Trans beautiful and damned: What is like to live in Syndemics?

TW: Sexual violence, physical violence, transphobia, drug use

I was 22 when I was sexually abused for the first time. What began as a night of celebration—having been pre-accepted into a graduate programme at one of Germany’s top research centres and universities—ended with me drugged and half-naked in a park, stripped of my belongings and in excruciating pain. It was also my birthday. At the time, I hadn’t yet started hormones, so I was living openly as a young crossdresser with a dream: to move to Europe, become a scientist, and—free from the transphobia of my country of origin—finally transition into the woman I had always known myself to be. Three months later, after rejecting the scholarship and returning to Colombia, I fell seriously ill. What began as fatigue rapidly worsened, until I lost consciousness and slipped into what doctors identified as an acute retroviral syndrome. I remained unconscious for several weeks. That was when I received my HIV diagnosis.

A few years later, while living in Copenhagen—just months before I was due to begin a PhD programme—I was abused for a second time. This time, I was beaten severely, left with multiple broken bones, and my face practically disfigured. It took me a while to fully recover. But thanks to my support network, and the magical hands of my plastic surgeon, I didn’t just recover, I transformed into the incredibly beautiful woman I am today.

Being an Indigenous trans femme from Colombia living with HIV in Europe came with relentless challenges. It was nearly impossible to find a job. Men would fetishise me, but never saw me as “girlfriend material.” I was constantly harassed in the streets, and my gender identity was rarely respected within the healthcare system. Despite all the education I had, I was pushed into poverty, forced to rely on sex work to survive. Worse still, many medical professionals dismissed my health concerns, often misgendering me or calling me by my deadname. Imagine spending your twenties surrounded by loneliness, fear, and rejection. When the world keeps telling you you’re disgusting, it becomes almost impossible to believe that you are worthy of love, or that your life has value. So I had to change the narrative myself.

I began the ongoing process of deconstructing my own internalised transphobia, serophobia, whorephobia, narcophobia, xenophobia, racism, ableism, and other deeply rooted forms of self-hate. It’s a journey that continues to this day. I read voraciously. I surrounded myself with other queer and trans people who offered me unconditional love and kindness. And slowly, I began to believe that #TransIsBeautiful, that #TransIsPowerful, and that #TransIsMagic.

It took time to understand that I was carrying a wound—raw, aching, both internal and external—left by a world built on cisnormativity and heteronormativity. But through therapy, community, and knowledge, I found ways to tend to that wound. And in that healing, I discovered power. I reclaimed my body, my story, and my worth. I still struggle with that wound, and I still hurt deeply. But at least I am aware of it, and I’m trying to do something about it. Because the real battle was never about being trans, or a drug user, or a sex worker, or a person of colour. The real battle was the shame I had learned to carry for being all of those things.

Being a person who uses drugs saved my life. If it hadn’t been for the moments of intimacy that drugs made possible—moments shared with men who were deeply attracted to me, yet could only bring themselves to touch me when they were high, paralysed by their own shame, cisnormativity, and transphobia—I might never have found a way to soothe the deep pain I carried, a pain rooted in isolation and rejection. That’s why today, instead of waging a war on drugs, I advocate for harm reduction. I stand for programmes that equip us with the knowledge we need to engage in recreational drug use safely. I advocate for mental health care that addresses the underlying causes of problematic use, so that we can explore intimacy, connection, and pleasure without causing harm to ourselves or others – especially when it comes to reducing our risk of contracting HIV.

Being a sex worker saved my life. At a time when I had no food, no shelter, and no support, sex work gave me the means to survive. It allowed me to afford a meal, pay rent, and access the medication I needed—basic rights and necessities the government denied me simply because I was an immigrant. That’s why today, rather than supporting efforts to criminalise or even merely legalise sex work, I advocate for its full decriminalisation. Only through decriminalisation can sex workers like myself access the full spectrum of our human rights, as outlined in the declaration of rights of sex workers.  And in doing so, we also reduce our vulnerability to violence, exploitation, and HIV.

Finally, being a trans feminine person—a daughter of Huitaca, a third gender, a two-spirit—liberated me from the colonial legacy that white supremacy etched into my blood. It gave me the chance to rebuild myself after being shattered time and time again by the system. Because it’s never just about making our identities illegal, or stripping away our healthcare. The system drives us into mental anguish, poverty, illness, and death. And yet, despite all that, they still cannot erase us.

In every generation, trans people return—stronger, more radiant, more powerful than before. And we will continue to rise.

That is why legal protections matter. We need robust anti-discrimination and anti-hate speech laws, access to legal gender recognition, and trans-specific healthcare—not as luxuries, but as necessities. We need gender-transformative approaches that allow us to access HIV-related services where healthcare providers are culturally sensitive (and ideally peers), and offer care that is trauma-informed, and grounded in gender justice. Only then can we begin to trust the system, adhere to treatment and protect ourselves from the violence that still surrounds us.

As you can see, we live within syndemics—because no disease exists in isolation. It is through the convergence of multiple structural and social factors—transphobia and cisnormativity, queerphobia and heteronormativity, sexism, whorephobia, narcophobia, racism, and xenophobia—that the health of entire populations is shaped and often compromised. This is where intersectionality becomes essential to understanding the prevalence of HIV among key populations. For even within our differences, we are interconnected. In each of us lives a story that bears the weight of systemic violence and hate—but also the resilience, the defiance, and the collective pride of a community rooted in love and solidarity.

Nietzche said in The Girl with Linen Hair, 1890 “The individual has always had to struggle to keep from being overwhelmed by the tribe. If you try it, you will be lonely often, and sometimes frightened. But no price is too high to pay for the privilege of owning yourself.” Now trust me when I say—trans people know this all too well.

Amanita Calderón-Cifuentes

HIV Research and Advocacy Officer (TGEU)

SCOPE Community Expert Group Member (EATG)

Amanita Calderon-Cifuentes

#TransDayOfVisibility

#TransIsBeautiful

#TransIsPowerful

#TransIsMagic

#TdoV

On Transgender Day Of Visibility 2025, EATG amplifies a powerful and deeply personal message from Amanita Calderón-Cifuentes, a member of the SCOPE Community Expert Group.

At a time when trans rights are under attack, Amanita shares her lived experiences, offering an inspiring call for resilience, hope, and the unbreakable pride of trans communities. Rooted in love and solidarity, her words remind us that visibility is not just about being seen, but about standing together.