AUSTIN — Claire Bow never thought she would come out to her wife.

"I intended to die with my secret untold," Bow said. "I was just not dying fast enough."

Absentmindedly fiddling with the Coke can in front of her, Bow recalled the morning Carol Campbell doubled back home after leaving for work, just in time to find her husband pulling down a box of women’s clothes hidden in the garage.

That day, all of Bow’s secrets came flooding out. Campbell sat quietly, listening to how her husband had been privately donning dresses and skirts for years, how this secret had been kept from everyone for the more than five decades that Claire had lived as a man, as "Jonathan," as her partner of 20 years.

"Quite honestly, I almost killed myself that morning," said Bow, a former Texas assistant attorney general and head of the State Office of Risk Management. But Campbell's compassionate response — "I’m sorry you had to do that alone" — helped Bow move forward.

Now, she hopes to help other transgender Texans do the same.

Claire Bow, a former Texas assistant attorney general who once led the State Office of Risk Management, poses during a November 2016 meeting of the Trans Name and Gender Marker Project, a free law clinic for transgender people sponsored by the Mithoff Pro Bono Program at the University of Texas at Austin, at the Travis County Law Library. ((Lauren McGaughy / Staff))

Bow retired in 2014 and began transitioning from male to female. Once unable to envision living openly as a woman, she has become a quiet leader in this world, using her expertise to tackle a legal system that is frustrating, thorny and, in many parts of Texas, deeply unfriendly to transgender people.

For more than a year, Bow has been helping people navigate the onerous legal processes needed to change their information on government documents. The Trans Name and Gender Marker Project has helped dozens of people correct their driver's licenses and passports. The project, an all-volunteer affair of law students from the University of Texas at Austin, is sponsored by the Mithoff Pro Bono Program and headed by third-year student Cristian Sánchez.

About 15 of them crammed into the Travis County Law Library in downtown Austin recently.

Cristian Sánchez (left) a third-year law student at the University of Texas at Austin, speaks with Claire Bow during a meeting of the Trans Name and Gender Marker Project at the Travis County Law Library. Sánchez is the pro bono scholar heading up the project. Bow is a former assistant attorney general assisting on the project. ((Lauren McGaughy / Staff))

Campbell, also a former assistant attorney general (that’s how the couple met), rushed around with Bow and the other lawyers prepping for the four-hour session. Before they open the doors to the two dozen transgender Texans signed up for their help, Bow gives the group a pep talk on the importance of "gender integrity."

She carefully chooses her words, speaking softly but deliberately, the hallmarks of years spent as an introvert heading up a state agency. Her presence is less commanding than reassuring, less imposing than quietly assertive.

"Just follow instructions. Just follow the law," Bow, wearing purple sneakers in anticipation of a long night on her feet, tells the assembled lawyers-in-training. "Thank you again for what you're doing."

'Everything in a tailspin'

It's not easy changing the sex on your state-issued documents in Texas.

You need a legal petition asking for the change, a recent fingerprint card, all pertinent forms of identification, hundreds in filing fees and notarized letters from physicians and therapists proving your gender dysphoria, defined as "the conflict between a person's physical or assigned gender and the gender with which he/she/they identify."

Then comes the really hard part. A judge needs to approve the change based on the argument that the gender on your ID is incorrect, and then give you a certified copy of the gender marker change order.

The process is not formalized in law but depends on where you live and who hears your case. The outcome is often uncertain and hinges on the politics and knowledge of the presiding judge.

Forms and checklists required for transgender Texans need to assemble to change their names or genders on driver's licenses, passports and other forms of identification cover a table during a meeting of the Trans Name and Gender Marker Project, a free law clinic for transgender people sponsored by the Mithoff Pro Bono Program at the University of Texas at Austin, at Travis County Law Library. ((Lauren McGaughy / Staff))

Bow's efforts have ratcheted up in the last few weeks. Since the election, her phone has been blowing up with calls from those worried that a Trump presidency will embolden conservative state lawmakers to crack down on transgender rights.

Trans men with beards and deep voices are worried they'll have no choice but to list answer questions in job interviews about why their ID says "female," and trans women worry that fearmongering over public bathrooms could not only impede their ability to use the ladies room but also put them in harm's way.

After years of a slow but steady march forward for the rights of lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender people under the Obama administration, the potential for a reversal on trans rights under Donald Trump is devastating for the community. And in states like Texas, where state lawmakers have never been keen to advance LGBT issues, the chances of backsliding are even more certain.

Lt. Gov. Dan Patrick has promised to make passing a bathroom bill a top priority next year — although House Speaker Joe Straus disagrees about its importance — and LGBT rights advocates expect dozens of other efforts to roll back transgender and gay rights in housing, employment and health care.

"It’s been really depressing lately," said Hunter Bodin, a 20-year-old Houston native who is greeting people as they enter the law clinic. "The election has put everything in a tailspin."

For a while, Bodin put off changing the sex listed on her ID because her parents' insurance doesn't pay for mental health costs. But she shifted into high gear after the election.

"I have my doctor's appointment next week," she said , smiling and fiddling with her faux fur vest. The smile vanishes as she continues to talk about what Texas lawmakers might do next year. "I cringe when I hear the word 'bathroom.' "

Bow said lawmakers are fighting over bathrooms not because they can’t understand transgender people but because they don’t want to.

"Being a man is such a great thing, how can we possibly give it up?" Bow said with a laugh. "Perhaps they project on us what they would do. We're not predators."

‘I’m still alive’

Sebastián Colón-Otero’s deep, sonorous voice rang through the cold night air, echoing off the cinderblock walls of Austin City Hall.

Each time he read a name from the list, he cried out, as is the custom at funerals and wakes in his native Puerto Rico. When he got to one name, the crowd collectively held its breath.

"MONICA LOERA. 43. SHOT," Otero wailed.

The crowd responded with a resounding "PRESENT!"

Three days after the UT law clinic, dozens of transgender Texans, their friends and family and other allies came together for the 2016 Transgender Day of Remembrance to honor the dozens of trans men and women killed this year. Among those mourning were Bow and Campbell.

Reyna Cox (left) and Evan Adams hold candles during a Transgender Day of Remembrance event on Nov. 20 at Denton's town square. ((Jason Janik / Special Contributor))

The day of remembrance dates back 18 years, when Rita Hester was brutally stabbed more than 20 times in her Allston, Mass., apartment. Like the killings of many black transgender women, Hester's murder remains unsolved. But her death spurred the community to come together like never before to mark both her life and the lives of other trans people who might've been targeted for living openly.

In 2016, at least three transgender Texans were slain. All three were trans women; all three were women of color. Over the objections of loved ones in at least two of the cases, none are being investigated as a hate crime because targeting someone over their gender identity is not considered a hate crime under Texas law.

Loera was shot dead on Jan. 22 in front of her Austin home. She was the first transgender American killed in 2016. In Texas, more followed. Shante Thompson was beaten and shot in Houston; Erykah Tijerina was found dead in her home in El Paso.

Over a couple of chilly hours that Austin night, ministers with transgender followers offered prayers, and mothers with transgender daughters, words of solidarity. Local writers and artists read poems and told stories about their transitions, their hopes and fears.

Otero took the stage last. His small frame, reaching to about 5 feet tall, belied the strength of his voice. A psychotherapist at UT-Austin's Counseling and Mental Health Center, Otero wanted the crowd to grieve, but urged them to be strong and brave and acknowledge the difficult path ahead.

"For me, it is the remembrance, the memory, that I'm still alive," Otero said, reflecting on the importance of the day. "I'm still here."

Bow sat in the crowd listening, silent and solemn. Her wife by her side, she did not give a speech or read a poem. She's not brave, she said three days ago, "I'm terrified."

But the woman whose real identity was once relegated to a secret box in the garage, who never dreamed of being called "Claire" in private let alone among her loved ones and legal peers, now not only lives openly but is finding strength by fighting to protect transgender rights.

"If being brave is singly being focused on something else, then yes?" she said, seeming to question herself as much as anyone asking. "I'm just never confident about calling myself brave. I don't think it's false modesty.

"It's amazing what just being yourself is like," she said. "Even my worst days are better than my best days then."