear, depression, anxiety, and hopelessness I often feel is potent. But the times of laughter, shared meals, and good conversations are a light in the darkness.

Prison became especially difficult when I tried to express my true gender

When I went to prison, I was a young trans woman who was taking hormones for two years, but I hadn't begun the surgical part of my transition.

I was living under the tyranny of both official and unofficial policies that precluded my access to gender-affirming medical care. In the first few years of my sentence, prison officials wouldn't give me access to hormone-replacement therapy and certainly weren't allowing me access to surgical interventions.

All my attempts at feminization, expression of gender, and even social transition were met with brutality by prison officials. One time, I was held down and my head was forcibly shaved by the prison's Certified Emergency Response Team — a unit meant to respond to gang wars, riots, and major institutional security threats. Another time, the warden made me shave my eyebrows off because they were too arched. If I didn't do it myself, he promised to have the same team "assist." These experiences were an effort to de-transition me or to assail my feminine presentation.

So I sued the Georgia Department of Corrections

One of the proudest moments of my life was in 2015 when I successfully represented myself without the assistance of counsel in a lawsuit against the Georgia Department of Corrections. In the case of Lynch v. Lewis, I advocated for my rights and the rights of other trans women in the prison system. I was fighting to ensure all trans women in prison had access to lifesaving gender-affirming medical care in the form of hormone-replacement therapy.

Representing myself was the single most daunting endeavor I'd ever undertaken. There were times that were extremely frustrating — especially the periods of waiting between varying stages of the case.

In the end, I proved to everyone who doubted — even myself at times, if I'm being honest — that I could win. I settled my lawsuit in July 2015, modifying the existing policy on access to gender-affirming care. I also earned myself access to HRT and got a guarantee of laser treatment for facial-hair removal.

After this victory, I started taking names. Prison officials dealt with me gingerly. I knew that if push came to shove, I could hold them accountable for any unconstitutional acts. For once in my life, I had some power, and it was glorious.

I'm still fighting for my rights in prison, but I'm proud of how far I've come

Despite all my challenges, I've found a sense of community and support from those who understand the complexities of my life.

I've been blessed to be able to get an education with the assistance of friends and sponsors. While in prison, I've earned a diploma in paralegal studies, a certificate in civil litigation, and completed my bachelor's in theology. I'm wrapping up my master's in theological and historical studies at Amherst Theological Seminary, with conditional acceptance to their doctoral program.

As I near my 2025 release date, I'm filled with a sense of excitement and anticipation. I've learned so much about myself and the world during my time behind bars. I'm eager to use my education and experiences to continue making a difference.