03-06-2025
Dating as a Trans Person with Agoraphobic Anxiety Is Even Harder Than It Sounds
Welcome to "Ella and the City"—a new column by Ella Snyder about what it's like to date as a trans person in New York City today.
I was in seventh grade the first time I felt anxiety. It was 2011—my first year being Ella. I was going to a new school, with a new name, new pronouns, and a new wardrobe, and it was both exciting and terrifying at the same time. I would break down hysterically with nausea on the morning drives to school, my transition resulting in bullying that still haunts me to this day—getting my phone stolen from my locker during gym class, receiving online death threats from neighborhood boys. My morning stomach aches grew to last full days, and while my anxiety eventually got better, it still affects me 14 years later.
I'm currently 26 years old, single, and on multiple occasions over the last year, I've been too anxious to leave my apartment, let alone date. In a world where the trans community's right to exist is constantly under attack, I've become too nervous to make eye contact with people, much less hold a conversation or even attempt to flirt.
The aftermath of the pandemic, followed by the re-election of Donald Trump in 2024, re-instilled my old fears and stripped me of my confidence. Turns out, constantly seeing your community as the target of hateful rhetoric will do that to you. This time, my anxiety took the form of agoraphobia. Sometimes for weeks, every attempt to leave my apartment brings on debilitating panic attacks. Whenever my anxiety gets too severe, I can't get groceries or take walks. I can't handle my basic needs without having a 'safe person' around—a parent, friend, or roommate. I spend days on end feeling exhausted and defeated, growing frustrated by my increased reliance on those around me, trying anything to get back to feeling 'normal.'
With the guidance of my therapist, the perfect cocktail of prescription meds, and continued exposure therapy (growing from neighborhood walks to solo excursions on the bus, and increasing the challenge every outing), I've learned how to return to a functional state after any new episode. I'm now at the point where I can leave my house again, go to work, tolerate discomfort, socialize, and get through my days on my own, without debilitating anxiety. Despite my ability to cope and move on from these episodes, my dating life has truly taken a hit.
The whole thing has become progressively more daunting. Being told that I'm not a woman, or that my body is their choice, or that there are only 'two genders' hasn't exactly been driving my desire to meet guys. It's exhausting swiping through an endless sea of incompatible, MAGA merch-wearing randos and Andrew Tate stans on dating apps. Not knowing how someone is going to react to my history given today's political climate has made an already-scary process even scarier. For a while, I felt like I just couldn't do it.
At the height of my reignited anxiety, I'd ask myself how I was supposed to find true love or make it to a first date when I couldn't even walk out the door. I'd also judge myself for wanting to be wanted, while being a version of myself who 'wasn't ready' for it. Then again, the added layer of constantly doing the work to spot red flags and fend for my safety, scouring the internet for info on every match to avoid being hate-crimed, definitely didn't help. It led me to wonder if, subconsciously, I didn't actually plan on meeting anyone IRL, instead mindlessly pushing the algorithms of Hinge and Raya to their limit on my couch just to indulge in the fantasy.
That was until I connected with *Sebastian on Instagram nine months ago. Worldly, mysterious, and alluring in a Gatsby-ish way, he played classical piano and spoke of studying with monks in a zen monastery, and I felt like there was a lot I could potentially learn from him. After planning through every worst case scenario in my head, my desire to change in order to make this real connection began to exceed my fear. Right then and there, I decided I wanted to show up for myself in a new way; that I wanted my world to stop shrinking. I finally felt ready to be the version of myself who was ready to date, even if that meant surrendering to whatever physical sensations of fear might arise along the way.
So, after running circles around each other for weeks, cancelling and rescheduling over and over again, Sebastian and I finally planned for a casual stroll around my neighborhood. That way if things got panicky, I'd be able to run home.
On the day of our date, Sebastian said he needed to reschedule again. We agreed to meet the following day. When I texted him in the morning to confirm our plans and didn't hear back from him, I was sure he was ghosting me—catastrophizing in the ambiguity. Was this some sort of wicked karma? Was the universe punishing me for wasting the time of so many dating app guys when I wasn't ready? Now that I was ready, surely getting ghosted was my penance!
The anxiety started to trickle in as my mind raced with the thought that I had somehow scared him away. When I finally heard from him a week later, he said he had some family drama and apologized for not getting back to me sooner. We never ended up meeting.
Still, that would-be date with Sebastian sparked a change in me that couldn't be stifled again, and even though things between us didn't work out, I didn't let it prevent me from putting myself out there. Months later, my drive to connect continues to transcend my most irrational fears. My swipes on dating apps are more intentional these days, and I make an effort to have real conversations with guys who already know I'm trans—it's explicitly stated on my profiles. And yes, I've been going on dates. In person! Without rescheduling, sometimes! (Please clap.)
I do still get anxious, but I can also slow down enough to ground myself in reality and realize I'm safe. On dates, I try to stay present, asking questions and actually listening to responses. If I get nervous, I pay attention to my breathing and try to slow it down, keeping in mind everything I learned when my anxiety was at its worst. I list what I can see, smell, and hear. I pick a neutral sensation in my body (like the feeling in my big toe) and focus on that. I tell myself that I'm strong and capable of so much more than my anxiety would like me to believe.
I'll say, the pre-date stomach aches never go away, but I know I'm better off going, living through a new experience, and possibly making a connection than I am cancelling. I know closing myself off and making my world smaller never did me any favors. Right now, I'd rather sit in my discomfort than risk staying the same and losing out on the chance to find love.
*Name has been changed.
