I was harassed so often on the subway that I couldn’t keep it all together

Living on the Northern Line seemed like a great idea when a group of friends and I chose our first place to live after graduation.

After a short stroll through the local park, we arrived right at the end of one of the capital’s longest metro lines.

For the first time, London was on our doorstep, but that excitement quickly gave way to fear.

So much so that I stopped working because I was so scared of the commute.

At the time, my gender expression was deeply inspired by the power of the 80s and the confidence that androgyny gave me. But being confined to a small subway car often became an oppressive experience – especially when I was around someone who disagreed with the way I looked.

People stared, pointed or whispered – even took pictures without my permission. This became a daily occurrence. Every morning and evening when I traveled, I braced myself not only for the rush-hour lines, but also for my security and privacy to be violated.

Soon, when it’s dark or getting late, I would avoid the subway altogether after being verbally attacked and followed.

When it had happened, there were usually a number of people on board, but they were keeping their heads down or sleeping. This just seemed to be the case.

No one looked up or checked to see if I was okay. With the headphones firmly in, it became common to be ignored.

Even during rush hour, the seats on either side of me were empty because people didn’t want to be associated with the visibly strange person on board.

It made me feel invisible and hypervisible at the same time. It was dehumanizing, and yet it soon didn’t feel abnormal. Although it didn’t make it any less terrifying.

As a non-binary person, the public discourse around “what it meant” to be non-binary had created a societal atmosphere where strangers felt it was fair game to poke and prod me to find out what I was.

Their curiosity was no longer just something they kept to themselves, and I realized that public transportation gave them the opportunity to do just that unapologetically.

Over time it took its toll and I started not going out anymore. I didn’t leave the house, and when I did, I didn’t take public transportation. This meant turning down work that required traveling and also making social plans with friends.

As such, my mental health suffered and my friends noticed a difference in me. I didn’t want to give them the second-hand embarrassment of witnessing the street harassment I encountered.

On the rare occasions I dared, I drank to feel “confident” enough to face people who would be abusive. It then became a self-destructive cycle that I needed help getting out of.

After seeing several trans and non-binary people create GoFundMe pages to help with private transportation, I decided to give it a try. I shared it on social media and the support I received was amazing.

People donated to help me pay for taxis, which in turn offered me a newfound freedom. While traveling, I was able to let go of fear for the first time in a long time and felt safe to show up in the world again.

I finally felt like there was a way to avoid street harassment without shrinking into a version of myself that wasn’t authentic.

This only lasted a few months, and believe me, not everyone was so nice.

Anti-trans figures started putting me down, saying it was narcissistic and fraudulent.

So when I heard about the recently reported 20% increase in hate crime on public transport against women and girls since 2023, my heart sank.

I know the fear and pain these women would feel just trying to get from A to B – it’s something no one should ever have to experience.

I’ve also been thinking about the transgender and gender non-conforming people who make up the number of people who are afraid to use the bus or subway too.

According to research, one in five LGBTQIA+ people also said they feel threatened when using public transport in London. And almost four in five think it is dangerous to look or act visibly LGBTQIA+.

It reminded me how interconnected our desire for freedom from male violence is, and that now more than ever we need to take care of each other if we want to feel safe just living our lives.

Not long after I gratefully used private transport, the Covid 19 pandemic struck. Suddenly everyone was afraid of public transportation and the experience without any public interaction was a chance to reset.

When I returned to the world, I was nervous to see how I would feel about hopping on the subway, but during lockdown I had grown into myself in ways I hadn’t before.

My gender expression had changed, becoming less femme and more masculine. I felt confidence in myself that I hadn’t seen before, so when I emerged as a different version of myself again, I felt like I could make a fresh start.

I felt stronger as I walked into the train carriage, not because I was no longer conspicuous, but because I had used lockdown as an opportunity to really learn who I was, and how I wanted to share that with the world.

But that doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten how I felt.

Recently I saw a woman sitting alone with a group of football fans diagonally opposite each other on the train. It was late, so I knew this would be peak anxiety time. So I sat across from the woman and grabbed an earphone to keep my wits about me and to make sure she wasn’t a target for abuse.

I wanted to be in that space to make sure I could provide allyship if she needed it, like I wanted people to do for me.

Whether it’s striking up a conversation with the vulnerable passenger, or making note of which stop you are at and getting off with them to see if they want to report the incident to staff – these little moments can make all the difference.

We need to look out for each other wherever we travel – in life or simply on our shared train journey – because allyship should be something that becomes second nature to all of us.

Despite our differences, our agitators are often the same.

Do you have a story you would like to share? Get in touch by emailing [email protected].

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