Living on the Northern Line seemed like a great idea when a group of female friends and I were choosing our first place to live post-graduation.
After a small jaunt through the local park, we would emerge right at the end of one of the capital’s longest underground lines.
For the first time, London was at my doorstep – but that excitement was swiftly replaced with fear.
So much so, that I stopped going to work as I was so scared of the commute.
At the time, my gender expression was deeply inspired by the power of the ‘80s and the confidence that androgyny provided me with. But being confined to a small Tube carriage often became an oppressive experience – especially when I was in proximity of anyone who didn’t agree with the way that I looked.
People would stare, point, or whisper – even taking photos without my consent. This became a daily occurrence. Every morning and evening when I’d travel I braced myself, not only for the rush hour queues but for my safety and privacy to be invaded.
Soon, if it was dark or getting late, I’d avoid getting the Tube altogether after being verbally assaulted and followed.
When it had happened, there’d usually be a scattering of people on board, but they either kept their heads down or were asleep. This seemed to just be the way things were.
No one would look up, or check to see if I was doing OK. Headphones firmly in, it became commonplace to be ignored.
Even during the peak of rush hour the seats either side of me would be empty as people would not want to be associated with the visibly queer person on board.
It made me feel invisible and hyper-visible all at the same time. It was dehumanising, and yet, before too long, it didn’t feel abnormal. Though it didn’t get any less terrifying.
As a non-binary person, the public discourse around ‘what it meant’ to be non-binary had manufactured a societal atmosphere where strangers felt it fair game to poke and prod at me to work out what I was.
Their curiosity was no longer just something they would keep to themselves, and I realised that public transport gave them a chance to unashamedly do just that.
Over time it took its toll, and I began to stop going out. I didn’t leave the house, and if I did, I didn’t get public transport. This meant I turned down work that required me to travel and social plans with friends too.
As such, my mental health suffered and my friends noticed a difference in me. I didn’t want to put them through the second-hand embarrassment of being witness to the street harassment I encountered.
On the rare occasions I did brave it, I would drink to feel ‘confident’ enough to face people who would be abusive. It then became a self-destructive cycle I needed help to get out of.
After seeing several trans and non-binary people create GoFundMe pages to help with private transport, I decided to give it a go. I shared it across social media, and the support I received was amazing.
People would donate to help me afford taxis, which in turn offered me a newfound freedom. I was able to let go of fear for the first time in a long while when travelling and I felt safe re-emerging into the world.
I finally felt like there was a way to avoid street harassment that didn’t result in me shrinking into a version of myself that was inauthentic.
This only lasted a few months, and believe me, not everyone was so kind.
Anti-trans figures started tearing me down, saying it was narcissistic and fraudulent.
So, when I heard about the recently reported 20% rise in hate crime across public transport towards women and girls since 2023, my heart sank.
I know the fear and pain that these women would be feeling while just wanting to get from A to B – it’s something no one should ever have to encounter.
I also spared a thought for the trans and gender non-conforming folk who make up the numbers of people scared to use the bus or Tube, too.
According to research, one in five LGBTQIA+ people also shared that they feel threatened when using public transport in London. And, nearly four in five feel that it’s dangerous for them to look or act visibly LGBTQIA+.
It reminded me of how interconnected our desire for freedom from male violence is, and that we must look out for each other now more than ever if we are to feel safe just living our lives.
Not long after I had gratefully been using private transport, the Covid 19 pandemic hit. Suddenly everybody was fearful of public transport and the experience away from any public interaction was a chance to reset.
When returning to the world, I felt nervous to see how I would feel jumping on the underground, but over lockdown I had grown into myself in a way that I hadn’t before.
My gender expression had changed, becoming less femme and more masculine. I felt confidence in myself that I hadn’t seen before, so re-emerging as a different version of myself meant I felt like I could make a fresh start.
I felt stronger walking onto the train carriage, not because I was no longer eye-catching, but because I had used lockdown as a chance to really learn who I was, and how I wanted to share that with the world.
But it doesn’t mean I have forgotten how I felt.
Recently, I saw a woman sitting alone, with a group of football fans diagonally opposite on the train. It was late, so I knew that this would be peak time for fear. So I sat opposite the woman, and took one earphone out to keep my wits about me and to make sure she wasn’t a target for abuse.
I wanted to be present in that space to make sure that I could provide allyship if she needed it, like I wished people did for me.
Whether it be striking up a conversation with the vulnerable passenger, or noting what stop you’re at and getting off with them to see if they want to report the incident to staff – these small moments can make all the difference.
We need to be looking out for each other no matter where we’re travelling – in life or just on our shared train journey – because allyship should be something that becomes second nature to us all.
Despite our differences, our agitators are often the same.
Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing [email protected].
Share your views in the comments below.
MORE : Lennie James: ‘Mr Loverman would be pointless without those intimate scenes’
MORE : I registered my babies’ deaths while sat next to joyful new mums
MORE : My friend Earl Cameron broke the British colour bar in TV and film
Sign up to our guide to what’s on in London, trusted reviews, brilliant offers and competitions. London’s best bits in your inbox
This site is protected by reCAPTCHA and the Google Privacy Policy and Terms of Service apply.