The Supreme Court ruling has shocked the country to its core, and for trans people in the UK, the consequences are far more devastating than the mostly cis male justices would care to admit. Despite their claims that this decision should not be seen as “a victory for either side,” the reality tells a different story. In the transphobes’ camp, they’re already uncorking the champagne, lighting cigars, and posting smug soundbites about “normality being restored” and how they “love it when a plan comes together,” as if they were the A-Team heroically righting the world’s wrongs.
The irony, of course, is lost on them. The A-Team fought for the oppressed, not against them.
Meanwhile, in our community, fear and despair have taken hold. Trans people are left wondering if it’s even safe to exist in public anymore, and for some, whether it’s worth existing at all.
But if the bigots thought their win would go unchallenged, they seriously miscalculated the fire and solidarity they’ve awakened. The wave of protests since the one-sided ruling handed down by the anti-LGBTQ+ Lord Hodge has been immense. In London alone, over 25,000 people flooded the streets, and protests have erupted in towns and cities up and down the country, with many more planned in the coming weeks.
One of those protests took place today in Newcastle upon Tyne — my first ever protest. I’ll admit I was nervous when I turned up about 40 minutes early and saw just a handful of people loitering around Grey’s Monument. For a moment, I wondered if I’d made a mistake. But as the minutes ticked by, the numbers swelled — until we were a sea of defiance and hope, trans and cis people standing shoulder to shoulder, chanting at the top of our lungs: “Trans rights are human rights!” and “Trans rights now!”
We heard from brilliant speakers who lifted the crowd’s spirits. Flint from What The Trans kept the energy alive, leading chants between speeches with a voice full of passion (though I fear for his vocal cords tomorrow!). But the star of the day, without a doubt, was 11-year-old Fran (they/them), who delivered a speech with a level of confidence and clarity that blew all of us away. Here I was, in my 40s, still nervously hiding in an alcove because I’d forgotten my face mask, and there was Fran, standing tall and fearless. Their words pulled me out of my hiding spot and into the heart of the crowd, where I belonged. When Fran finished speaking, the crowd erupted into deafening cheers and chants of “Fran! Fran! Fran!” that echoed around the monument.
The energy stayed high long after the speeches ended, with people mingling, chanting, and connecting with one another, a moment of collective healing in the face of so much cruelty.
But just as the protest began winding down, the police turned up, supposedly responding to complaints about “defacement” from local shops surrounding the monument. The crime? Messages of love and solidarity scrawled in children’s chalk, the same stuff that covers pavements across the country every summer without anyone batting an eyelid. Yet here, the police treated it with absurd seriousness: photographing the chalked slogans like they were documenting a major crime scene, and even bagging up bits of chalk as “evidence.”
Thankfully, no arrests were made, though several peaceful protesters were issued 72-hour dispersal orders, a heavy-handed response that felt far more about silencing dissent than protecting public order. Still, there was at least one small mercy: not a single counter-protester from the transphobic camp showed their face. Despite all their online bluster about “taking the streets back,” when it came to standing against a sea of solidarity and resistance, they simply weren’t brave enough to show up.
Even amidst that, there were moving, powerful moments that reminded me why this fight matters. As we protested, a heavily tattooed man walked past with his two young children. One of them asked why people were “kicking off,” and I heard him calmly explaining the injustice of the court ruling to his kids, telling them he understood why people were angry, showing them what real allyship looks like. Later, when I popped into a nearby Greggs, a young member of staff — probably no older than 16 or 17 — was unfailingly polite, correctly gendered me without hesitation, and made me feel seen and respected, despite how visibly early I am in my transition.
These moments, small but powerful, are why we won’t back down. We are fighting not just for ourselves, but for a future where every young Fran, every supportive dad, every kind teenager in a Greggs, grows up in a country where trans lives are not only protected but celebrated.
The government and their friends in the courts might think they’ve won, but today, in Newcastle and across the UK, it was clear: our community is stronger, louder, and more determined than ever.
And we’re just getting started.