Three Borders, One Life: The Struggle of Three Trans Migrant Women in Colombia

Leaving behind who they’re supposed to be, their family, their hometown, and even the life others decided for them—this is the story of many trans women who flee to save themselves and to be able to exist. It’s not just about migrating; it’s about breaking free from everything imposed on them to sustain their own existence. Sofía, Oriana, and Alexa share this story; we met them at different times and places in Bogotá, Colombia.

Their lives are crisscrossed by borders that do not appear on maps, yet determine almost everything. The first is the body—that boundary imposed by a society that monitors, questions, and punishes their trans identities. The second is territorial, marked by the flight from Venezuela, the uncertain journey, and the arrival in Colombia, where they must rebuild their lives from scratch while bearing the weight of uprooting. The third is that of irregular status, an invisible line that conditions every step and limits access to rights.

Today, more than 2.8 million Venezuelans have made Colombia their home to live, resist, and survive, amid a prolonged crisis that has profoundly deteriorated their living conditions. But that figure falls short when it comes to understanding what LGBTIQ+ people experience, and even more so, what trans women face, whose voices find a way to say: here I am, here I remain, because my life is worth just as much as that of someone who never had to cross a border.

First border: the body

Before crossing territories, they had to cross the boundaries of how to express themselves through their bodies. A border that is not natural, but constructed by a society that rigidly defines what it means to be a man or a woman, assigning roles, behaviors, and appearances that are expected to be fulfilled without question. For trans people, inhabiting their identity involves crossing that imposed line, challenging norms that seek to discipline the body and its expression of gender. That crossing is not merely symbolic: it entails risks, violence, and exclusion in contexts where difference is constantly monitored, judged, and punished. Thus, before any geographical displacement, they have already experienced an internal displacement—a rupture with social expectations that profoundly shapes their life trajectories.

Sofía grew up hearing that she had to hide, that being “like that” wasn’t right. She endured stares, taunts, and beatings until she decided to be who she is, without asking permission. That moment was her liberation and, at the same time, the beginning of the end of her life in Venezuela.

Oriana experienced it this way too: “Every time I tried to express myself, the world silenced me with mockery or blows; I learned to survive in silence, until I couldn’t take it anymore”.

And Alexa recalls: “From childhood, I knew that something about me didn’t fit the world’s expectations”. In her community, being different was not only a reason for rejection but also for danger.

These experiences are not isolated. According to the Venezuelan Observatory on LGBTIQ+ Violence, in 2023 alone, 461 cases of violence against LGBTQ+ people, 235 instances of discriminatory speech, 160 discriminatory incidents, and 50 hate crimes were documented; 137 transfemicides have also been recorded between 2008 and early 2024.

For trans people, the body becomes a deeply monitored and contested frontier; from birth, their bodies are named and defined by others under expectations that do not correspond to their identity, which places them in constant tension between who they are and what society insists on seeing. What sets their experience apart is that inhabiting the body involves actively challenging these impositions: it is not merely about self-expression, but about claiming the right to exist on their own terms.

In this process, the body ceases to be merely a space for living and becomes a territory where identity and dignity are negotiated; every gesture of self-affirmation—from one’s name to the way one presents oneself—can be interpreted as a transgression, exposing them to questioning, rejection, or violence. That is why crossing that border is not only an intimate process but also a visible act that, in many contexts, forces them to move in search of spaces where they can live with greater freedom and without fear.

Second border: the territory

Migrating, in their stories, was never a free choice. It was an act of survival.

Fleeing Venezuela marks a turning point. For millions of people, Colombia represents the possibility of a fresh start, but also a territory where they must rebuild their lives from scratch, bearing the weight of uprooting and facing multiple structural barriers in accessing housing, work, and basic services.

Alexa recalls:“The road was long, muddy, and cold. I remember crying, not knowing if it was from fear or relief”. Crossing the border meant leaving her life behind, including her name, to start anew.

Upon crossing the border, reality hits hard. Sofía recounts: “I arrived in Cúcuta with nothing, no papers, not knowing what would become of me. I slept on the street for several nights”. Like them, many trans migrant women face precariousness, exclusion, and violence at every stage of the journey.

Amid all of this, other ways of sustaining life also emerge. Other trans women, organizations, and community spaces become a refuge when there is nothing else. Alexa says: “I found support, I found freedom… spaces where trans women can be ourselves, and we can exist without fear”.

Because if migration leaves us with anything, it is the certainty that no one survives alone. When one is hungry, another shares. When one falls, another lifts her up. And when one manages to move forward, she does so for everyone.

Third Frontier: Irregular Status

If there is one frontier that cuts across every aspect of their lives, it is that of irregular immigration status.

Lacking documents is not just an administrative problem. It is a condition that determines whether they can work, access healthcare, rent a home, or report an assault. It is living in constant limbo, where every daily decision is conditioned by the lack of official recognition.

In Colombia, although there have been significant legal advances—such as Decree 1227 of 2015, which recognizes the right of transgender people to change their name and gender on official documents—these guarantees do not always translate into real access to rights for those in an irregular immigration status. Many procedures require regular status first, leaving those who have fled in limbo.

The mechanisms and processes for applying for international protection are often slow and difficult to sustain, leaving many people in an irregular situation even after years of residence. This wait becomes another border: one that cannot be crossed on foot, but which keeps rights in limbo. In Colombia, ensuring the recognition of the gender identity of trans and non-binary people within the asylum procedure itself remains an unresolved challenge.

Sofía sums it up: “I don’t have papers and my situation isn’t resolved, but I have something no one can take away from me: my dignity and my hope”. Oriana describes it: “Sometimes I feel like I’m living between two borders: that of the country I left and that of the country that still doesn’t recognize me”.

Structural discrimination compounds their migrant status, deepening these women’s exclusion from fundamental rights such as work, healthcare, housing, and protection against violence. Regularizing one’s status is not just about obtaining a document: it is about ceasing to live a half-life, being able to exist without fear, with the certainty that the law supports who you are.

Between invisibility and resistance

And yet they resist.

Alexa comments: “Being a trans migrant woman in Colombia isn’t easy, but there’s something I’ve learned in this country: I don’t need permission to exist”. A statement that carries even more weight in a country like Colombia where transphobia remains high and, all too often, translates into violence.

Every morning, as they put on their shoes before heading out to work, they walk not only for themselves but for all those who have not yet been able to do so. Because resistance isn’t always measured in grand gestures: sometimes it’s getting up, making a cup of coffee, and reminding yourself that survival is also an act of courage. And although the barriers do not disappear, something does change when you have networks: other women who care, who accompany you, who remind you that you are not alone. That is what no report can capture: the strength of community and shared resilience.

Sofía remembers this every day: “Every morning I make myself coffee and say, ‘You survived, Sofía, you did it’”. When Oriana wakes up, she looks in the mirror and reaffirms: “I exist, I resist, and this story is mine too”. And Alexa, with hope and pride, declares: “I am like morning coffee: strong, warm, and indispensable”.

They are displaced Venezuelan trans women, all three in an irregular situation, but with a certainty that no one can take away from them: existing is their deepest form of resistance. Although they left one border behind, they still carry others: irregular migration status, discrimination, and institutional invisibility.

And yet, here they are. Steadfast. Resilient. And knowing that, even without papers, their lives are worth just as much as anyone else’s.