I first met Robert in middle school. We were both white, blonde boys who loved music and enjoyed school a little too much. We were band geeks and political junkies, and we both wasted hours playing risk. And yet, in spite of these similarities, our stories could not be more different.

Being raised in the wealthier part of Colorado Springs meant that we had experiences and opportunities which few other students enjoyed. As we entered high school, I came to know Robert as one of very few who understood this; one of the few who recognized how incredibly lucky we were. In freshman biology, he and I would play games of risk while discussing politics. In a class with some who rejected evolution, many who doubted climate change, and more who had never learned to empathize for the poor, we were almost alone.

As the year went on, I came to know Rob better by the day. After many hours of band and honors biology, we became close friends. I knew that he had a very Christian and conservative family, and, thanks to his gradual lean further and further left, I was under the impression that I had “converted” him. I thought that my obnoxious leftist railings had reached him somehow, that I had changed his mind. I couldn’t have been more wrong.

One summer afternoon, I was sitting at my computer when facebook dinged.

“New message from Robert Smith,” it read.

I was surprised by the notification. Robert and I were good friends, but we ran in different circles, and he had never messaged me before. Why now?

“Hey Matt, can I tell you something?”

“Anything,” I responded, with admitted hesitation.

“I think I’m trans.”

Four words, and suddenly a year’s worth of discussions made sense. All this time, while I had been lauding myself for correcting a misguided friend, she had been fighting a battle I knew nothing about. It wasn’t my clumsy, aggressive rhetoric that had reached her. It was her realization of self, her epiphany, that changed her so drastically.

Like I said, Robert (henceforth called Rachel) came from a religious, conservative family. When she came out to her parents, a man and a woman not so different from my own, they responded not with kind understanding, but with bigotry and betrayal. They forced Rachel into religious counselling, made her move schools, and cut her off from friends she had known for years.

The school year ended, and a quiet summer followed. I heard nothing from Rachel, and, in all honesty, she hardly crossed my mind.

Only months later did I discover that, in May, she had been hospitalized for self harm, and told by a saintly hospital orderly that it was okay to be different. When she finally returned to school (before being moved by her parents), she found nothing but love and support from the staff and her peers.

But the fight wasn’t over. In response to their daughter feeling loved and wanted, her parents sued the school district. Rather than accept her for who she was, they attempted to banish her from their home. When they realized that was illegal, they instead kept her away from loving and supportive relatives who might have taken her in. Instead of being a compassionate family, they chose to be hateful strangers.

Rachel and I were eerily similar. The opportunities we were given and the young lives we lead, nearly identical. If anything, Rachel exceeded me in both ethic and intelligence. And yet, thanks to a cruelly woven web of fate, she works at McDonald’s while I study Political Science.

I know her future will be bright, but her path will be difficult. She will struggle to survive while I take my luxuries for granted.

Rachel didn’t choose her body, nor did she choose her family. But for the crime of being different, she will be punished for decades to come. We were raised only a few miles apart, in the same community, and yet, her life will be a triathlon where mine is a 100 meter dash.

Every so often I reach out to Rachel. I tell her how much of an effect she has had on my life, and on my creed. I tell her that one day we will right this world of wrongs, so that no one will have to face the obstacles she did. I tell her that I will share her story and demand that others join me. I tell her that we will fix this broken world.

So please, if you ever needed a reason to fight for change, there she is. Her story, her life, her future, is in our hands. It’s time we got to work.