Why I don’t use the term 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.

There’s no such thing as a safe space.

Published August 8th, 2024

“This is a safe space.”

I've heard this phrase countless times, particularly in yoga and wellness settings, shared as an intention to welcome everyone in their full humanity. The truth is we cannot guarantee safety for every single person in a group space; intention doesn't always match impact.

Safety is a deeply personal, subjective experience.

We all have unique needs and a personal understanding of what safety means for us. It’s impossible to hold space for a group and ensure that every varying need will be constantly met, especially when what we need will shift or change.

So-called safe spaces often cater to those with more privilege.

In my experience, spaces that claim to be safe are frequently rooted in unchecked biases, normalizing the inclusion of some (folks more proximal to power) at the expense of others (folks experiencing more marginalization).

The phrase safe space has often been weaponized to avoid accountability when harm occurs.

This is yet another unfortunate example of how liberatory teachings can be manipulated to bypass the truths of our world and our individual, real lived experiences (and differences).

While we cannot guarantee safe spaces, we can create safer spaces.

I originally learned this concept from the work of my colleague, teacher, and friend Michelle C. Johnson and her book, Skill in Action: Radicalizing your Yoga Practice to Create a Just World.

Safer spaces rely on transparency, collective care, active listening, believing someone when they tell you their truth, holding one another accountable across difference, and so much more.

Safer spaces for the trans + non-binary community might include (this list is non-comprehensive):

• pronoun shares in group introductions

• a commitment to gender neutral and inclusive language

• community agreements

• leaving cishetero assumptions and norms at the door

• scholarship opportunities and three-tiered pricing

• affinity group conversations

• queer guest facilitators (who are compensated for their time and labor)

This is a learning process for many of us. Let's normalize that.

The cultural conflation of sex/gender has confused and harmed all of us to varying degrees and in different ways. The good news is that, with practice, we can unlearn it.

I don’t use the words womxn or women+. Here’s why.

originally published November 18, 2021, revised June 27, 2024

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

In my opinion, words like womxn and women+ are not as inclusive as many of us might think.

Though often applauded in "radical" spaces and communities, both of these terms imply that trans women need to be separate and distinct from the word women.

If we recognize that trans women are indeed women (surprise, they are!), we don't need another term to include their identities.

Which means that women is naturally an inclusive term—an umbrella term for cis and trans women, though clearly our dominant culture doesn't yet recognize it as such. This is part of the culture shift we all need to be working towards with our language and actions.

It's also important to note that womyn and womxn have two distinct undertones and histories, though both terms seek to challenge patriarchy.

Womyn was coined as part of the Michigan Womyn's Music Festival, often referred to as MWMF or Michfest, a feminist women's music festival held annually from 1976 to 2015 that excluded trans women, claiming a "womyn-born womyn" policy.

Womxn was coined as a way to signal a more inclusive spelling of the word that aimed to recognize and honor trans women as women. At the time of its origin, womxn was considered a radically inclusive term. And with time, our language shifts and evolves.

I also wonder if folks consider non-binary identity and experiences when using terms like womxn, or the newer women+ and womanish. Ultimately, these supposedly inclusive terms ultimately reinforce and uphold the gender binary, reducing non-binary and genderqueer folks to a binary categorization. This is harmful, and the opposite of what I seek to challenge in my work.

FACT: Trans women are women. And grouping non-binary people with binary identities is harmful.

When we aim to create new language to "include" historically and currently marginalized populations, we may actually be further othering or marginalizing them. Getting intentional and critical with our language can have a significant impact.

I recommend we specify who our spaces are for—ie "this space will center those most impacted by patriarchy, sexism, and misogyny," or "this offering is designed for birthing bodies and bodies that menstruate."

We can recognize, affirm, and include more people with our language choices, and using more words isn't a bad thing!

And of course, maybe whatever you’re offering doesn’t need to be gendered as you share it with the world—ie if you’re someone who “works with women,” think about who you’re including/excluding with this messaging and what harmful cultural narratives you might be unintentionally perpetuating.

Overall, apart from language, we must also commit to actually making our spaces welcoming and affirming for those we aim to center.

Otherwise we're just checking boxes.

The work of equity and inclusion necessitates that we share power; language can be a starting point in this process.

Can we stop teaching about divine feminine & masculine energies in ways that uphold cisheteronormativity?

originally published January 16, 2023

On acknowledging harm & power in so-called healing spaces

I’m often asked about divine feminine and masculine archetypes and how to include trans, and especially non-binary, people when speaking to these teachings. The truth is that divine feminine and masculine energies are traits that exist in us all, regardless of our gender identities. What is often harmful and trans exclusionary is utilizing these teachings without acknowledging the toxicity of our dominant culture.

We exist in a society premised upon cisheteronormativity—"a pervasive system of belief that centers and naturalizes heterosexuality and a binary system of assigned sex/gender when there are two rigid, distinct ways of being: assigned-male-at-birth masculine men and assigned-female-at-birth feminine women” (definition sourced from The Gender and Sexuality Campus Center at Michigan State University).

Furthermore, cisheteronormativity is rooted in settler colonialism, white supremacy, capitalism, patriarchy, etc.—power systems that limit the freedom of our expressions, our being-ness, and our embodiment; systems that advantage and privilege some at the expense of many. And I would also argue that cisheteronormativity impacts all of us, including cishet men and women—we see this via toxic masculinity, fatphobic beauty norms, slut-shaming, etc.

To me, if we’re speaking to divine feminine and masculine archetypes, we must acknowledge systems of oppression and harm—we must acknowledge the way power functions in our culture and how hard it is to disentangle these teachings from said power structures and their individual and collective impact.

I’m reminded of a teaching from Michelle Cassandra Johnson’s Skill in Action: Radicalizing Your Yoga Practice to Create a Just World (2nd edition) in which she invites us to understand that “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.”

Ultimately, it's absurd that we are put in binary gender boxes according to our genitalia; it’s absurd to conceptualize of human experiences according to two gender norms, and it’s absurd that these norms influence the expectation of who we love. When we do not do the work of naming and acknowledging these absurdities, we risk perpetuating harm, trauma, and systemic oppression. We risk othering the very people we may be seeking to hold healing space for.

Consider how your privilege might impact your relationship to divine feminine and masculine archetypes. Consider how your gender and sexual identities might be normalized in these teachings. Consider the ways in which you share these energetic essences and how you might be reinforcing power and oppression in your healing work and spaces.

And remember, we must do more than simply use thoughtful or inclusive language. Language is important when it comes to culture shift and challenging power norms, and we must also commit to the deeper work needed to dismantle oppression. We must understand that solidarity and culture shift requires action.

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.