Full Disclosure: I traveled to Seattle this year with a nearly-empty well. The fight for true workplace equality and the survival of the transgender community in the United States—the constant advocacy, the challenging conversations, the emotional labor required to champion the Cause—is a marathon that demands more than mere resilience; it demands replenishment. I arrived at the Out and Equal Workplace Summit not just seeking reconnection with my colleagues and friends in the Movement and to speak and to teach, but with a deep, personal need for my soul and spirit to be nourished for the next phase of the struggle.

The toll of the work had become evident. In the face of legislative headwinds on the state and federal levels, the energy required to simply show up as my authentic self, let alone lead others, had left me running on fumes. But this depletion is not new. It connects back to a moment that shaped my entire professional life, a moment the collective power of this Summit helped me to fully recharge.

As I had shared when I told my story to this year’s attendees, twenty years ago—almost to the day—I walked into my office for the first time as myself. Before that moment, I spent decades working up to my position as a Vice President at a major insurance company, managing a large team of about fifty, in a culture that was described to me at the time as “classic old boy network.” The stakes were impossibly high: this came at the end of a brutally painful year of divorce, adjusting to life as a single parent, and navigating custody. My job wasn’t just mine to possibly lose; my ten-year-old son was counting on me as well.

The day before my return, I stayed home so my team could have a meeting to “prepare.” While I still don’t know what was said in that room, I do know what I did: I sent an honest, vulnerable email to over a hundred of my colleagues. It explained what I was going through and why now was the time to finally close the painful gap between how they saw me and who I truly was.

Vulnerability didn’t feel optional; I was already losing so much, I asked myself, what else is left but to be real?

And then, something incredible happened. While I was at home, notes started pouring into my inbox—expressions of kindness, support, and gratitude from people I had worked with for years. I cried so much I thought my tears might short-circuit my computer. They didn’t all understand my journey, but what they gave me was even more powerful: their humanity. And they freely gave to me their grace. They gave me the courage to keep going.

That next morning, heart pounding, I walked up the glass staircase that wrapped through the middle of our office building, visible to everyone. It was strangely quiet. I didn’t see a soul. But when I reached my office, a beautiful bouquet of flowers was waiting—a gift from my direct reports. As the morning went on, conversations began. One colleague, nervous but sincere, asked, “So, uh… you’re still… the old you on the inside, right?” I smiled. “Of course, I am. I’m just happier now.” And you know what? He got it. My skills, my leadership, my core—nothing had changed, except how the world saw me.

That long, quiet walk taught me that the journey of claiming our space is full of moments where we stand completely alone, and also moments where the love and support we receive nearly short-circuits a computer. We are worth being real. And two decades later, I can say with full confidence: I didn’t lose myself in the process—I finally found her.

This is why the Out and Equal Summit was such restorative justice for the spirit. The collective energy of EVERYONE there – created an undeniable wave of shared purpose. That unexpected, life-changing humanity I received twenty years ago was amplified in Seattle, replacing the isolation that this work often creates with a sense of collective power and unshakeable hope. The themes of the conference—resilience, community, and the fundamental right to belong—were the fuel I needed.

I left Seattle with my spirit full, my resolve sharpened, and a fierce, renewed determination to dive back into the fight. The spiritual nourishment received connected directly with my soul and provided me with a clearer picture of that beautiful future we are building, and fighting for, together.

The challenge I carry forward is the one I learned on that quiet staircase two decades ago: Don’t wait for permission to be real. Your vulnerability is not a weakness; it is the most powerful asset you have. It opens the door not only for your own liberation but for the humanity of those around you. We all have that feeling of standing alone on that glass staircase, heart pounding. But when we choose to step out—when we show up fully as ourselves—we give others the courage to show up too.

We are in this fight together, committed to tearing down the walls of isolation and creating spaces where every member of our community—the fabulous, unique, and immensely talented individuals that we are—is not just tolerated, but celebrated. And remember, when we show up fully, authentically, and joyfully, we don’t just ask for a seat at the table—we become the table.