Louay  Morad

Every day of my life feels like a battlefield. From the moment I step outside, I brace myself for what the world might throw at me. The looks, the whispers, the pointed fingers—they're all reminders that I’m not seen the way I see myself. I walk down the street with my head held high, but inside, I’m constantly preparing for another blow. People mock me openly. Some smirk as I pass, others laugh loud enough for me to hear. And then there are those who confront me face to face, their words sharp as knives, slicing through what little peace I try to hold onto. The cruelty is unrelenting. I’m not exaggerating when I say it feels like a warzone, one where I’m constantly under attack simply for trying to exist. I’ve been bullied relentlessly for being who I am. Not because I’ve done something wrong, not because I’ve hurt anyone, but because I dared to live in my truth. I dared to step out into the world as the woman I’ve always known myself to be. This is not a phase. This is not confusion. This is my reality. I’ve spent my entire life feeling like a stranger in my own skin. From a young age, I knew there was something different about me—something deeper than what others could see. I wasn’t pretending. I wasn’t trying to deceive anyone. I was simply trying to find a way to align the outside with what has always been true on the inside. I am a woman, and I always have been. But try telling that to a world that refuses to listen. The people who were supposed to love me most—my family—turned their backs on me when I needed them most. I still remember the moment I told my parents. I was shaking, terrified, but hopeful. I believed, maybe foolishly, that they would hear me, see me, and still love me. But instead, they looked at me with disgust. My father said I was a disgrace. My mother couldn’t even look me in the eye. Within minutes, they told me to pack my things and leave. Just like that, I was no longer their child in their eyes. I didn’t belong in their home. I didn’t belong in their world. I found myself homeless with nowhere to turn. I was suddenly living a nightmare I hadn’t prepared for. Friends I thought I could rely on disappeared. Some didn’t know how to support me. Others simply didn’t want to be associated with someone like me. So I slept wherever I could—on couches, in shelters, sometimes even on the streets. Every night was a gamble. Every morning was a challenge to find a place to clean up, find food, and gather the strength to keep going. Still, I pushed forward. I worked odd jobs, picked up shifts wherever I could. I scrimped and saved, every penny going toward the one thing that keeps me going: the dream of fully transitioning. I’ve fought for every small victory along the way. Hormones, therapy, clothing, legal changes—it’s been a long, difficult road. But none of it has deterred me. If anything, each obstacle has only made me more determined. Because I’m not chasing an illusion. I’m chasing freedom. The freedom to exist as myself without shame, without fear. The freedom to look in the mirror and finally recognize the person staring back at me. Now I’ve come to the final step—gender confirmation surgery. This is not just a medical procedure for me. It’s the key to unlocking the life I’ve fought so hard to build. It’s what will allow me to finally feel comfortable in my own body, to breathe without pain, to sleep without that ache in my chest that never seems to go away. But I’m at a standstill. The cost of the surgery is $2,000—an amount that might seem small to some, but to me, it’s a mountain I can’t climb alone. I’ve tried everything. I’ve worked extra hours, sold what few belongings I have, and even reached out to support groups and organizations. But I’ve come up short. And so, with a heart full of hope and a deep sense of urgency, I’m reaching out for help. Not because I want pity, but because I believe in the power of community. I believe in the kindness of strangers. I believe that somewhere out there are people who understand that being true to yourself shouldn’t come at the cost of your safety or your dignity. This isn’t just about surgery. It’s about survival. Every day that passes without it feels like a reminder that I’m stuck in a limbo I can’t escape. My body doesn’t reflect who I am, and that disconnect is exhausting. It’s a silent pain that never fades, a constant reminder that I’m still fighting to be seen, to be accepted, to be whole. I am tired. So tired. Not just physically, but emotionally and mentally. I’ve carried this burden for so long, often in silence, because I was afraid of being rejected again. But I can’t stay silent anymore. I’m desperate—not for luxury or comfort, but for peace. For the simple, beautiful chance to live as myself, fully and freely. All I want is to be whole. To finally stand in front of the mirror and smile without hesitation. To walk down the street without fear of being targeted or ridiculed. To live a life where my identity isn’t a source of shame, but a source of strength. I have done everything in my power to get here. I just need this final push. $2,000 stands between me and the rest of my life. If you’ve ever known what it feels like to be misunderstood, to feel out of place in your own skin, then you know a piece of what I live with every day. And if you’ve ever wished for someone to see you—to really see you—then you understand how much it would mean to be supported in this moment. Thank you for reading my story. Thank you for holding space for someone like me. If you can contribute, even just a little, know that it brings me one step closer to finally living without fear, without pain, and with the joyof simply being myself.

My Last Step to Be Me - Help Me Finish My Transition
Louay Morad

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My Last Step to Be Me - Help Me Finish My TransitionLouay Morad

Donate first & lead the way!

Scan to connect with our mobile app

Coinbase Wallet app

Or try the Coinbase Wallet browser extension

My Last Step to Be Me - Help Me Finish My Transition
Louay Morad