I wake up every morning overwhelmed by the same questions: Am I safe? Are we safe? As a Black trans woman, these aren’t rhetorical questions. In my role leading the Transgender District, a San Francisco nonprofit, they permeate every minute of every day, affecting me and my staff spiritually and physically.
Founded by three Black trans women, the Transgender District is the only legally recognized entity of its kind in the world, encompassing six blocks in the city’s Tenderloin neighborhood. We provide programs focused on cultural preservation and economic development that empower transgender people to thrive within systems that were never built for us.
But as this year’s Pride Month comes to an end, there are few reasons to celebrate. The Transgender District, like so many other trans nonprofits across the country, is fighting to survive. Federal rollbacks, political attacks, and funding cuts are pushing us to the brink. Nonprofit leaders like me are navigating one of the most dangerous periods in recent history for trans people. And those dangers stem not only from constant political threats but from a simultaneous retreat in philanthropic support.
The Trump administration has swiftly acted on its promises to try to eliminate gender-affirming care and protections for trans people. The number of bills targeting LGBTQ+ people has surged from just over 100 in 2020 to more than 850 in 2025. Even before Trump took office, violent attacks against transgender and gender expansive individuals were on the rise.
At the same time, funders who once pledged to support us are either pulling back or abandoning us altogether.
When I stepped into my role as co-executive director of the Transgender District in 2023, we were still feeling the funding tailwinds of 2020 when grant makers invested with full force in Black and trans leadership following George Floyd’s murder. But I’ve been doing this work for decades, long before it was labeled DEI, and I’ve seen what happens when the political pendulum swings. I know what it feels like to lead while watching funders quietly slip away.
Foundations are using this political moment not to rise to the challenge but to disappear behind it.
An Abrupt Pause
Since President Trump took office in January, the rollback of federal DEI protections has had a chilling effect on our funding. Several Bay Area grant makers with whom we were in active conversation abruptly paused or redirected support. Some shifted funds to much needed wildfire relief in Southern California. While equally urgent, that response underscored how many foundations were deprioritizing the crisis facing trans communities.
We’ve also heard directly from longstanding funders who told us they are consolidating their giving, narrowing focus areas, or delaying grant cycles. They often blame these shifts on political risk and growing scrutiny of DEI. The result is fewer funding opportunities and mounting competition for the same limited pool of dollars. The already minuscule funding for trans groups — less than $1 out of every $500 donated in the United States goes to LGBTQ+ organizations — is now a trickle.
Trump’s executive orders ending DEI-related programs and grants, along with requirements in federal contracts, have further disrupted funding for all nonprofits, especially those serving LGBTQ+ communities. The federal actions have contributed to a broader climate of disinvestment at every level of government. In San Francisco, Mayor Daniel Lurie’s proposed fiscal year 2025–26 budget includes roughly $185 million in cuts in nonprofit grants and $100 million in contract reductions, part of efforts to close an estimated $782 million budget deficit.
Those cuts resulted in the Transgender District losing two fully awarded city grants this year. Our projected $1.4 million budget dropped to $875,000 — a staggering loss of more than 60 percent. The funding shortfall forced us to pause our Entrepreneurship Accelerator program, which had committed more than $370,000 to support some 50 trans entrepreneurs, and to discontinue our Community Advisory Council, which ensured our work stayed accountable to community members. Our small team of six is stretched to its limit, taking on multiple roles and scrambling to respond to crises with fewer resources.
Ongoing Need
In the face of these cutbacks, trans people we’ve assisted still turn to us for support. They include Avery Hines, who launched Avery’s Concept Kitchen through the Entrepreneurship Accelerator. We supported him with a grant, mentorship, business planning, and ongoing connections.
Avery told us that program staff has continued to send business opportunities his way. “They have stayed invested in my journey as a chef and entrepreneur. That kind of support is rare, especially now, when it’s harder than ever to survive as a small business owner.”
Our direct support to the trans community also continues, including helping to stabilize housing for more than 30 community members through our rent support pilot program, handing out warm meals and blankets to our unhoused neighbors, and creating spaces to combat isolation and the daily toll of discrimination. Through cultural events such as Expansive, a performance showcase of transgender and nonbinary classical artists, we’ve employed hundreds of artists, performers, and food service and production workers. And more than 400 people have accessed our clinic, which supports the process of filing for name and gender marker recognition for individuals seeking to align their legal documents with their gender identity.
As attacks on trans rights escalate nationwide, our work stretches far beyond San Francisco. We’re in active conversation with groups such as the Transgender Law Center, the University of California San Francisco’s Center of Excellence for Transgender Health, and national efforts like Proud and Free to share strategies and resources.
“The collapse of the world’s first transgender district would be part of our erasure,” says Rainbow Chatman, a former community adviser to our nonprofit. “It would be devastating for trans people across the country who are relying on us to lead.”
Rather than a funding risk, trans people are critical to building safe and supportive communities and creating long-term societal change. Thankfully, some grant makers understand that. “In a time when trans communities, especially Black trans women, are being legislated out of existence, funders must ask themselves whether their values are merely performative or deeply held,” says Sade Dumas, program director of Spark Justice Fund at Borealis Philanthropy. “If philanthropy won’t resource work like this, what exactly are we here for?”
These days, it’s hard not to be consumed with self-doubt: Am I doing enough? Am I doing it right? Am I allowed to make mistakes? Because the truth is, as a Black trans woman, I don’t get to fail. Not in the eyes of our community and our funders. Not in this political climate. Not ever.
