On April 10, an older transgender woman at my prison, affectionately referred to as Mama P., informed other trans women and me that we might soon lose our access to hormone therapy.
House Bill 2009, the Missouri Department of Corrections appropriations bill for the 2026-27 fiscal year, was making its way through the Missouri Senate. A single line on the last page of the 20-page document said that the state prison system would be prohibited from using funds for hormone therapy and gender transition surgery: “No funds shall be expended for any cross-sex hormones, or gender transition surgery undertaken for the purpose of any gender transition.”
Over the next two months, as the bill made its way through the Missouri Senate, we turned to each other for support. We had no information or guidance about what was going to happen to us. All we had was each other.
Over biscuits and gravy a few days after learning the news, a group of friends and I spoke openly with one another about our potential future without gender care. Eleven of the 12 trans women around me, many of whom are incarcerated for life, said they had suffered from suicidal ideation before they began receiving hormone therapy. All of them said they had self-harmed before being treated.
Cookie shared that she went so far as to cut off her testicles before she passed out. Now, she faced fresh uncertainty.
“What will I look like after I have been off estrogen in six months? A year? Or five years from now?” she asked.
“Will my breasts and feminine body go away?” Ronnette asked.
I worried the loss of hormone therapy would harm my relationships and daily life. Hormone therapy has allowed me to live as my authentic self and think about my interactions with others in a more reciprocal way. I want to be seen and respected as a woman, so I refrain from displaying offensive behaviors and try to respect others in turn.
Tierra Crown wondered if this would lead to more oppressive rule changes inside for trans people.
Sosa brought up the fact that commissary suppliers could potentially stop providing special clothing items, like underwear and bras.
“Will we be recognized by legal names or our gender identity?” Sierra asked.
It was a scary situation: receiving hormone therapy to treat our gender dysphoria and living with the evidence of its effectiveness, while knowing it might soon disappear. Over the course of the spring, while we waited without clear information, the law library Nexus’ bill tracker indicated the proposed law would very likely pass.
In late June, HB 2009 was signed into law and went into effect on July 1. By then, we had still not received updates on what was going to happen to our care.
Then, on the morning of July 7, I was approached by another trans woman who was crying. She shared that she had just left the medical department, where she’d learned that the DOC had taken away her hormone medication. Her and two other trans women, Bree Anne Leonard and Mama P., were told during their medical visits that the end had come.
When I heard the news, I didn’t know what to think or feel. My mind was blank. I tried to stay calm, like I hadn’t been told the bad news yet, and went to a nurse in the medical department to see if I could speak to someone. I didn’t get a clear response.
Later that morning, I saw Cookie. Because we are housed separately, we walked along a fence, on separate sides. Another sister walked alongside us, listening to music.
Just like when we sat over biscuits and gravy in April, Cookie asked me what was going to happen. She also shared that she’d once stopped hormones for a few weeks and thought she was going to die.
“Will I die?” she asked.
I warned her our immune systems could possibly fail due to the lack of estrogen being produced. I didn’t have an answer for anything else.
As we walked I saw several girls consoling each other. Some of them waved at me, showing solidarity. I was too far away to speak, but I could feel their raw emotions, their love and their pain. I was reminded of an old spiritual my granny used to sing: “If I couldn’t say a word, I’d just wave my hands.” So I did. I waved for love, respect, hope, pride — and for care.
Around them were their best friends and lovers, all out in full force, trying to keep smiles on their faces. I was comforted by the fact that the girls had someone to console them. When I spoke to some of them, they were hopeful; they had heard a rumor that a legal organization was going to fight for us.
I asked how it made them feel to know they had no more hormone therapy coming. One woman, GT, told me that she felt awful.
“I need my hormones,” she said. “I have gender dysphoria and without it my life will crumble.” This isn’t rehabilitation. This is a violation of my Eighth Amendment rights to healthcare.”
I tried to find peace, but the unceremonious and jarring end to our hormone therapy overwhelmed me. Hormone therapy changed our lives. It allowed us to feel comfortable in our skin, to build relationships and a better life for ourselves and our community.
There was no getting away from the conversation that day. Later, when I was sitting alone in a hallway crying, a woman named Tee La-la approached me. She had recently arrived at the prison, but her words echoed the pain of the other women on the yard. She, too, has a documented history of suicide attempts due to gender dysphoria.
“So what are they going to do now?” she asked. “Fill me up with tranquilizers? Tape my hands up?”
Despite the solidarity that flourished that day, others had disappeared. We soon realized that Ree-ree, whom many consider the prettiest woman in the prison, was missing from our group. She had previously said she was going to stop hormones before they made her stop. No one knew where she was or how she was doing.
