A post for IDAHOBIT day
My name is Kai, I’m 25, a trans man, and someone who grew up in residential care. I recently finished my Social Care degree, and I’m part of the EPIC Youth Council, working with other care-experienced young people to create change. And today, I want to talk about why the Rainbow Badge is something that might seem like a small drop in the ocean, but is something that can make a meaningful difference in these uncertain times. While it may not cure the world of queer-phobia, or erase all the barriers and difficulties queer people face, just like Tesco says, ‘Every little helps.
But let me take a step back.
As a young teenager, I was taken into residential care for my safety and well-being. If you don’t know, residential care is a staffed care home with 24/7 social care workers. In Ireland, we have more children in care than we do foster carers, and foster care isn’t always available or suitable. Growing up in residential care, your life quickly becomes highly structured and professional. In a lot of ways, your childhood is taken up by trying to survive, heal and recover from the trauma, as well as trying to find your feet in this new world of being constantly surrounded by professionals rather than the usual, normal homely feeling. You quickly learn a lot about systems – especially what happens when they don’t work. You learn to read between the lines. You become hyper-aware of whether someone is safe, whether someone sees you, and whether you matter in that room.
I had good experiences with professionals and bad ones, as can only be expected. The good helped shape me into the person I am today, the values I hold, and my passion to follow in the same caring footsteps. But the bad shaped me too. Even today, if I’m put in front of any professional, I immediately shrink in on myself, feeling as small as the day I was born, and with feelings of uncertainty as big as if you plopped an exam on quantum physics in front of me. Always feeling a power imbalance that makes me feel like little scared Kai again.
In care, I didn’t face the same self-discovery path as my peers. While they were off experimenting, trying different styles, and slowly getting some sense of who they were, I was attending “child in care reviews”, hospital appointments, trying to survive and making statements to the Gardaí. I always knew something didn’t feel quite right in myself, but I never had the time to explore it or find the words to make it make sense.
When I did eventually come out as liking girls, it felt like a step in the right direction. I sat huddled under my duvet covers, Nintendo DS in hand, as I scribbled the words ‘I’m gay’ down, shoved it into the hands of my keyworker and hid again. I was so grateful when I got a good reaction – terrified, but delighted.
One of the hardest things about coming out in care, though, was that you have no privacy. You don’t just tell the person you trust and keep it between you two until you’re ready. It’s handed over at every staff meeting, to every counsellor and every social worker. There are no secrets in care, regardless of how innocent or harmless they may be.
Me being gay was thankfully widely accepted across the team – if they cared, I didn’t know about it. I was signed up for an LGBTQI+ youth group in the town, made friends, and even my first girlfriend. The more comfortable I got with sexuality, the more comfortable I got with wanting to express my gender identity. I had felt supported by the staff team as ‘Gay’, and thought I’d be safe expressing myself truly – it’s something I’d spoken a lot about to my friends, but I never said a word to staff, never hinted, just one day tried to pick up a simple men’s hoodie in the shop. Apparently, that was drawing the line of what was accepted, and I remember feeling such shame in the shop as I was quickly reminded where the women’s section was, followed by an awkward conversation.
That one conversation was enough to shame me away from trying to come out again for years, even when I moved to a much more accepting residential home. I tried to force myself to be okay with just being a girl who liked girls, but it never felt right.
I remember being around 17, sitting in front of a GP who was supposed to help me with some mental health stuff. The uncomfortable conversation about whether I was sexually active or not made its usual appearance, and whether I needed a pregnancy test or not. By now, I was fully comfortable in the fact I liked women, and trusted that professionals, particularly healthcare professionals, had seen it all, and whether they had some prejudice or not – they’d accept me to my face at least. I was wrong. A simple ‘no I don’t need a pregnancy test’ turned into question after question and a whole conversation where she told me ‘You’re only young, you’re definitely not a lesbian, it’s only a phase’. I remember the hurt I felt at the moment, as if all the work I had put into myself could just vanish through one professional’s opinion. Looking back, I do laugh about it with my friends. She was right, just not in the way she expected – I’m not a lesbian, I’m a straight man.
Fast forward to today. I’m out. I’m trans. I’m proud. But even now, I walk into clinics or hospitals and feel a familiar tension rise in my chest. Because visibility doesn’t always equal safety. And acceptance doesn’t always feel real. When I did eventually come out as Trans, I knew she wasn’t a doctor I was going to be able to trust. I knew she’d tell me it was all in my head. I was already living in a different county and had only been seeing her out of familiarity. But, I decided now I had to change GPs to try to find someone closer to me, but more importantly, someone who would accept me.
We all know the difficulty of finding an available GP these days – and for me, it wasn’t just a case of finding someone close and available. It meant HOURS of searching through the internet, and days of asking strangers in Trans Reddit Groups of their experiences to try to find a doctor who would accept me. When I googled one of the main suggestions, their website had a whole page dedicated to their LGBTQI+ policies and promises. I was so uncertain and so scared of reaching out to a healthcare professional as a trans person for the first time. When I eventually rang to make an appointment, I took every question as a trick question. When the receptionist asked my name, I burst into a long anxiety-driven explanation of how I was trans and had changed my name, but was waiting for my medical card to be updated, and I wasn’t sure what answer I was supposed to give. GP receptionists have always been a force to be reckoned with, and I remember the shock as her gruff, annoyed voice came through the phone with the kind question, ‘Well, who are you? I don’t care who you were, all that matters to us is who you are now’.
At my first appointment, the doctor called my name, and I awkwardly walked into her office, wondering whether she was going to live up to her name as trans friendly or not. I have to say – I didn’t know what trans-friendly care should look like at the time, but even so, she exceeded my expectations. I walked out of the appointment, feeling relieved, and had my referral to the National Gender Service sent without question. Since then, I feel safe in that service; whoever I’ve met there has treated me with respect and seen me as a man. Even when I have a dysphoric-inducing reason to be there, I am treated with as much care and respect as possible, and asked if there is anything that will help my dysphoria during the examination.
Walking down the street, I’m the most confident guy. Not a trans guy, not a trans person, just a lad out with his mates. At home, I’m the same. I’m just me; I don’t have to question how I’m presenting, whether my hoodie is too tight, or whether my binder is doing a good enough job. I get to soak in the fact that whatever I’m doing, I’m doing it as a lad.
That is to say, I’m comfortable with my identity, of course, I still get riddled with dysphoria and have a million to one things I want to change, but on the simple days, I get to be me – an awkward lil guy. But some days, I have to go somewhere new. I have to present at A&E or walk down a busy street alone, and during those times, my mind is a rollercoaster of thoughts. Am I standing too straight? Am I smiling too much? Should I be sitting like this (yes, all things that people told me I needed to “fix” if I wanted to be a guy)? With my friends, I know who I am and how they see me. I know that I’m accepted. But every new encounter brings me back to second-guessing everything I do, every way I act, ESPECIALLY in the current culture of the world.
When I walk into a healthcare setting, I should feel safe. I should feel comfortable. I should feel accepted. These are professionals – we’re told they got into this line of work because they care. Their sole concern is supposed to be helping me. They’re not supposed to judge me, right? I’m supposed to be safe.
But that’s not always the case.
I’ve been in situations where professionals have said the absolute wrong thing – like they had memorised a manual on how not to speak to a trans person and decided to recite it word for word. I’ve been told I’m purposely misleading, or that I’m clearly lying about my sexuality, to be awkward just because I say I’m straight and I like girls.
I’ve stayed quiet about health concerns that were genuinely affecting me because I knew that once my trans identity came into the conversation, everything else – my symptoms, my pain, my needs – would fade into the background. I wouldn’t be seen as a patient anymore. I’d be seen as a problem to figure out, or worse, something to debate. Too many times, I’ve seen healthcare professionals for one thing, but my gender identity became the subject of the conversation instead. No, I don’t have stomach issues because I tell people I’m a guy, and no, my depression won’t be magically cured if I listen to you talk in depth about why my identity makes you uncomfortable in treating me. Believe it or not, other than the fact I’m trans, underneath that, I’m made up of all the same things as your other patients.
When I identified as a Cis gay woman, things were still difficult and uncomfortable, but I could hide that side of myself a little bit to ensure an appointment for a broken bone didn’t turn into an inappropriate, judgmental and unneeded conversation about my sexuality. I should never have had to hide my sexuality, but I could. My gender identity isn’t something I can hide, nor do I want to. But more times than I can count, interactions with healthcare professionals have left me feeling uncomfortable attending. I’ve let problems go unseen for too long, suffered with pain in silence, all because I don’t want an appointment for a completely separate physical issue to turn into me leaving and feeling judged over my identity.
This isn’t just uncomfortable – it’s unsafe. And until healthcare settings truly reflect the values they claim to stand for – compassion, dignity, and respect – trans people like me will keep walking in with our guards up, hoping for care, but preparing for harm.
That’s why the Rainbow Badge matters to me.
It’s not just a colourful accessory. It’s a signal. A message. A quiet but powerful reminder that this person might be someone I can trust. Someone who might understand the barriers LGBTQI+ people face in accessing healthcare. That maybe, just maybe, I won’t have to explain every part of my existence from scratch. That I won’t be met with judgment, or confusion, or worse – dismissal.
It’s not magic. It doesn’t fix everything. But it opens a door.
Because when you’re LGBTQI+—and especially when you’re trans—those doors often feel locked. Sometimes barricaded.
So, the good. Let’s talk about it.
First: Visibility matters. In a system that has historically excluded or harmed queer people, even being seen is radical. That tiny rainbow tells me, “I see you. You exist. You belong here.”
Second: It invites conversation. For a young person questioning their identity, the presence of a Rainbow Badge can make it easier to ask questions, to talk about feelings they’ve never said out loud. It says, “This is a safe place to explore.”
Third: It builds trust. And in healthcare, trust is everything. If I don’t trust you, I won’t tell you the whole story. I’ll leave out the parts that matter. And when I do that, I don’t get the care I need.
And fourth: It signals accountability. When someone wears the badge, they’re making a quiet promise. They’re saying, “I’ve thought about this. I’m choosing to be someone safe for LGBTQI+ people.” That matters – even if they’re still learning. People make mistakes sometimes; they say the wrong thing or accidentally misgender you. I think it’s important to admit that that’s just part of being human. We make mistakes, we mess up, but as long as your intentions remain in the right place, mistakes are allowed. It’s how we learn. I’ve had many people tell me their worries about working with trans people because they don’t want to mess up and insult them. I’ll tell you one thing – I’d much rather have a professional willing to work with me, willing to learn, and willing to accept me even if they make a small mistake now and then, than a professional who avoids me due to fear. Trans people are not to be feared, we’re just humans, and we make mistakes just like you – we get it. Your intent is what matters, not your ability to never make a mistake.
But – and here’s where things get complicated – visibility isn’t the same as safety. And symbols without substance? They can backfire.
So let’s talk about the harder stuff now.
Because as much as the Rainbow Badge can help, it can also hurt when it’s worn without meaning.
When a healthcare professional wears the badge but then continues to misgender me without even trying to correct themselves, or ignores what I say about my body, or makes me feel like I’m the problem for existing – that’s not just disappointing. It’s betrayal.
The badge becomes a broken promise.
I’ve heard stories – and lived them – of patients opening up because they saw LGBTQI+ symbols, badges or lanyards, only to be shut down, disrespected, or actively harmed. And that hurts even more than if the badge wasn’t there at all.
Because if someone doesn’t wear a badge, I know what to expect. But if they do – and they still let me down – it hits deeper. It says, “You claimed to be safe. You weren’t.”
And here’s the other thing. Sometimes the badge becomes a tick-the-box exercise. A PR stunt. A way for organisations to say, “Look, we’re inclusive!” without actually changing anything. Without updating policies. Without training staff. Without listening to queer voices.
That’s not allyship. That’s performance.
And performance doesn’t save lives. But real allyship does. So what do we do with this?
We don’t throw the badge out. We continue to honour what it’s meant* to be. We turn the badge from a symbol into a starting point.
Because if you’re going to wear it, wear it with intention. Wear it with the commitment to learn, to listen, and to keep showing up for LGBTQI+ people, even when it’s hard, even when you make mistakes.
If you’re a healthcare professional and you wear the badge, thank you. But ask yourself: Have I kept up with training in LGBTQI+ healthcare? Do I know how to talk about pronouns? Do I understand how trauma might show up in queer and trans patients, especially those from care backgrounds? If the answer is no, then it’s time to learn.
If you’re a manager or policymaker – ask yourself: Is our service actually inclusive? Are our forms, our spaces, our teams designed with LGBTQI+ people in mind? Do we reflect on how power and privilege show up in our care?
And if you’re someone who’s worn the badge, gotten it wrong, and felt defensive – take a breath. Learn. Apologise. Keep going.
Because the badge isn’t about perfection. It’s about presence.
It’s about standing up and saying, “You matter here. I may not get everything right, but I’m trying. And I’m not going anywhere.”
For me, growing up in care meant a constant search for people who meant what they said. For people whose actions matched their words. And in healthcare, it’s no different.
So if you wear the Rainbow Badge, mean it. Back it up.
Because for someone like me, and for so many others, it’s not just a badge. It’s a sign of hope. It’s a moment where the system softens – just enough – for us to step through the door.
And when that happens, healing can begin. Not just physical healing – but the healing that comes from being seen, heard, and held.
That’s what Pride is about, isn’t it? Not just visibility, but *dignity.*
Not just celebration, but *connection.*
Not just acceptance, but *action.*
So thank you to those who wear the badge with love. And to those who are learning to live up to it – keep going.
Because even in the hardest moments, in the darkest rooms, a little rainbow can still light the way.
