We Walk In Together: A TDOR Reflection
by Nyla, Digital Equality Organizer
I spent time in both Kansas City and St. Louis this October. Kansas City held KC Trans Pride, hosted by Transformations. St. Louis was preparing for Miss Cosmopolitan, where Essence Hale, known on stage as “Essence Mazzaratie,” would take her final walk. Moving between these two cities revealed something about community, memory, and the way remembrance lives inside us long before we name it. Those moments became the heart of this piece.
What does it mean to bring your people with you? Maya Angelou once said, “When you walk into an office, you do not go alone. Bring your people with you. Bring everybody who has loved you with you.” This month, that truth lived in me with new weight. When I walk into a room, I bring the people who built me. I bring my aunt Dee Dee Pearson. I bring Aerrion Burnett. I bring my grandmother. I bring every trans person whose courage carved a path before I knew how to walk it. I bring the girls who held me through fear, taught me how to speak my truth, and reminded me who I was when I forgot. I bring the ones who left too soon but left their light behind. Remembrance is not only about loss. It is about presence. It is the strength that rises in us when we speak or stand or breathe through a moment that requires more than we think we have. It is the collective heartbeat that says we are still here, still creating, still belonging.
I felt that truth begin to settle in on the drive from Kansas City to St. Louis. Korea Kelly and I talked about Dee Dee nearly the entire way. A bit of history: Korea has been my chosen mother since I was thirteen, and I am now thirty-seven. I met Korea, Dee Dee, and Kelly Nou as a pre-teen. I was young, sassy, creative, and still trying to understand myself. They took me in. They loved on me. They helped shape the woman I am today. The hum of the highway softened our conversation. Cool air slipped in through the cracked window. Dee Dee’s memory sat between us. She was unforgettable. Funny. Warm. Sharp. Her voice carried. Her presence filled a room before she even finished walking into it. Talking about her on that road reminded me that we grew up without the language we have now, without organizations or roadmaps for what community care should look like. It was simply us. Kansas City to St. Louis. A sisterhood that existed long before anyone named it. That drive helped me understand that remembrance is not only grief. It is lineage living inside the people who continue the work.
By the time we arrived for Miss Cosmopolitan, the room was already full of anticipation. Warm lighting washed over the audience. Fog rolled across the stage. Perfume, hairspray, and powder filled the air from hours of preparation. I was running around like a chicken with my head cut off. I steamed dresses. I tightened straps. I checked on Essence as she prepared for her final walk. Then I rushed across the venue to support Mikiyah, performing under her stage name Lady Champagne, as she prepared to compete for Miss Cosmopolitan. Supporting both sisters at two very different points in their journeys felt like holding two sides of the same story.
Lady Champagne transformed before our eyes. Each time she stepped out of the dressing room, it felt like she had completed one last change before revealing another layer of who she was becoming. She looked stunning. Confident. Fully rooted in her moment. When she placed first alternate, the room felt proud. She held her own. She competed with beauty, with heart, and with presence.
Miss Cosmopolitan has always been more than a pageant. It is a gathering of lineage, with many former queens being women of trans experience. A place where community come together to see and honor one another. Laughter rose throughout the venue. Friends hugged tightly. The room carried a tenderness that lived in every smile and every pause. Then everything shifted when Essence walked out for her final performance. She carried years of community, sisterhood, joy, pain, and truth in every step she took. When she was presented with an oil painting of herself and her late father, the entire room grew still. It was a moment of remembrance so intimate that nobody needed to speak. People cried openly. Some covered their mouths. Essence held the painting with a softness that made time feel suspended. It was beautiful. It was quiet. It was sacred.
Her final walk did not feel like an ending. It felt like a blessing. A moment where past and present stood beside her and said you made it, and you made us proud.
Returning to Kansas City for KC Trans Pride offered a different kind of intimacy. Transformations created a space where the community felt held. The lighting was warm. The air smelled like shea butter, lip gloss, and the sweetness of women warming up backstage. People gathered in small circles talking about the year they survived, the joy they found, the pain they carried, and the future they still believed in. The room felt full and alive.
The performers stepped into their brilliance with intention. Kerri Colby worked the stage like a true star and show us exactly why she is a “ Colby”. Monica Beverly Hillz: sensual – but spicy and never boring Diamond Cavalli carried a presence that could not be ignored. Treshawn Seymour glowed in every movement. Kansas Campbell walked with a natural command that felt larger than the stage. All trans. All powerful. All carrying scents and sounds that reminded me of every dressing room I have ever been in. When the spotlight hit them, it felt like witnessing history unfold in real time.
Samantha told me, “This month is when the real conversations happen.” She was right. TDOR is the month when families try again. When communities try again. When we relearn ourselves. It is not polished. It is not perfect. It is honest.
Essence told me, “You gotta keep going, sis. We are the movement.” I felt that in my bones. We are not only remembering those who died. We are carrying forward the dreams they did not get to finish.
Somewhere between the road trip, the pageant lights, the warm kitchens, the crowded dressing rooms, and the quiet conversations in Kansas City, I began to understand something new about TDOR. Trans Day of Remembrance is not only about honoring the people we lost. It is also about giving our community their flowers while they can still smell them. That understanding came through all my senses. It lived in the sound of laughter echoing down an Airbnb hallway. It lived in the smell of onions and garlic and chicken frying in a kitchen full of women preparing themselves to step out into the world. It lived in the warmth of someone brushing past me while adjusting their hair. It lived in the sight of familiar faces showing up, even when they were worn down. Remembering our people is not separate from protecting our people.
So I return to that question. What does it mean to bring your people with you? It means building spaces where we feel safe. It means creating futures where young trans people can imagine themselves growing old. It means honoring our elders while they are still here to hear their praise. It means choosing love, care, and connection with intention.
When I walk into a room, I do not walk in alone. I carry my people. I carry their courage. I carry their laughter. I carry their wisdom. I carry their unfinished dreams. I carry the sound of their joy and the shape of their resilience. They carried me first. Now I carry them.
We remember them.
We celebrate us.
We keep going.
And in all of this, I realized that Trans Day of Remembrance is not just about who we lost, but who we do not want to lose.
