For many LGBTQ+ abuse survivors, the call for help isn’t just met with silence —it’s met with suspicion.

In a nation that prides itself on equality, too many are still forced to suffer in the shadows. Contemporary LGBTQ+ survivors face barriers such as discrimination, a lack of culturally competent shelters, and limited access to mental health services.

Quantitative data from the Centers for Disease Control shows that 44% of lesbian women, 61% of bisexual women, 26% of gay men, and 37% of bisexual men experience intimate partner violence in their lifetime. These barriers contribute to increased rates of depression, anxiety, and trauma within the community. And for many, the absence of inclusive domestic violence shelters creates a direct pipeline into homelessness. Even law enforcement —often seen as the ultimate safety net— can pose risks to LGBTQ+ survivors who fear police bias, misgendering, or harassment.

Take Clara’s story: a young trans Latina who fled her abusive partner only to discover that most shelters wouldn’t accept her. She found temporary safety only after locating a rare LGBTQ-affirming program —yet the moment she left, her abuser tracked her down, and the violence resumed.

Or consider Sheila, who after transitioning left a seven-year abusive relationship. When she sought a restraining order, the judge brushed her off, telling her she was “too big to be afraid of anyone.” That wasn’t just a failure of empathy. It was a systemic refusal to see LGBTQ+ abuse as real. These are not hypotheticals. These are people—living, hurting, and too often forgotten. (The names Clara and Sheila are pseudonyms used in the NCAVP report to protect survivors’ privacy.)

Now I know what you’re thinking: Why should this matter to me? Because when abusers know certain victims are less likely to be believed or protected, it emboldens violence everywhere —not just against LGBTQ+ people. Harm tolerated in one corner of the community spreads to all of us.

I say this not as an outsider, but as a survivor myself. As a masculine-presenting lesbian, I have been assaulted by a man who believed my identity made me a target. The fear, shame, and confusion I felt in that moment still follow me—yet even then, I hesitated to seek help, wondering whether anyone would take me seriously. My story is not rare. It is precisely why culturally competent protections matter.

And what if I told you there is a way to strengthen those protections —yet it remains stalled in courtrooms and in Congress? The Equality Act, first introduced in 1974 and reintroduced multiple times since, has repeatedly passed the House but died in the Senate. This bill explicitly prohibits discrimination based on sexual orientation and gender identity in employment, housing, public accommodations, and federally funded programs.

I can already hear the next question: If this bill is so important, why hasn’t it passed? Opponents argue it threatens religious freedom, undermines parental rights, or exposes women to harm. I’m not here to dismiss every concern outright. Some questions people raise come from fear, confusion, or a lack of information—not from hate.

Do we need real conversations about fairness in women’s sports? Yes. Do we need safeguards to prevent predatory men from weaponizing gender identity? Absolutely. These concerns deserve good-faith discussion, not political fear-mongering. But here’s the truth: the Equality Act doesn’t take away anyone’s right to worship, doesn’t redefine sports policy, and doesn’t erase common-sense safety protections. What it does is ensure that LGBTQ+ people cannot legally be denied housing, fired, refused service, or turned away from life-saving programs simply because of who they are.

You don’t have to understand every nuance of gender or sexuality to understand this: no one deserves to be homeless because a shelter won’t take them. No survivor should be turned away while begging a judge for safety. No teenager should be denied care or service because their identity makes someone uncomfortable. Equal rights aren’t a special privilege —they’re the bare minimum in a democracy.

And before you say, “This doesn’t affect me,” let me offer this: it could be your child one day. Or someone you love. You don’t build a safer country by protecting only the people who look like you, love like you, or believe like you. You build one by ensuring everyone has access to safety, dignity, and a fair shot at life.

The truth is simple: if equality isn’t for all of us, then it isn’t equality at all.

Genesis Monsanto is a masters degree student in social work at the University of Connecticut.