When Stefanie Newell decided to move to Denver last year, the choice was about acceptance. Feeling comfortable as a transgender woman didn’t seem possible in San Antonio, her hometown, in the midst of a flood of Texas legislation targeting the LGBTQ+ community.
But the decision also had financial implications. In San Antonio, she lived with her mother, and the cost of living was generally low. Just driving her stuff two states north wiped out her savings.
“I thought I was well prepared, and when I arrived I was flat broke,” said Newell, 25. And Denver isn’t cheap: Her one-bedroom apartment downtown costs about $1,800 a month, which she pays with a mix of part-time paralegal work, freelance writing and editing, and ad revenue from her content on Instagram. “It’s taken off to the point where I’m not in the negative,” she said. “It definitely gets close.”
It’s a choice that gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender people in the United States have made for decades: Move from a less welcoming part of the country to one, usually a coastal city, with more protections and a bigger community. The price of tolerance was higher rent.
The need for relocation seemed to be declining in the 21st century, as same-sex marriage became the law of the land and pride went mainstream. But over the past two years, a flurry of laws banning transition care for transgender youths — variations of which are now on the books in 25 states — have sent more people in search of sanctuary.
Even though most of the laws are based on gender identity rather than sexual orientation, the impact goes beyond transgender people. Abbie Goldberg, director of women’s and gender studies at Clark University in Worcester, Massachusetts, regularly surveys LGBTQ+ individuals and families. In one recent study, she found that Florida’s law restricting discussion of sexual identity in public schools made parents who are LGBTQ+ more likely to want to leave the state.
“All of these attacks affect us in different ways,” Goldberg said. “I think generally speaking, there are not a lot of people saying: ‘Well, you know, it’s just those trans kids. We’re gay parents — this has nothing to do with us.’”
It’s impossible to track the migration with any precision. The census identifies same-sex couples, but is only in the early stages of asking about sexual orientation and gender identity.
Nonetheless, experts and advocates for LGBTQ+ rights say queer people are moving with increasing frequency as gender identity heats up as an issue for the Republican Party. Doing so is often possible only for those with greater means.
“Finances are the No. 1 predictor,” Goldberg said. “People who feel unable to even consider moving are usually either lower income or they feel they don’t have great employment prospects in other states.”
Personal situations differ, but on average, states whose laws are more hospitable to LGBTQ+ people also have a higher cost of living, according to an index assessing the state-level policy environment by the Movement Advancement Project, a policy and research group, and pricing data from the Commerce Department.
Reddit forums are full of people asking strangers which communities are both affordable and queer-friendly, with answers including places like Albuquerque, New Mexico, and Burlington, Vermont. But the range of viable options has narrowed in that blue cities in conservative states, such as Austin, Texas, and New Orleans, are no haven from state laws.
That’s why Mindi Mercer transplanted her four children from Raleigh, North Carolina, to Michigan last year. Her son Micah, 14, had come out as transgender during the pandemic, but was on a long waiting list to see an endocrinologist who could prescribe a course of treatment. In the meantime, he was having trouble in class and suffering socially.
In August, the state banned gender-affirming care for minors, Micah’s appointment was canceled, and Mercer, 39, didn’t hesitate. She quit her job at a construction company, loaded the family’s possessions into a trailer and drove 800 miles to their new home. The process cost more than $10,000, and while Mercer found a new job within a couple of months, they had to take on debt to make the move.
“We’re still financially further behind, trying to make up for that,” she said. But it was worth it: Her son has been able to get treatment and had a much better school year. “He feels affirmed and supportive and just really settled into who he is,” she said.
As the impetus for migration has grown, organizations have stepped up to help with the cost. Mercer got help from the Campaign for Southern Equality, which has dispensed about $500,000 to 1,000 families and individuals across the Southern states with $500 grants every six months to travel for health care or relocate permanently.
The PFund Foundation, an LGBTQ-focused philanthropy based in Minneapolis, raised $360,000 to support people affected by new laws in North Dakota, South Dakota and Iowa, all of which have banned gender-affirming care for minors, while Minnesota passed a “refuge” law protecting transgender children, their parents and providers from legal repercussions. PFund said it was aware of 200 people who either had moved or were in the process of doing so, though the total is likely higher.
Newell and her friend Keira Richards started an organization, the Trans Continental Pipeline, to help transgender people coming to Denver. It’s mostly a volunteer effort, with a network of case managers who help with questions such as where to live, how to find doctors and where the roller derby teams play. But they’d like to raise enough money to establish a halfway house of sorts, where transgender people can land while they get settled.
“Right now we have people waiting in these unsafe states waiting for a good housing situation to come along,” said Richards, 25. Even though Denver is more expensive than the parts of rural Alabama or Tennessee they might be leaving, transgender people have a hard time finding jobs in those states anyway.
“They’re being openly discriminated against in employment, so most of them are unemployed,” Richards said. “It’s basically between homelessness and going to a more expensive area.”
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