Debunking the Myth of Biological Sex

Published February 11th, 2025

Language evolves.

As we—as human beings, uncover more knowledge about our bodies and experiences, we also uncover false binaries we’ve historically accepted as Truth. One of the biggest? The sex binary—in this instance, sex refers to our physical characteristics—hormones, chromosomes, genitalia, and secondary sex traits.

But here’s the thing: bodies are more complex than a simple binary.

Gender ≠ The Body

Our current cultural reckoning invites us to understand that gender is not inherently tied to the body.

We also need to integrate understanding that sex, as we’ve defined it, is a construct with real world consequences, too.

Why Biological Sex is a Problematic Term

+ It has been weaponized to dismiss the lived experiences of trans and non-binary people, often used to invalidate gender identity and uphold exclusionary policies.

+ It is frequently invoked to justify discrimination in healthcare, sports, education, and legal protections.

+ It ignores the reality of intersex people, whose existence alone disproves the idea of a strict male/female binary.

The more accurate term: sex assigned at birth

Using sex assigned at birth acknowledges that:

+ It’s an assignment that may or may not resonate with the individual.
+ It’s based on genitalia, which does not define gender.
+ It does not necessarily relate to identity.
+ It is not binary—intersex people exist!

Language shapes reality. Words matter. Sex and gender are two distinct aspects of our embodied experience as human beings.

The more we shift how we speak about gender and sex, the more we can dismantle false binaries and affirm transgender, non-binary, and intersex people. Of course, we must also commit to taking action beyond language, too.

Actions to consider:

+ Shift Your Language – Use “sex assigned at birth” instead of “biological sex” when discussing the body.

+ Correct Misinformation – If you hear someone reinforcing the sex binary, engage them in conversation.

+ Advocate for Policy Change – Support inclusive policies in workplaces, schools, and healthcare settings.

+ Center Trans & Intersex Voices – Follow, learn from, and amplify educators and activists doing this work.

Reflection questions:

+ Have I ever assumed someone’s gender based on their physical traits?
+ Where did I first learn about the sex binary? How has that shaped my beliefs?
+ How have I learned about and been shaped by the gender binary?
+ What are ways I benefit from these false binaries?
+ How can I create spaces where trans and intersex people feel affirmed and safe?

Learn more + take action.

Understanding language is just the start. Allyship requires action.

Join my on-demand webinar, TRANS 101+. This hour-long instant-access workshop covers the basics and explores how to make meaningful change toward trans affirmation and justice.

Beyond the Buzzword: Why “Safe Spaces” Aren’t Always Safe

Published August 8th, 2024; revised April 18th, 2025

It’s a phrase many of us hear a lot: “This is a safe space.”

And while the intention behind it is often rooted in care—a desire to create environments where people feel welcome, respected, and included—I’m increasingly aware, especially moving into 2025, that it’s not trauma-informed to promise that any space is inherently safe.

Because safety is personal. Each of us brings our own lived experiences, identities, and traumas into the spaces we occupy. What feels safe to one person might feel uncomfortable, disorienting, or even harmful to another.

For many trans and nonbinary people, for example, spaces that are labeled “safe” often still uphold systems, behaviors, or unconscious dynamics that exclude, tokenize, or harm us. Sometimes it's a lack of gender-inclusive practices. Other times, it's a refusal to name power dynamics, or a culture that prioritizes comfort over accountability.

This isn’t about dismissing the good intentions behind “safe spaces.” I truly believe many people mean well when they use that language.

And yet, when we make that promise—explicitly or implicitly—we risk unintentionally erasing the complexity of people’s lived realities. We flatten difference in the name of comfort. We silence necessary conflict. We prioritize a feeling over a practice.

So, what’s the alternative?

Credit to Michelle Cassandra Johnson, who was one of my first teachers on this topic: she taught me that safer spaces are the more honest and aligned aspiration.

Safer spaces don’t pretend to be perfect.
They don’t claim to be free from harm.
They acknowledge that conflict, rupture, and discomfort are part of the work of being in any relationship, and especially in relationship across lines of differences of identity or power.

What makes a space safer is the commitment to try—to take responsibility, to repair when needed, and to orient toward practices that reduce harm and build trust over time.

Safer spaces require care. They ask us to consider:

• Who holds power in this space?

• Who feels most at ease—and who is being asked to stretch, explain, or accommodate?

• What are we willing to do when harm happens—not if but when?

These are the questions that can guide us into deeper integrity. Because creating safer spaces isn’t a checklist. It’s not a bullet-point on a flyer. It’s an ongoing practice—personal and collective—that asks us to stay engaged, especially in relation to power, privilege, and oppression.

It asks us to be brave enough to move at the speed of trust, even when that trust has to be rebuilt again and again.

Reflection Prompts

I invite you to sit with these questions, whether you’re a facilitator, an organizer, a participant, or simply someone who wants to move through the world with more care:

• Have you ever been in a space that claimed to be “safe” but didn’t feel that way?

• What would creating a safer space look like in your community or workplace?

• What’s one commitment you can make to help build a safer space for trans and nonbinary people in the years ahead?

Want to keep this conversation going?

I write regularly about trans inclusion, collective care, and equity-informed marketing and business. You can sign up for my newsletter here or check out more articles and free resources.

Let’s build something better—together.

What to Say Instead of “Womxn” and Why It Matters

originally published November 18, 2021; revised April 18, 2025

When we seek to use inclusive language, our intention might not always match the impact of our word choices.

Words like womxn and women+ were once applauded in so-called radical spaces for attempting to acknowledge and include trans and non-binary folks. Today, these terms aren’t as inclusive as they once claimed to be.

Let’s break this down.

Trans Women Are Women—No Asterisk Needed

Terms like womxn and women+ imply that trans women are somehow separate from the word women. This suggestion—that trans women require an “update” to the word to be included—is based on a misunderstanding at best, and an act of exclusion at worst.

If we affirm that trans women are women (spoiler: they are), then the word “women” already includes them. No additional symbols or characters are necessary. The idea that we need to modify the term is rooted in a cisnormative understanding of gender—a belief system that centers cisgender people and sees their identities as the default.

Using the word women, full stop, is inclusive of both cis and trans women. The fact that dominant culture doesn’t yet recognize this truth is part of the cultural shift we must work toward.

The Histories Behind the Words

There’s important context to understand about how these alternative spellings came to be:

• Womyn emerged in the 1970s as an effort to separate the word "women" from the word "men" as part of feminist language reform. However, it was quickly co-opted into trans-exclusionary feminist spaces, most notably the Michigan Womyn’s Music Festival, which enforced a “womyn-born-womyn” policy that explicitly excluded trans women.

• Womxn was initially offered as a more inclusive term—one that sought to honor the existence of trans women and signal inclusivity. In its time, it was a well-meaning attempt. But as our collective understanding has evolved, many of us see how it still subtly reinforces transness as “other” and risks upholding the very binary it claims to subvert.

Language evolves. And as our understanding of gender and inclusion deepens, so must the ways we communicate.

What About Non-Binary and Genderqueer People?

Here’s where it gets even more complex: These so-called “inclusive” terms—womxn, women+, womanish—are often used to signal inclusion of non-binary and genderqueer people. But in doing so, they risk reducing us to the margins of a binary framework we don’t belong to in the first place.

Non-binary people aren’t a footnote to womanhood. We aren’t an afterthought to men or women. And placing us under a “+” or a stray “x” is not the liberatory gesture it’s often framed to be. It’s another example of how dominant language frameworks—even well-meaning ones—can reinforce the very systems of power and exclusion they aim to disrupt.

Language Alone Is Not Liberation

So, what’s the alternative?

In my workshops, we talk a lot about intent vs. impact. About how language can be both powerful and performative. About how true allyship—or co-conspiracy, to use Bettina Love’s framing—is about action, not just optics.

When we create offerings, spaces, events, or containers, we need to:

• Be specific. Who is this for? Say it clearly. Instead of relying on shorthand like “for women,” try: “This space is designed for people who have experienced gender-based oppression, including cis women, trans women, and others impacted by misogyny.”

• Get descriptive. If your content is related to physical bodies or medical realities, say what you mean. Phrases like “birthing people” or “folks who menstruate” can offer clarity without reinforcing binary norms.

• Do the deeper work. Changing language doesn’t automatically shift the dynamics of power in a room, a business, or a movement. If your space isn’t actually affirming for trans people—or if you haven’t taken considerations to create a culture of accountability and repair when harm happens—then changing your copy isn’t enough.

Don’t Just Say “Inclusive.” Be Inclusive.

We live in a culture that rewards performance—especially in online spaces. Performative inclusion is not the same as liberatory practice.

It’s not about using the “right” word. It’s about interrogating why we use the words we do, who we’re trying to center, and how our choices either reinforce or challenge the status quo.

The equity and inclusion work I facilitate is grounded in frameworks of power, privilege, and systemic awareness. It’s about seeing language not as a checklist or a script, but as a reflection of deeper values and lived commitments.

Let’s stop creating new words to patch over old problems.

Let’s start building cultures—and communities—that truly affirm the full spectrum of gender.

Want to Learn More?

If you’re navigating these questions in your workplace or personal life, I offer consulting, workshops, and training on these exact themes. Learn more about:

• Creating Safer Spaces

• Trans 101+: Foundations for Allies + Advocates

• Conscious Marketing for Equity-Driven Work

And join me for ongoing writing on these topics by subscribing to my newsletter.

Spiritual Work Shouldn’t Harm: On Gender, Power, and Sacred Practice

originally published January 16, 2023; revised April 18th, 2025

Let’s talk about the divine feminine and masculine—terms we see so often in coaching containers, spiritual communities, and wellness spaces.

These archetypes are frequently introduced with good intentions: to offer a framework for understanding different ways of being, feeling, relating. The divine feminine is typically described as soft, intuitive, receptive; the divine masculine as structured, directive, assertive.

But let’s pause here: how are these ideas being taught? Who are they centering? And what assumptions do they carry?

Because too often, teachings about the divine feminine and masculine rely on or replicate a binary view of gender—and in doing so, they reinforce cisheteronormativity. That is, they assume or normalize the idea that people are either men or women, and that their identities and experiences must align with their assigned sex at birth. They often equate femininity with “women” and masculinity with “men,” collapsing expression and energy into identity in ways that erase trans, nonbinary, genderfluid, and agender people entirely.

And let’s be clear: cisheteronormativity is not neutral.

It is a product of colonial systems designed to restrict, control, and harm. It's woven into the structures of white supremacy, patriarchy, and capitalism. And it's not just harmful to trans and queer folks—it distorts what’s possible for all of us.

In the wellness and spiritual worlds—spaces that often claim to be radical, liberatory, and inclusive—it’s especially important to notice when teachings quietly (or overtly) replicate dominant norms. When we invoke “divine feminine energy” as something to be embraced by women, or something that’s been lost and needs to be reclaimed from masculine overdrive, we must ask: Which women? Whose bodies? What kinds of femininity? And who gets left out or harmed in the process?

If you're a teacher, facilitator, coach, or healer working with these frameworks, I invite you to go deeper:

• Are you examining how these archetypes intersect with systems of power and oppression?

• Are you explicitly welcoming gender-expansive people into the space?

• Are you assuming your audience is cisgender unless told otherwise?

• Are you using language that reinforces binary ideas of embodiment or worth?

Because let’s be honest—if we’re not doing this work, we’re not actually practicing healing. We’re just rebranding dominant culture with a spiritual aesthetic.

As I’ve written elsewhere: healing work is only as liberatory as our willingness to confront how power moves. If your teachings don’t make space for trans, nonbinary, and all marginalized people to exist fully—not just quietly included on a slide or buried in your FAQ—then there’s more work to do.

As Michelle Cassandra Johnson writes in Skill in Action:

“We live in a toxic culture that affects us all. We are not encouraged to see it, so we must learn to see our culture and how it teaches us to transform the absurd into normal.”

This isn’t a call-out. It’s an invitation. To get curious. To notice what you’ve inherited and what you’re passing on. To reflect on who your work truly includes—and who it might unintentionally exclude. To begin again, with more clarity and care.

You don’t need to throw away every teaching about feminine and masculine energies. You do need to interrogate how they’re framed. You do need to acknowledge the power structures they’re rooted in. And you do need to expand your language, your references, your imagination—so that what you're offering can actually support all of us.

LGBTQ+ Allyship for Yoga Teachers

Originally published as “Want to be a True Ally? Do the Inner Work” with Yoga Journal magazine.

We can create “safer” spaces for trans and non-binary people in yoga spaces. Here’s how. 

In yoga and wellness communities, the term “safe space” has intended to mean that “all are welcome.” But, the truth is, we cannot guarantee safety for every single person in a yoga space—because each individual has different needs and a personal understanding of what “safety” means for them. It’s impossible to hold space for an entire group of people and ensure that each person’s individual needs are constantly met, especially when what they need may shift or change.

But, while we might not be able to guarantee safe spaces, we can create safer spaces, says yoga teacher and social justice warrior Michelle Cassandra Johnson. Our yoga practice can show us how.

What is a safer space?

As a transgender, nonbinary, and queer person who has been practicing yoga for twenty years, I know firsthand the need for safer yoga spaces for those of us who don’t conform to gender norms, assignments, or expectations—spaces that welcome and respect trans and non-binary students, spaces where we aren’t misgendered or subjected to transphobic remarks, where we aren’t given dirty looks for being “unreadable” as a “man or woman,” where we can use a public bathroom or changing room in peace.

Safer spaces and communities are created by and with allies who see, validate, and affirm trans and non-binary community members. But genuine allyship—also often referred to as being an “accomplice” or a “co-conspirator”—is rooted in inner work. We cannot be in solidarity with others without committing to the deeper practices of noticing and questioning our thoughts, our actions, and our relationships. The truth is that allyship, like yoga, is a practice of inner work. And we must commit to this deeper work in order to create safer yoga spaces for all.

Finding the ally within

As a yoga teacher, you cannot guarantee the safety of your trans students. But aiming to create safer spaces for trans folks is within everyone’s reach. Doing so calls on the teachings of yoga, beginning with the yamas and niyamas—the ethical precepts contained in Patanjali’s Yoga Sutras that are intended to guide our thoughts, actions, and relationships.

On our yoga mats, we learn to watch the nature of our minds, to observe our reactions and thought patterns, and to return to the present moment. This is Yoga Sutra 1.2, Yogas-citta-vrtti-nirodhah, in action. Melissa Shah, a yoga therapist trained in the Viniyoga tradition, interprets this Sutra to mean “directing the mind with sustained attention.”

Slowing down and practicing mindfulness is a yogic practice that supports us in engaging in the inner work we must do before we can fully engage in the outer work of allyship. When we slow down and when we practice mindfulness, we can remember the things that help us to become stronger allies.

Through present-moment awareness, we might be better able to notice our biases, the assumptions we make about others, and the ways in which our minds might be conditioned to see gender. By staying mindful, we can shift our minds, our behaviors, and our language choices in the moment.

When we practice mindfulness, we can remember that we can’t assume someone’s gender based on appearances. We can take the time to slow down and remember someone’s pronouns—or find the humility to ask if we’ve forgotten. We can choose to replace gendered language and heteronormative images with gender neutral words, cues, and imagery in our practice space and communities. Most importantly, we can acknowledge when harm has occurred—whether we’ve been the perpetrator or a witness—and we can engage in the practice of repair. We can take responsibility and hold ourselves and others accountable.

Applying the yamas and niyamas

Practicing this way is ahimsa, or non-harming, in practice. But it is also about svadhyaya, or self-study. When you look within, you can reflect on what narratives you might have internalized relating to your own experience of gender. Reflect on the ways you’ve personally experienced internal disconnects, suffering, or harm because of the gender binary and our gendered systems. These are constructs and systems that impact us all, regardless of our gender identities.

Trans, non-binary, and gender non-conforming folks suffer in this system, while cisgender folks benefit from it because they’re seen and upheld as the “norm.” And still, this is a both/and scenario. Cisgender folks also experience harmful effects.

For example, cis men and people assigned male at birth may limit emotional expression, a characteristic associated with toxic masculinity. A system that reinforces heteronormativity also proliferates Western cultural beauty standards. It promotes body shaming, fatphobia, diet culture, slut-shaming, and other harmful behaviors and beliefs that affect people of all gender identities.

Beginning the Culture Shift

In order for us to subvert the gender binary and create safer spaces in which all of us can thrive—and especially those of us most impacted by oppressive systems and structures—we must reflect on what we’ve internalized from harmful messaging and how that plays out in our lives.

This is what it means to take responsibility for yourself and others; this is what it means to commit to the work of holding yourself accountable. Yoga invites us to commit to our individual and collective transformation and liberation, creating a more welcoming and inclusive world for everybody.

I’m Jewish and these are my thoughts on Israel and Palestine.

originally published June 10th, 2021
CW: state violence, antisemitism, ethnic cleansing, genocide

Growing up, I went to temple for Jewish holidays, Sunday school to learn about the religion and culture, Hebrew school to learn the language, and Jewish summer camp. I studied to be Bat Mitzvah’d—a ceremony to mark the transition to early teenage years, historically considered a transition to “adulthood”, and I was confirmed a few years later—a separate ceremony honoring the decision of young adults choosing to embrace Jewish study in their lives. And I traveled to Israel on a group trip when I was 17. 

When I type all of that out, it lands with me: I’m about to share with people that I’m Jewish. 

Like really Jewish.

And yet...I don't feel really Jewish.

And I'm afraid to share any of this information publicly because of the reality of antisemitism. 

While working to gain a deeper understanding of the identities I embody through my anti-racism and anti-oppression practices, I’ve been reflecting on how little I considered my Jewishness. By now, I’ve named my identities in public spaces countless times—I have consistently acknowledged my whiteness, my queerness, my transness, my able-bodiedness... and it took me years to name my Jewishness. 

Why did it take me so long to claim this part of myself? Why is it continuing to take me so long to feel like I can honor it?

I was taught from an early age to keep it quiet. I was taught to not say the word ‘temple’ in public (people would hear you!), I was taught to not tell clients or professional contacts about my background, heritage, and upbringing. The message I received was, “be silent about it because antisemitism and anti-Jewish violence are real.” 

I’ve come to understand that I was taught to be silent about my Judaism because of the shame and self-loathing so many Jewish folks experience. This self-loathing and shame is internalized oppression—it’s a symptom of historical trauma.

I want to acknowledge that I now understand, in a more embodied than intellectual way, my Jewish identity to be a marginalized identity. Note: My most salient identity is as a white-bodied human. The reality is that dominant U.S. culture, systems, and structures function to filter by racialized identity and specifically according to skin color: I am seen as a white person before I am seen as a Jewish person.

I was also taught to value anti-oppression principles, stemming from the reality of what my Jewish ancestors faced during the Holocaust.

I was taught that Judaism was a religion and culture of people who believed in and advocated for human rights. My own ancestral lineage—the very blood and bones of my body, is the origin of my commitment to social justice. 

The Hebrew phrase, "tikkun olam," which can be translated as "repairing the world," is etched into my mind as part of my early learning. Tikkun olam is a core teaching of the Jewish faith.

To me, to be Jewish is to be committed to the work of social justice. The two are intertwined and cannot be separated. And I believe showing up for social justice and human rights requires showing up for Palestinian rights.

Throughout my Jewish upbringing and education, and even when I traveled to Israel at the age of 17, Palestine wasn’t explicitly acknowledged or explored—I have no memory of anyone mentioning Palestine. For context, at one point I was in Jerusalem—a 45-minute drive from Ramallah. Imagine being in midtown Manhattan with no one mentioning Brooklyn.

I was not taught that an indigenous peoples had existed on the land that became Israel, nor that they were forcibly removed, nor that they were living in as second-class citizens—in refugee camps or confined territories with limited to no access to basic resources, the ability to come and go freely, or have an active and just role in legal and governing bodies. This is not ancient history. It’s all still ongoing. 

When I did learn of Palestine’s existence, I was gaslit into thinking that I had no choice but to support Israel’s occupation and attacks on the Palestinian community and land. I internalized subtle messaging that led me to believe Palestine did not deserve to be recognized as a separate state, that Palestinian people were less-than—that Palestinians were a radical Islamic monolith, had initiated the violence in the region and that the very existence of Palestinian people and lands threatened Israel’s status as a protected Jewish homeland.

Eventually I became aware of the decades long ‘peace process’ and the fact that the United States has been (and continues to be) the primary source of financial and military support in the Israeli occupation. 

When contemplating this, I immediately hear the following words in my head, which I read regularly in the workshops I teach relating to transgender inclusion and advocacy:

The best way to eliminate a group is to demonize them, such that their disappearance is seen as an act of justice, not discrimination.
— Alok Vaid-Menon from their book, Beyond the Gender Binary

This is settler colonialism. Palestinians are the indigenous peoples of what we now call Israel, and under the guise of creating and protecting a Jewish homeland Israel has created the largest forced refugee population in history. The Palestinian people— Christian, Jewish, Islamic, and more, live as displaced or segregated peoples on their historical land, on nearby lands like Lebanon and Jordan, and around the world. This is a refugee population of 5.9 million. For context, that’s more people than the country of Denmark which has a population of 5.8 million.  

When we perpetuate the narrative that Israel has a right to exist at the expense of Palestinian rights, we are contributing to the demonization of the Palestinian people and disappearing their right to exist on their native land—we are contributing to the real-time elimination of these peoples and their culture. 

When we say we "stand with Israel"—a common refrain heard from Jews around the world, we are effectively saying we support military rule, apartheid, state violence, ethnic cleansing, military occupation, and racism. (I also feel compelled to acknowledge that “‘standing’ with Israel” is inherently ableist and therefore harmful in and of itself.) 

As a Jewish person raised to value liberation, I believe the state of Israel must be held accountable for the violence inflicted on Palestinians for more than 70 years. The United States must be held accountable for supporting this violence and perpetuating the narrative that “standing with Israel” is a democratic and just stance. 

This is not a zero-sum equation. We can and must acknowledge the historic, real, and difficult plight of the Jewish people and also hold the Israeli state accountable for its human rights violations. We can believe in and be in favor of both an Israeli state and a Palestinian state.

The experiences of historical trauma and persecution do not excuse you from accountability when you inflict trauma and persecution on others, and that is exactly what's happening. Antisemitism cannot be a justification for violence.

I am not an expert on this topic. I felt compelled to share reflections on my own experience as a Jewish American, and as someone who has gained a deeper understanding of the reality of the Israeli occupation. I also felt compelled to reflect and share because, as someone committed to social justice, it felt harmful for me to not comment on this topic given my personal experience with Jewish identity and heritage. 

For further learning, I recommend the following resources:

• “A Threshold Crossed: Israeli Authorities and the Crimes of Apartheid and Persecution,” published by Human Rights Watch

• Palestine/Israel 101, published by Jewish Voice for Peace

• “Israeli Palestinian conflict explained: an animated introduction to Israel and Palestine,” published by Jewish Voice for Peace

• “Israel has chosen a two-tiered society. Violence is the inevitable result,” written by Hagai El-Ad, the executive director of B’Tselem—a human-rights organization based in Jerusalem, for the Washington Post

• An Ongoing Resource Guide to All Things #FreePalestine

• “What is happening in Palestine is not complicated; it’s settler colonialism and ethnic cleansing,” shared by @theslowfactory

• “From the River to the Sea: The Palestinian Liberation Struggle,” episode from June 25, 2020 on the Revolutionary Left Radio podcast

Special thanks to Melissa Keeport and Christopher Hirsh for the support in writing this piece.