On April 9, 2016, a 25-year-old Sarah McBride stepped onto a TEDx stage with a message that would later feel prophetic: that the gender written on a birth certificate should never confine the possibilities of a person’s life. This was before she became nationally known, before she served in the Delaware Senate or entered the U.S. Congress as the first openly transgender member. In that moment, she was a young activist, still years away from her 2020 election victory, still unaware that she would one day shape national policy and American political discourse.
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She opened warmly with “Good evening, everyone,” and introduced herself not through political titles, but through personal facets: a movie buff, a policy nerd, a native of Wilmington, Delaware, a graduate of American University. Most poignantly, she included “a sister, and a daughter,” admitting that it had taken her 21 years to gather enough courage to say those simple words. The phrase “sister and daughter” reflected an identity she longed for but had been too fearful to express. Declaring it on stage was not merely a fact, it was an act of triumph. Sarah spoke about her childhood with startling honesty. She described lying awake at night praying she would wake up the next morning as a girl. This was not a passing thought but a constant longing. She recalled staring into the mirror and struggling to speak the two words that would define her truth: “I’m transgender.” She emphasized how omnipresent this reality was in her young life, something she thought about “every single waking hour of every single day.” For her, this wasn’t just discomfort, it was “a constant homesickness,” not in her body but in her life. She described an ache that only subsided when she finally allowed herself to be seen as who she truly was.
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Before coming out, Sarah tried desperately to bargain with herself. She believed that if she stayed closeted long enough to become successful or to make a meaningful difference, maybe achievement could compensate for authenticity. She tried to convince herself that her “dreams and identities were mutually exclusive,” as if one version of her might have to be sacrificed for the other. This internal compromise became unsustainable by the time she reached college. During her sophomore year at American University, she achieved a major milestone by being elected student body president. Yet even amid the applause and responsibility, she was painfully aware that her life was slipping by. She explained that she was “done wasting it as someone I wasn’t.” So, on Christmas Day 2011, she came out to her family, joking that there’s not much else to do after the presents are unwrapped. She then came out to friends, and eventually to the entire university community through an op-ed published on her last day as student body president.
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Despite her fears, the reaction from her community was supportive. But many people expressed that support with a phrase she found revealing: “I hope you are happy now.” This well-intentioned comment missed the point. Sarah did not transition as a means to happiness. “I didn’t transition to be happy; I transitioned to be me,” she explained. Transitioning was not the pursuit of a positive feeling, but the removal of an unbearable negative. It gave her the ability “to feel every emotion, to think more clearly, to live more fully, to survive, to be seen.” It granted her freedom, not bliss. Yet becoming herself introduced entirely new obstacles. Sarah revealed that while she expected transphobia, she had not fully anticipated the intensity of misogyny. Her path into womanhood, like all women’s paths, was unique, shaped by distinct privileges and challenges. But she was not prepared for the contradictory pressures that confronted her. She spoke of being treated simultaneously “like both a delicate infant and a sexualized idol.” She described the disempowering experience of strangers feeling entitled to comment on her body, the expectation that she should smile, and the judgment that followed whether she did or did not.
The expectations around femininity formed a trap of contradictions. If she presented as very feminine, she was accused of being a caricature or “inauthentic,” as though femininity were unnatural. But if she wasn't feminine enough, she was told she wasn’t “a real woman.” Popular culture, television, movies, politics, fashion, constantly projected messages about what womanhood should look like. In one of the most memorable lines of her speech, Sarah said she had finally escaped the closet “only to find myself stuck in the kitchen,” highlighting the irony of being liberated from one stereotype only to be confined by another. This realization led her to a broader insight: the forces that attempted to deny her womanhood were the same forces that sought to restrict everyone. “Those are the same forces that say there’s only one way to love, only one way to live, only one way to act, only one way to dress, only one role to play.” This connection is central to her argument. Sexism, homophobia, and transphobia are fundamentally intertwined. All stem from the same belief that the gender assigned at birth should determine the course of a life, dictating how people should behave, whom they should love, and what roles they should be allowed to occupy. “LGBT equality is gender equality, and gender equality is LGBT equality,” she declared, framing the struggle as a unified movement rather than a collection of isolated causes.
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Sarah ended her talk with a hopeful vision: a world where every child can grow up knowing they can be successful, independent, gay, trans, feminine, masculine, or any combination thereof, and still be respected. She emphasized that dreams and identities do not have to be mutually exclusive, and that fighting sexism, homophobia, transphobia, along with racism and ableism, creates a stronger, more inclusive society. Her closing message underscored a simple but powerful truth: that all children deserve to grow up believing they can be themselves and still be seen and valued as equal human beings. Looking back from 2025, the speech stands as an early blueprint for the political leader Sarah McBride would become. Just months after this TEDx appearance, she would address the Democratic National Convention as the first openly transgender person to speak at a major party convention. In 2018 she published her acclaimed memoir, Tomorrow Will Be Different, with a foreword by Joe Biden, a man whose views on transgender issues she helped shape. By 2020 she made history as the first openly transgender state senator, and by 2025 she would become the first openly transgender member of the United States Congress.
Her TEDx talk captures the essence of what would define her later career: personal vulnerability woven with political clarity, humor used to expose injustice, and an unshakable belief in a world where authenticity is not an act of bravery but a basic right. Her young self on that 2016 stage had no idea of the groundbreaking milestones ahead, yet her words formed the foundation of a lifetime dedicated to expanding the horizon of what is possible for transgender people, and for everyone whose identity has ever been constrained by the expectations assigned at birth.
Image credits: TEDx Talks
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