What it's like dating as a trans woman
Once as a freshman in college, I found myself on a third date with a guy named Matthew*. It was 2017 and we'd met on Bumble — he was a model, which set off my Power Couple radar, something I genuinely cared about back when I was just starting my own modelling journey.
At the time, I hadn't officially come out yet, and there was a thrill in not disclosing I was trans on the apps — in dating as a woman without a complicated backstory; in just living the life I believe I was intended to live. I've always had the privilege of 'passing', meaning I look like a cisgender woman, and revealing that I'm trans was something I only got into when a relationship approached physical intimacy. (I fully acknowledge this gave — and continues to give — me a general sense of safety not all trans women have.)
My first two dates with Matthew had been fun, and for our third, we hit an upscale Chinese food restaurant in NYC's chic Chelsea neighbourhood with his model colleagues. It felt glamorous to be counted among all the long limbs and symmetrical faces. Matthew was attentive and seemed proud to be with me, and as the night stretched on, the conversation turned to people's greatest fears. Face-altering acid attacks and home invasions came up. I shared that my biggest one was my own demise. Then Matthew announced to the table that his started with the letter 'T'. Shouted-out guesses included tigers, terrorism, and tsunamis. 'Worse,' he replied. 'Transgenders!'
In my mind, the entire room expeditiously shunned Matthew for his hateful views. In reality, though, what happened was... nothing. As the blood drained from my face and my heart dropped into my stomach, the rest of our table barely reacted. Some of the male models even nodded in agreement. No one said a word in defence of the community they had no idea I was a part of.
I was suddenly terrified that everyone could see right through me. And as a wave of self-doubt washed over me, a growing awareness of my own blind spots felt infuriating. How had I wound up on a third date with a transphobe? I faked an emergency and excused myself, rage-texting every trans friend I had on the way home in search of support and understanding.
Back in my dorm, I blocked Matthew's number and made the decision to put a gender marker, 'trans woman', on my dating profiles. Even if I wasn't out publicly, I would be on these apps. Two years later, in a mutually transgender, or T4T, relationship and in love for the first time, I took it a step further. Inspired by my then-boyfriend's openness, I took to my YouTube channel with a new video titled 'I'M TRANSGENDER' for my 100,000+ subscribers.
Surely, I thought, the internet would work its magic, serving this truth algorithmically to anyone I might cross paths with in the future. My work was done: I had come out and would never have to come out again. Except that's not at all what happened. As I've continued to date, I've learned that the work of coming out — and protecting yourself while doing so — is never really over. And that no matter what I do, the burden remains almost entirely my own.
Thanks in part to this hyper-charged political moment, where hateful voices are so often empowered, I've had to develop an extremely thorough screening process (deep dives on Google, full reads of social media; I will stalk you for any hint of transphobia). But even so — and even with my own gender identity completely searchable on the internet and the apps — I still find myself with dates who haven't put in anywhere near the same effort.
Once when I was out with a Disney Channel 'star' (he was actually more of a recurring extra) I met on Raya, he said something that made it obvious he had no idea I was trans. I came out to him then and there... and spent the rest of the date watching him decide if he was down for a doll.
These moments can definitely be tough or awkward, but they have also taught me to keep an open mind. I'm not offended when a date is clearly (and respectfully) navigating unexplored-for-them terrain. It can be mutually exciting and a good opportunity for growth.
I've also gotten a lot more comfortable discussing my gender. It's no longer something I worry about — it's simply part of who I am. And in a society that wants people like me to be invisible, loudly proclaiming my identity protects me while also forcing everyone else to acknowledge my existence. If a guy seems clueless, I just ask, 'Have you been with a trans woman before? Did you know that I'm one?'
Less satisfying is the realisation that there's no one thing I can do to ensure dates understand that I'm trans before we meet. (Unfortunately, many cishet men are too lazy or privileged to take the extra step of looking up a match beforehand.) And that means I need to stay vigilant. Trained by Matthew-like incidents and plenty of other horror stories, my instincts are now constantly on high alert.
Before a first date even begins, I've got an escape route planned. I arrive early to connect with restaurant staff so they know who I am and that I'm meeting a guy for dinner. When the conversation veers toward transness, I keep eye contact, locking in on their facial expressions. I'm an expert at clocking any fetish-y, fearful, or hateful vibes. If someone's lips curl down, if they cross their arms or legs, if they physically pull away, I can practically hear sirens. And then I'm out. I've done everything from going to the bathroom, calling a car, and ghosting to lying about explosive diarrhoea. Safety is everything.
Is all this ideal? Obviously, no. But I like to think by sharing my story, I'm helping others avoid the hurtful, harmful situations I've been in. Speaking of, Matthew did come around again after my public coming-out. Not with an apology or a change of heart though. He overcame his 'biggest fear' to ask me for advice on growing his social media presence. I blocked him again immediately.
*Name has been changed
For a list of resources specific to the trans community, visit the LGBT Foundation.
Ella Snyder is a model, photographer, and writer living in New York City. When she's not on set, she's in a method acting class or drafting a diaristic entry for her Substack, Esoteric It Girl.
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Once as a freshman in college, I found myself on a third date with a guy named Matthew*. It was 2017 and we'd met on Bumble — he was a model, which set off my Power Couple radar, something I genuinely cared about back when I was just starting my own modelling journey. At the time, I hadn't officially come out yet, and there was a thrill in not disclosing I was trans on the apps — in dating as a woman without a complicated backstory; in just living the life I believe I was intended to live. I've always had the privilege of 'passing', meaning I look like a cisgender woman, and revealing that I'm trans was something I only got into when a relationship approached physical intimacy. (I fully acknowledge this gave — and continues to give — me a general sense of safety not all trans women have.) My first two dates with Matthew had been fun, and for our third, we hit an upscale Chinese food restaurant in NYC's chic Chelsea neighbourhood with his model colleagues. It felt glamorous to be counted among all the long limbs and symmetrical faces. Matthew was attentive and seemed proud to be with me, and as the night stretched on, the conversation turned to people's greatest fears. Face-altering acid attacks and home invasions came up. I shared that my biggest one was my own demise. Then Matthew announced to the table that his started with the letter 'T'. Shouted-out guesses included tigers, terrorism, and tsunamis. 'Worse,' he replied. 'Transgenders!' In my mind, the entire room expeditiously shunned Matthew for his hateful views. In reality, though, what happened was... nothing. As the blood drained from my face and my heart dropped into my stomach, the rest of our table barely reacted. Some of the male models even nodded in agreement. No one said a word in defence of the community they had no idea I was a part of. I was suddenly terrified that everyone could see right through me. And as a wave of self-doubt washed over me, a growing awareness of my own blind spots felt infuriating. How had I wound up on a third date with a transphobe? I faked an emergency and excused myself, rage-texting every trans friend I had on the way home in search of support and understanding. Back in my dorm, I blocked Matthew's number and made the decision to put a gender marker, 'trans woman', on my dating profiles. Even if I wasn't out publicly, I would be on these apps. Two years later, in a mutually transgender, or T4T, relationship and in love for the first time, I took it a step further. Inspired by my then-boyfriend's openness, I took to my YouTube channel with a new video titled 'I'M TRANSGENDER' for my 100,000+ subscribers. Surely, I thought, the internet would work its magic, serving this truth algorithmically to anyone I might cross paths with in the future. My work was done: I had come out and would never have to come out again. Except that's not at all what happened. As I've continued to date, I've learned that the work of coming out — and protecting yourself while doing so — is never really over. And that no matter what I do, the burden remains almost entirely my own. Thanks in part to this hyper-charged political moment, where hateful voices are so often empowered, I've had to develop an extremely thorough screening process (deep dives on Google, full reads of social media; I will stalk you for any hint of transphobia). But even so — and even with my own gender identity completely searchable on the internet and the apps — I still find myself with dates who haven't put in anywhere near the same effort. Once when I was out with a Disney Channel 'star' (he was actually more of a recurring extra) I met on Raya, he said something that made it obvious he had no idea I was trans. I came out to him then and there... and spent the rest of the date watching him decide if he was down for a doll. These moments can definitely be tough or awkward, but they have also taught me to keep an open mind. I'm not offended when a date is clearly (and respectfully) navigating unexplored-for-them terrain. It can be mutually exciting and a good opportunity for growth. I've also gotten a lot more comfortable discussing my gender. It's no longer something I worry about — it's simply part of who I am. And in a society that wants people like me to be invisible, loudly proclaiming my identity protects me while also forcing everyone else to acknowledge my existence. If a guy seems clueless, I just ask, 'Have you been with a trans woman before? Did you know that I'm one?' Less satisfying is the realisation that there's no one thing I can do to ensure dates understand that I'm trans before we meet. (Unfortunately, many cishet men are too lazy or privileged to take the extra step of looking up a match beforehand.) And that means I need to stay vigilant. Trained by Matthew-like incidents and plenty of other horror stories, my instincts are now constantly on high alert. Before a first date even begins, I've got an escape route planned. I arrive early to connect with restaurant staff so they know who I am and that I'm meeting a guy for dinner. When the conversation veers toward transness, I keep eye contact, locking in on their facial expressions. I'm an expert at clocking any fetish-y, fearful, or hateful vibes. If someone's lips curl down, if they cross their arms or legs, if they physically pull away, I can practically hear sirens. And then I'm out. I've done everything from going to the bathroom, calling a car, and ghosting to lying about explosive diarrhoea. Safety is everything. Is all this ideal? Obviously, no. But I like to think by sharing my story, I'm helping others avoid the hurtful, harmful situations I've been in. Speaking of, Matthew did come around again after my public coming-out. Not with an apology or a change of heart though. He overcame his 'biggest fear' to ask me for advice on growing his social media presence. I blocked him again immediately. *Name has been changed For a list of resources specific to the trans community, visit the LGBT Foundation. Ella Snyder is a model, photographer, and writer living in New York City. When she's not on set, she's in a method acting class or drafting a diaristic entry for her Substack, Esoteric It Girl.
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