Last month, around 1,700 trans people in Kansas had their driver’s licenses invalidated under a new law requiring identification to reflect a person’s “sex at birth”. Avery Rowland, a candidate for Kansas House District 2, was among those who received a letter stating that her license had been invalidated overnight. “It was chaos,” she tells Dazed. “I found the letter after 5pm when I got home from work, so I had to take care of it the next morning because I drive 25 miles each day.” But that sense of chaos, Rowland says, has only grown since she was forced to change her gender marker. “Everyone is super confused, transgender folks are super scared, and the bill was pushed through by Republicans as fast as possible, with no infrastructure,” she adds. 

The confusion Rowland describes is partly due to the fact that not every trans person in Kansas has received a letter. While you can check whether your licence is still valid on the Department of Revenue’s website, Rowland says those results don’t always match what people are told at the licence bureau. There is also widespread uncertainty about how the law will actually be enforced. Kansas is one of five states to prohibit trans people from changing the gender marker on their licences, as part of a broader crackdown on trans rights under the Trump administration. It is, however, the first to retroactively invalidate licences – and even birth certificates – that had already been updated. So, what does this mean for trans people in Kansas and across the country? 

When I speak to Rowland in early March, she is waiting for her new license to arrive in the mail. For now, she’s carrying around a temporary paper copy. “My license says male, and I very much don’t look male, so that’s going to cause confusion when interacting with law enforcement or even going out to a bar,” she says. “It forces transgender people to out themselves, and it all just feels very performative from Republicans.” The bill, known as SB 244, also bans trans people from using the bathroom that matches their gender identity. By making it possible for Kansas citizens to sue the trans people they see in restrooms for $1,000, it sets a dangerous precedent for transvestigating people who are simply going about their day, and potentially being financially rewarded for it. “Everybody is watching Kansas and how the citizens react to this, because if they prove that they can do it with transgender Kansans, they can do it to transgender folk anywhere,” says Rowland. 

Matthew Neumann, founder and executive director of the LGBTQ Foundation of Kansas, says the bill has already emboldened people to be more openly transphobic. “The transphobia going on here is crazy,” he says. “And the amount of fear in the community has really risen.” The foundation is now offering relocation services for those who want to leave, as well as support for those choosing to stay. For some, that means arming themselves with firearms. It’s a battle that trans activists like Neumann have been fighting long before the bill passed. “I’ve been following and fighting this law for years, from the beginning, just hoping that it wouldn’t pass,” he says. “But it’s all just escalated.” 

Trans people in Kansas, like trans people everywhere, are not a monolith. While some, like Rowland, have already changed their licences, others are refusing to. Neumann falls into the latter camp. “I’m not surrendering my driver’s license because I’m not giving up my rights,” he says. It’s advice he is also giving to other trans people in Kansas, although he will still help those who feel they need to update their documents. “It’s a matter of civil rights, and we spent time fighting for these rights to be established in the first place – so we’re prepared to fight this at the foundation.”

“Everybody is watching Kansas and how the citizens react to this, because if they prove that they can do it with transgender Kansans, they can do it to transgender folk anywhere”

Those preparing to challenge the bill are in it for the long haul. Neumann says he’s already experiencing fear around everyday activities like driving or using the restroom, but adds that there is “always fear” when fighting for civil rights. “The biggest deal on the ground is not the fear of changing your license or not, it’s that this bill is putting a target on us and the bigots are only getting braver,” he says. For Shea LaRoux, it’s enough to start plotting an escape. “If things get even worse, I’m probably going to move,” she says. “But we own a house here, and my husband probably won’t come with me, so I’ll have to flee to a blue state.”

LaRoux, who was born in Colorado, has yet to receive a letter about her licence, but she’s anxiously waiting for the day it might arrive. She even has a plan for what she’d do: ignore it for as long as she can, and continue driving back to Colorado to renew her license there. She calls herself one of the “lucky ones” to still have a birth certificate from a state that recognises her identity. But the driving itself is still scary. “You can’t feel comfortable getting in your car anymore for fear of being profiled or pulled over,” she says. “And, where I live, you also just can’t get around without a car.” 

Like hundreds of other trans people in Kansas, LaRoux is closely following a bill that is already reshaping her daily life. Last month, two anonymous trans Kansans sued the state, arguing that the law violates protections for personal autonomy, privacy, equality, due process and freedom of speech. If approved, a restraining order would have paused the law’s enforcement. But after our call, LaRoux texted with a discouraging update. On March 10, Douglas County District Judge James McCabria declined to grant the order while the case proceeds. “It certainly makes me a lot more fearful of driving,” LaRoux says.