Transgender Day of Remembrance 2025: Honouring Lives, Fighting Back, Building Futures
Transgender Day of Remembrance (TDOR) began in the United States back in 1999, created by activist Gwendolyn Ann Smith to honour Rita Hester, a Black trans woman whose life, energy, community, and legacy deserved far more than the silence and misgendering that followed her death. What started as a local vigil has grown into a global day of honouring: a moment when trans people and our allies pause, speak names with care, and remember that our communities are built on far more than tragedy.
In 2025, TDOR arrives in a world still battling waves of anti-trans rhetoric from the U.S. to Europe, from the Pacific to Africa and Latin America. And yes, the violence is real. The politics are hostile. The misrepresentation is exhausting. But TDOR isn’t a day designed to retraumatise us. It’s a day to honour lives lived, not only lost.
It’s a reminder that trans people exist everywhere, love everywhere, create everywhere, and continue to build futures even in places determined to misunderstand us. It’s a day of collective memory, but also collective strength, a day that holds grief and joy in the same breath, the same way trans people do every day.
TDOR calls us to remember, but it also calls us to celebrate every act of trans survival, brilliance, resistance, and tenderness that continues despite the noise. In a world determined to flatten us into statistics or political talking points, choosing to honour trans life past, present, and future is powerful. It’s grounding. It’s hopeful without pretending everything is fine.
It says: We remember, and we continue.
What Transgender Day of Remembrance Commemorates
Transgender Day of Remembrance (TDOR) exists because the world still struggles to recognise the full humanity of trans people, especially trans women, nonbinary people, and trans people of colour. But TDOR isn’t only about the violence that takes lives. It’s about the people themselves: their stories, their communities, their joy, their creative legacies, the relationships they nurtured, and the futures they deserved to see.
Every year, community-led organisations across the world collect the names of trans people who have been killed or who have died in circumstances shaped by transphobia, stigma, or systemic neglect. These lists are never complete. Many countries don’t track anti-trans violence. Many media outlets still misgender victims. Some families hide or are pressured to hide a person’s identity entirely. In some regions, being openly trans is still criminalised, meaning lives are erased before anyone even knows they existed.
So TDOR is not just a memorial; it’s an act of restoration.
It says: This person lived. They mattered. They had a name and a story. They were loved.
And it insists on putting that truth back into the world.
This is why the day resonates globally, not just in the United States where it began. Whether you’re in Aotearoa New Zealand, Brazil, the UK, South Africa, Thailand, or anywhere else trans communities refuse to be silenced, TDOR becomes a moment of collective clarity. It draws attention to the patterns of the social, political, and economic structures that make some communities more vulnerable than others, without reducing people to those circumstances.
At its core, TDOR commemorates three things:
1. Lives Lived With Purpose and Joy: Trans people aren’t tragedies. They’re whole, vibrant, complicated humans who deserve safety and celebration.
2. The Ongoing Work for Justice and Safety: Recognising the systemic nature of violence helps us push for change without letting fear define us.
3. The Strength of Trans Communities Worldwide: Every vigil, mural, gathering, or whispered name keeps community memory alive. It’s an affirmation of who we are, not what was done to us.
TDOR is about honouring the dead, yes.
But just as importantly, it’s about protecting and uplifting the living.
Media, Misgendering, and Why Names Matter
One of the most painful threads running through trans remembrance isn’t just the violence itself, it’s the way many trans people are spoken about after they’re gone. Across the world, victims are still misgendered by police, by journalists, and sometimes even by their own families. It’s not a minor detail. It’s not a “clerical issue.” It’s a final erasure at a moment when dignity is needed most.
Misgendering strips a person of their identity in the exact moment they should be honoured.
It rewrites who they were.
It reinforces the idea that trans lives only become legible on someone else’s terms.
This is why community-led remembrance is so essential. When trans groups, activists, and local organisers speak a person’s actual name, they’re not just correcting a record; they’re restoring someone’s humanity. They’re saying: We see you. We knew you. And we refuse to let the world bury who you really were.
In many countries, especially across Latin America, Asia, and parts of Africa, reporting systems don’t recognise trans identities at all. Even in places with legal recognition, public institutions still resort to outdated or discriminatory practices. As a result, the public record ends up colder, flatter, and less accurate than the records of the communities that actually knew the person.
Names matter because identity matters.
Names matter because history matters.
Names matter because remembrance is hollow if it’s not truthful.
TDOR reinforces this every year: we honour people for who they are, not for how the world misrepresented them. And in doing so, we push back against a long, institutional tradition of erasure one name at a time.
This Year’s Themes for Transgender Day of Remembrance: Grief, Anger, and Collective Memory
Every TDOR carries its own emotional weather, and 2025 is no different. The world feels noisy. Anti-trans rhetoric is swirling at full volume. Policies are tightening in some countries and loosening in others. And trans communities, as always, are navigating all of it while still loving, creating, organising, and thriving.
TDOR sits right at that intersection: the reality we face, and the world we’re still building anyway.
Grief That Doesn’t Consume Us
TDOR can be heavy, but it doesn’t have to be crushing. The grief held on this day is real, but it’s also shared. Nobody has to sit with it alone. Something is grounding about remembering together, speaking names together, and lighting candles together. It turns grief into something communal, something held, something honoured.
This isn’t grief that swallows us.
It’s grief that strengthens our commitment to each other.
Anger That Protects, Not Destroys
Anger gets a bad reputation, but honestly? Anger can be deeply clarifying. Every year, TDOR reminds us that our communities deserve better than violence, indifference, and political scapegoating. Feeling angry about that isn’t a moral failure; it’s a sign of care.
This isn’t rage that lashes out.
It’s anger that insists: We deserve to live. We deserve joy. We deserve futures.
Anger becomes a boundary, not a burden.
Collective Memory as Resistance
Trans communities have always had to build our own archives, our own histories, our own networks of remembrance. That’s part of why TDOR is so powerful: it’s not state-sanctioned, it’s community-rooted. It exists because trans people said, “No one else is going to hold our stories with the respect they deserve, so we’ll do it.”
Whether it’s a global vigil, a quiet moment at home, a piece of art, a poem, a playlist, or a community gathering, TDOR is a reminder that memory is a living thing. It’s carried by people who refuse to let trans lives vanish into silence.
And in a world where some governments are actively trying to erase us from policy, law, and public life, collective memory becomes its own form of resistance, gentle, steady, and stubborn.
Global Context: What Transgender Day of Remembrance Looks Like Around the World
Although Transgender Day of Remembrance started in the United States, it resonates far beyond its original context. Trans communities exist everywhere in cities, villages, islands, refugee camps, diaspora networks, and digital spaces, and TDOR has become a moment where those communities pause in sync, even if we’re continents apart.
What TDOR looks like varies wildly depending on where you are, but a few patterns emerge across the globe:
The United States: The U.S. might be where TDOR began, but in 2025, it exists in a political environment that tries to make trans lives a culture war trophy. Yet even in that chaos, trans communities continue to organise vigils, build mutual-aid networks, and push back in courts, schools, and local governments. TDOR becomes both a memorial and a catalyst for ongoing resistance.
Latin America: Countries across Latin America often report some of the highest levels of anti-trans violence, not because trans people are more visible targets, but because trans communities are more active in documenting and speaking up. TDOR events there often blend remembrance with vibrant community organising, cultural performances, and political demands.
Europe: Europe is a patchwork. Some countries have strong protections; others are using “gender ideology” as a political distraction. The UK’s moral panic continues to export bad-faith narratives abroad. Even so, community-led vigils and cross-border networks have grown stronger, offering support despite increasingly polarised politics.
Africa: Trans experiences across the continent are shaped less by singular narratives than by local histories, legal realities, and community structures. Even in regions with criminalisation or social stigma, trans people still find ways to honour each other sometimes privately, sometimes through digital spaces, sometimes within broader LGBTQ+ organising.
Asia: From South Asia’s long-established hijra/kinnar/waria communities to East and Southeast Asia’s expansive queer cultures, trans remembrance takes many forms. In places with limited legal recognition, TDOR becomes a rare public moment to affirm identity and community. In others, it’s quiet.
Oceania & the Pacific: In Aotearoa New Zealand, Australia, and across Pacific nations, TDOR often incorporates Indigenous understandings of gender and community. Visibility varies; some places hold public vigils, others weave remembrance into broader cultural frameworks or queer community gatherings.
Across all these contexts, one thing holds: Trans people honour each other because we always have.
TDOR isn’t about importing a U.S. narrative worldwide; it’s about recognising that every community, everywhere, has its own histories, its own joys, and its own losses. And those deserve space, respect, and remembrance.
What Solidarity Actually Looks Like (Beyond Rainbow Logos)
Every November, much like Pride Month or LGBTQ+ History Month, big institutions dust off a template statement about “standing with the LGBTQ+ community.” And look, words matter. But solidarity is a verb, not a social media asset.
TDOR reminds us that showing up for trans people isn’t complicated, but it does require intention.
Here’s what genuine, no-bullshit solidarity looks like in 2025:
Show Up for the Trans People in Your Life
This is the most straightforward and most powerful place to start.
Solidarity isn’t theoretical, it’s personal.
It looks like:
using someone’s name and pronouns without hesitation
checking in before big political moments, not after
asking what support looks like instead of guessing
celebrating milestones, creativity, joy, and everyday life, not just stepping in during a crisis
Solidarity is built in ordinary moments, not just the dramatic ones.
Support Trans Organisations & Mutual Aid
Money isn’t everything, but access to resources literally changes outcomes.
Support can look like:
donating to local trans-led organisations
contributing to community mutual-aid funds
buying from trans creators, businesses, and artists
funding legal defence or healthcare support when possible
If you can’t give money, amplify the groups that can.
Speak Up When It Counts
Silence is easy. Solidarity isn’t.
This means:
calling out transphobia in group chats, workplaces, classrooms, and whānau settings
correcting misgendering without making it a dramatic performance
refusing to let misinformation slide just to “keep the peace”
showing you understand the difference between being an ally and being a spokesperson
Speaking up doesn’t require perfection. It requires courage.
Push for Structural Change
Individual kindness matters. But structural change keeps people safer in the long term.
Solidarity can look like:
advocating for inclusive school policies
supporting gender-affirming healthcare access
voting for candidates who don’t turn trans lives into political entertainment
challenging media outlets when they misrepresent trans issues
supporting housing, income, and healthcare reforms that disproportionately affect trans people
The goal isn’t to be the loudest voice; it’s to make the environment less hostile for everyone.
Make Space, Don’t Take Space
Cis allies: this one’s especially for you.
Solidarity means:
amplifying trans voices instead of speaking over them
stepping back from the centre when the moment isn’t about you
taking feedback without falling apart
understanding that allyship is ongoing, not a badge
You don’t need a spotlight to be useful.
In fact, most of the real work happens offstage.
If You’re Trans: Ways to Protect Your Peace Today
TDOR can feel heavy even when you’re trying your best to stay grounded. It’s a day that asks a lot of us emotionally to grieve, to honour, to reflect, to organise. But you’re not obligated to carry the entire weight of the world to prove your commitment to the community. You are part of the community. Your well-being matters too.
Here are ways to move through the day without burning out:
1. You Don’t Have to Consume Every Story
You’re allowed to step back from the constant stream of news, memorial posts, and political commentary. Not looking is not indifference; it’s self-preservation.
Curate your feed. Close the apps. Dip in and out when you choose.
2. Build Your Own Rituals
Remembrance doesn’t have to be a public vigil. It can be:
lighting a candle
playing a favourite song
journaling
drawing, meditating, praying, cooking
spending time with someone who makes you feel safe
Small rituals count. Private rituals count. Queer rituals, chaotic rituals, quiet rituals, all valid.
3. Spend Time With Your People
Whether that’s friends, partners, chosen family, or even just one person who understands you, company can make the day feel less sharp. Laughing, eating together, sitting in silence, watching trash TV… all of it is part of survival culture.
4. Let Yourself Feel, But Set Limits
You’re allowed to feel sad, angry, numb, overwhelmed, hopeful, whatever comes up is legitimate.
Just remember, you don’t have to live in those feelings all day.
Acknowledge them, breathe, and step back when it’s time.
5. Reconnect With What You Love About Being Trans
Yes, TDOR is a day of remembrance. But it’s also a reminder of trans joy, trans brilliance, and the outrageous, beautiful creativity our communities bring into the world.
Take a moment to remember:
the joy of chosen names
the friendships you’ve built
the artistry and humour in queer spaces
the moments you’ve felt most yourself
TDOR honours lives, not the violence that took them.
6. Ask for Support if You Need It
No shame, no guilt. Reach out to someone you trust. Let them know you’re having a moment.
Community care exists for a reason: you’re not supposed to do all of this alone.
Ways to Participate in Transgender Day of Remembrance
There’s no single “correct” way to honour Transgender Day of Remembrance. Some people attend vigils. Some stay home. Some create art, organise, or breathe a little deeper. TDOR is about remembrance, yes, but also connection, intention, and keeping the flame of the trans community lit in whatever way feels right for you.
Here are ways to participate that honour dignity, celebrate life, and keep things grounded:
1. Join a Vigil — In Person or Online
If you have the emotional bandwidth, a vigil can be powerful. Not because it’s sad, but because it’s collective. People gather, speak names, hold candles, and remind each other that trans lives matter beyond headlines and hashtags.
Online vigils count. Streaming counts. Parallel private rituals count.
2. Support Trans-Led Organisations
Donations (big or small) help sustain the people doing the most complex community work:
housing support
healthcare advocacy
crisis response
legal aid
cultural and youth programmes
If donating isn’t possible, amplify them. Visibility also moves resources.
3. Create Something in Honour
Art, writing, music, photography, a poem, a blog post, a zine, a TikTok, whatever your medium, creation is remembrance.
Trans creativity is resistance in motion.
4. Spend the Day with Other Trans People
Cook dinner together. Go for a walk. Sit in the same room and scroll.
Sometimes the most meaningful observance is not being alone.
5. Learn About Trans Histories
TDOR is a perfect moment to reconnect with our histories:
Sylvia Rivera & Marsha P Johnson
indigenous gender-diverse identities around the world
nameless community heroes who shaped the spaces we stand in
Learning is a form of honouring.
6. Light a Candle or Hold a Private Moment
Your participation doesn’t have to be public to be real.
Take a moment, a candle, a breath, a name in your heart and let it be enough.
7. Reach Out to Someone Who Might Be Struggling
Not with heavy, “Are you coping?” vibes, but gently:
“Thinking of you today.”
“Want to hang later?”
“Sending love.”
Connection doesn’t have to be dramatic to be meaningful.
8. Push for Change in Your Local Environment
If you have the capacity:
ask your workplace about its gender inclusion policies
challenge harmful narratives in your community
volunteer time
help someone navigate healthcare or documentation
Micro-level activism adds up.
9. Celebrate Trans Life Loudly or Quietly
Watch a film made by a trans creator.
Read a book by a trans author.
Enjoy the humour, art, culture, and brilliance in our communities.
Joy is part of remembrance. Always.
Final Reflection: Carrying the Work Forward Everyday
Transgender Day of Remembrance is one day on the calendar, but the work, the care, the joy, the resistance, the celebration continue long after the candles burn out. TDOR reminds us to honour those who are gone, but it also reminds us to protect the living, nurture community, and build futures where remembrance isn’t needed in the same way.
Every year, trans communities keep choosing each other.
We keep creating culture, families, lifelines, art, language, and space.
We keep showing up not just in grief, but in brilliance.
TDOR isn’t a static memorial.
It’s a promise: that our lives, our stories, and our futures matter.
That remembrance and resistance can coexist with joy.
That we can hold grief in one hand and possibility in the other.
We honour the dead by fighting for the living, including ourselves.
And as long as trans people continue to love, create, connect, imagine, and exist loudly in a world that keeps underestimating us, the legacy of those we remember is carried forward in every new act of trans life.
If this piece resonated with you, here’s how you can take the next step:
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