Florida Was Their Home. Anti-Trans Laws Led Them to Flee
In early March of last year, Casey was nearly done with her opening shift at a McDonald’s in DeLand, Florida, when she saw an alert pop up on her screen. It was a text from a friend with reports of a new proposed state law, an early draft of what would become Senate Bill 254. The bill aimed, among other restrictions, to further restrict access to gender-affirming care. As Casey read, a wave of panic took hold. This was the news she had feared most.
After work, Casey’s head swirled. She first considered how she’d tell her transgender wife, Jamie, that their family of four would soon have to pack up their lives and leave the only place they’d ever called home. She then checked her bank account. She had about $3,000 saved. It wasn’t much, but Casey figured it was enough cash to quickly get her family across Florida state lines if necessary.
Over the next two months, Casey put her plan in place. She took on extra hours at work and listed their house on the market. The couple sold what they could — a camper, two canoes. When they learned the bill had been approved on Thursday, May 4, Casey didn’t hesitate. “I figured [Gov. Ron DeSantis] would sign it by 5 p.m. on Friday, so my goal was to be on the road by then,” she recalls.
“We had about 24 hours.”
WHILE AMERICANS TODAY DON’T typically uproot to protect their personal freedoms — taxes, sure — a wave of laws restricting interventions for transgender youth and limiting access to health care for adults has driven more people across the country to seek shelter in states with LGBTQ-friendly policies. A recent KFF/Washington Post survey, for example, shows that one in four transgender adults have relocated for a more accepting environment. “Calling this a new class of refugees is not overly dramatic,” says Abbie Goldberg, the director of women’s and gender studies at Clark University, who has spent years surveying American LGBTQ families. “We know people’s sense of safety, value, and basic citizenship are profoundly impacted by legislative change. It feels like an explicit relegation to second-class citizenship.”
“I’ve heard this phenomenon referred to as an uncountable diaspora,” says Kelly Cassidy, an Illinois state representative and vocal advocate for both abortion access and transgender rights. In the past several years, Rep. Cassidy helped push through the Reproductive Care Act, which ensures the right to have an abortion in Illinois and protects providers and patients coming from out of state. She has also stood behind a conversion-therapy ban, expanded coverage for transgender medical care, and proposed a tax credit for those fleeing more restrictive states for Illinois. “The impact is so broad,” she says, “it’s impossible to really count and quantify. It’s a little overwhelming to contemplate.”
The migration trend reflects a deepening division in America. According to the ACLU, some 530 anti-LGBTQ bills have been proposed across the country. Eighteen states have also passed near-total bans on abortion. “It’s a very scary time to be in America,” says Alison Dreith, director of strategic partnerships at the abortion fund Midwest Access Coalition. “I fear the direction of this country and the freedom we take for granted. The stakes in November really couldn’t be higher.”
But while some lawmakers are determined to restrict Americans’ access to medical care, those in Illinois, Minnesota, and Maryland, among others, have declared their states health care safe havens.
This splintering has become a prominent talking point in the presidential race. At her rallies, Vice President Kamala Harris has pledged to strengthen federal protections for LGBTQ families through legislation like the Equality Act, an anti-discrimination bill. But even if elected, it would be hard for Harris to pass such a bill. And in the absence of a federal policy to regulate transgender care, the country would remain a patchwork of differing state laws, even under a Harris administration.
Former president Donald Trump, by contrast, has signaled his intent to roll back both abortion and transgender protections. Some Trump allies push for more extreme changes. Most notably: Project 2025, a conservative agenda outlined by the Heritage Foundation that seeks to eliminate nearly every LGBTQ protection. It goes so far to suggest that educators who support transgender identities should be registered as sex offenders.
“Regardless of what happens in this election, there will continue to be sociopolitical strife when it comes to LGBTQ rights,” adds Goldberg. “It’s not over.”
We know people’s sense of safety, value, and basic citizenship are profoundly impacted by legislative change, says Abbie Goldberg. It feels like an explicit relegation to second-class citizenship.
TO UNDERSTAND THE STAKES FOR families like Casey and Jamie’s, whose last name Rolling Stone agreed to withhold to protect their privacy, one only has to look at Ron DeSantis’ Florida. Since taking office, DeSantis has signed a suite of bills into law that ban transgender girls and women from participating in public sports and prevent trans individuals from using bathrooms that align with their gender identity. (Plus a six-week abortion ban that went into effect earlier this year.) DeSantis also championed the controversial “Parental Rights in Education” law, better known as the “Don’t Say Gay” law, which prohibits discussions about sexual orientation and gender identity in classrooms through the third grade.
But Casey and Jamie first noticed a shift in their neighborhood even before any new laws were passed. The changes began shortly after Trump was elected in 2016. There were more Confederate flags waving over doorways, and cars drove by with giant banners featuring Trump’s head superimposed on the oiled, muscular body of a machine-gun-toting Rambo. At work, Casey noticed co-workers had decorated their cars with bumper stickers advertising a local group known for white supremacist leanings.
The hostility hit closer to home when Jamie came out in 2020. “The neighbor across the street responded by telling us we were going to hell,” recalls Casey. Others on the block told their children they could no longer play with Casey and Jamie’s kids, Marie and Angelo. One neighbor, a former mechanic in the sheriff’s department who wore a small gold necklace in the shape of a noose, regularly lingered by their yard boasting about his connections to officers who would happily seek out justice in an “extralegal” way. “People were showing their true colors,” says Jamie. “I thought, if this is the way all of y’all felt all along, it’s not a safe place to be.”
Then, in March 2023, Florida Senate Bill 254 began to take shape. The bill formally established a wide range of restrictions on trans healthcare that DeSantis first introduced in 2022.
Among them, it outlawed hormone therapies and surgical procedures for transgender youth, and prevented Florida Medicaid, in which Jamie was enrolled, from paying for those same services for transgender adults. The bill also required transgender adults seeking care to obtain consent from a medical provider. “They were saying that if you were going to get informed consent and continue to receive care after the bill passed, you would be on a list,” recalls Casey. “That was terrifying.”
Around that same time, the Florida Department of Health began prohibiting transgender residents from changing their names and gender on their birth certificates. In addition, the state passed another law, House Bill 1069, that banned school staff from using pronouns for teachers or students that do not align with their assigned birth sex.
The restrictions would impact Jamie’s medical care. But for both Casey and Jamie, whose younger child, Angelo, identifies as nonbinary, their biggest fears lay in new legal language around child welfare, which grants the courts “temporary emergency jurisdiction over a child present in this state if the child has been subjected to or is threatened with being subjected to sex-reassignment prescriptions or procedures.” Though the wording was somewhat ambiguous, every possible interpretation left Casey alarmed.
Given the political climate, Casey decided the safest bet would be landing in a state with sanctuary laws, or a place that protects anyone seeking access to care. The other narrowing factor was affordability. California and Colorado, for example, enticed Casey and Jamie, but the cost of living removed both states from their list. In the end, they chose Illinois, specifically Carbondale, a college town of around 20,000 people that sits on the very southern edge of the state.
By the time Casey, Jamie, and their kids reached Southern Illinois after a day of driving with their seven animals, they were exhausted. When Jamie pulled up to the house, there was a large pride flag hanging over the front door. “It brought tears to my eyes because I just felt safe,” says Jamie, who later learned the flag was a gift from their new neighbors. (News of Casey and Jamie’s arrival had spread after Jamie reached out to a local LGBTQ community center.)
That first night in Carbondale, Casey and Jamie piled a set of travel mattresses on the floor. They ordered Chinese food and ate dinner on empty milk crates. The next morning, they crafted a plan for a new beginning.
STANDING BAREFOOT IN HER Carbondale kitchen, Casey, 32, gently places a round of 10 battered chicken chunks into a shallow pan bubbling with hot oil. Tonight, she’s making sweet-and-sour chicken, the dish, Jamie says, that first cast a love spell over her. As Casey toggles between a pot of white rice, boiling broccoli, and a frying pan, she gracefully maneuvers around the four dogs crowding her feet.
Outside, the temperature hovers around 95 degrees, and both Casey and Jamie revel in the wet humidity. The heat reminds them of Florida nights. “I’ve always loved it when you step outside and you feel like you’ve opened an oven door,” reminisces Casey. “When you’re hit by a wave of heat and the sunlight so bright that you’re blinded temporarily.” The thought unravels into a longer reflection. “I love how sand is everywhere in Florida. On your floors and in your car.”
Casey, who keeps her hair buzzed short, dons a fitted tank top that reveals her 12 tattoos. Her newest ink represents a Floridian palm tree. “I tend to get a tattoo when something is wrapped up,” says Casey. “Those palm trees are everywhere in Florida. They make a certain noise when they rustle, when the wind goes through. Looking at a palm tree, I can feel like I’m back in that place.”
“I remember we spent the first night here, and I said, ‘What’s wrong with the trees?’” chuckles Jamie, 38, who’d never been north of North Carolina.
If Jamie and Casey could afford to live among the palms in Orlando or Miami, they would have considered either city. The median home price in Orlando hovers around $300,000, and in Miami it sits closer to $500,000. Rents have risen, too, reaching upward of $2,000 for a two-bedroom in either city. But even if they could somehow pull together the money, says Casey, the broader rightward shift in Florida made life in their home state feel untenable. “It’s like a sense of nostalgia,” says Casey, reflecting on the Florida she knew as a girl. “It’s almost this sense that home doesn’t exist anymore because it will never be what it was.”
Moments later, Angelo, 12, the younger of the two siblings, bounds into the room. They are taking a break from one of their many Minecraft games.
Angelo props themself against a small, three-drawer cabinet that rests against the wall. The cabinet remains the only furniture they brought from Florida. “When we first moved into our own place, my grandma went with me to get some things,” says Casey, eyeing the cabinet. “She lived on a fixed income, and had almost nothing to spare, but took me anyway. I saw that cabinet and thought it looked kind of rustic. It cost $3, and when my grandma looked at it, she said, “This is ugly as sin.” Casey laughs at the memory. “I had to bring it.”
Nearly everything in the family’s Carbondale home is new. Most was found by the road or bought at the dollar store or Walmart. No one has accumulated more stuff, however, than 13-year-old Marie.
Marie sits upstairs on her canopy bed surrounded by collaged images of Chappell Roan and Lana Del Rey and a swarm of dolls she’s collected in recent months. On this particular evening, Marie hosts two new friends who she met through Rainbow Cafe, Carbondale’s LGBTQ community center.
At one point, the conversation naturally drifts to a timeless, quintessential teen topic.
“Carbondale is crap,” says one friend. “I can’t wait to get out of here.”
“We’re the only blue area that accepts LGBTQ people in this whole entire state,” retorts the other. “Just take what you have. We are the best of Southern Illinois.”
CARBONDALE, A LIBERAL COLLEGE TOWN amidst miles of conservative farmland, is not easily defined. From the road, anti-choice billboards invoking the Bible hover over highways, while in town the pungent smell of marijuana lingers in the air. Rep. Mike Bost, a vocal ally of Trump, represents the city, as does Clare Killman, the first trans person elected to a city council in Illinois. On Sundays, a small group of residents gather to protest the war in Gaza while khakied worshippers file into pews at some 50 churches in the area.
Over the past two years, Carbondale, like other blue islands, has become a temporary destination for those seeking abortions — the city is the closest place to get the procedure for more than 1.2 million women — and a more permanent home for queer people who need access to care. Several clinics — Alamo Clinic, Choices, and Planned Parenthood — have opened since 2022, two of which also provide trans health care services.
“We have become the hot spot,” says Carrie Vine, the executive director at Rainbow Cafe. “Carbondale is more accessible for people coming from places like Texas, Florida, or Tennessee.” The weather is more temperate too, adds Vine. And the city’s rural setting keeps it affordable, especially compared to Chicago, where the cost of living is nearly three times higher.
But state protections only go so far. The Supreme Court is currently considering a case that could result in a federal ruling on transgender health care. “It’s scary being a gender-affirming surgeon and waking up wondering if your job is still legal,” says Sumanas Jordan, a plastic surgeon and director of the gender pathways programs at Northwestern Medicine. “It’s unnerving to see policymakers wanting to legislate medical decisions.” If the court accepts the case, a decision is expected by June.
These days, Vine estimates she works to help as many as 10 to 15 individuals and families resettle in Carbondale at a time. The demand, she says, shows no sign of slowing. “I just hope we remain relatively safe and secure here in Carbondale.”
IT’S JUST PAST 9 A.M. WHEN Casey, Jamie, and their kids emerge from Union Station, Chicago’s central train hub. The four have traveled the six hours from Carbondale to Chicago for the city’s June pride parade, their first big pride celebration since leaving Florida.
Casey, hunched beneath an overstuffed backpack crammed with snacks, towels, and water bottles, takes in the colorful scene. Beyoncé and Elton John anthems blast from giant speakers, and young men dressed as forest fairies commune with women wearing shirts that read, “Move, I’m gay.”
The event brings a welcome dose of joy. But Casey and Jamie are in Chicago for another reason, too. It’s been more than a year since they’ve seen the ocean. While SB 254 was blocked by a federal judge in early summer, the couple don’t plan to return to Florida. “I’ve followed along with what has happened in Texas and Tennessee,” says Casey. “I feel like Florida’s gone far enough in that direction that it’ll take a long time before it swings back again.”
Over the next two hours, Casey guides her family toward a beach that sits a little more than a mile from the parade route. Around 4 p.m, Lake Michigan finally comes into view.
Jamie stops just short of the water. The smell isn’t right — no salt — but “the sound,” she says taking in the steady surf, “I’ve missed it so much. Standing here, I just think about the hatred that made me leave my home. I lived there for 37 years; it’s all I’ve known.” Jamie pauses, overcome. “Being at the water again, it’s priceless.”
Casey walks over to her wife and wraps her arms around Jamie’s waist. Behind them, Angelo buries themself in sand and Marie chases flocks of seagulls. After a few minutes, Casey reaches for her phone and records the sound of the choppy waves. She then combs through her backpack and pulls out two empty Dippin’ Dots containers, which she fills with scoops of dry sand.
Later, once they’re all back in Carbondale, Casey transfers the sand into a Mason jar and places it on a display shelf lined with keepsakes — an imperfect reminder of all they left behind.
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