Read an Excerpt from Trans Runner CeCé Telfer’s ‘Make It Count.’

But now I’m not so sure.

There have been articles in local papers, school papers, national papers, articles that express outrage that I was allowed to compete with the women, articles that deadname me, call me a man, and question the NCAA’s decision to let me run as myself. Some parents are outraged, and a group of them have started a petition to kick both me and Franklin Pierce University out of the NCAA. My coach is getting death threats, his wife too. They just had a baby and people online have threatened their entire family. And, of course, I’m also getting death threats.

I try to keep my head down. To shut out the noise from the haters. To just focus on training. Since I’ve already qualified for nationals, my coaches are being selective about which meets they send me to. Technically, I don’t need to compete again until the National Championships, but my coaches still want me to attend some high-profile meets, where I can work on getting my times down further. Throughout it all, I have to deal with this prejudiced myth that I possess an unfair advantage, that I’ll somehow come into women’s sports and dominate every race. But that, of course, isn’t true. I lose plenty of races to other female athletes. And the aggressive hormone regimen I’m on to meet NCAA regulations actually places me at a disadvantage—I’ve experienced a loss of strength, endurance, and longer post-workout recovery times due to the effects of my HRT.

There is no scientific evidence, no clinical studies, nothing that conclusively states that trans women have an advantage over cis females.

I also worry for my safety at the meets I attend, but I push through. Mostly I stay out of the spotlight, train behind the scenes, at Franklin Pierce, though at times I’m worried for my safety even on my own campus. The stress is high. I’m scared that people might somehow figure out where I live. That one of the online threats could be made real. That someone might find my dorm. Attack me. I cry every day before practice. I cry every day after practice. Sometimes it feels like the only time I’m not crying is at practice itself.

Why don’t you come stay with me, in our guest bedroom, for a little bit? Sasha-Lee asks one day, after I’ve vented to her about the crushing anxiety and fear that has come to dominate my days. Sasha-Lee is a friend who lives nearby, an older woman, a mother with a son and daughter in college, who volunteers frequently for the school. I met her during orientation, when she was helping with an LGBTQ event, and we hit it off. She’s someone I trust, someone who is invested in my journey, someone I talk to regularly when I need support.

I think that could be a good idea, I say.

That night, I’m at Sasha-Lee’s, chatting over a home-cooked meal, laughing with her husband and their kids, and sneaking the dogs bits of food under the table. Soon, I’m overcome with emotion. Despite all the unimaginable hate, despite the literal death threats that nearly every one of my supporters has received, no one has abandoned me. Not Sasha-Lee or her family, not my coaches, not my teammates. The NCAA has not wavered in their commitment to allow me to compete as myself. I’ve followed all their guidelines and rules, and they in turn have refused to bow to pressure from angry parents to ban me from the sport, they’ve refused to discriminate against me. They’ve stayed true to the integrity of their organization, and their commitment to allow all athletes to compete, regardless of gender, race, or sexual orientation. And as I sit here with Sasha-Lee and her family, lingering over the last bites of dessert, I feel such immense gratitude to know that no matter where I go, no matter what obstacles I face in life, I will always have a group of people who love me unconditionally, who support me even in the face of unimaginable hate. People who love the young woman I am, who will do anything to see her succeed.

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