For Skylar Lyralen Kaye, who has “non-binary” listed on their driver’s license, the risk of losing that recognition became a very real concern after Trump was elected in 2024. The possibility of anti LGBTQIA+ policies being rolled out more widely – and quickly – created a sense of uncertainty around both identity and safety.
Those fears intensified as Skylar publicly came out as non-binary and plural in their memoir, Bachelorx. With their identity, story, and name becoming increasingly visible online, they felt more exposed – particularly while developing a web series centred on non-binary and trans identity.
These concerns were not abstract. In 2018, Skylar’s one-person show My Preferred Pronoun Is We (AKA Many Trump Refugees in One Body) – which won Best in Fringe at the San Francisco Fringe – explored identity and multiplicity against the backdrop of rising political hostility, themes that would later shape their decision to leave the U.S.
Now based in Lisbon, Skylar speaks candidly about their decision to leave the U.S., what it means to weigh up personal safety against home, community, and visibility, and the story behind Bachelorx.
How did concerns for your safety in the U.S. manifest after Trump’s election?
I have post-traumatic stress, and after years of healing, love, teaching, creating, and speaking publicly – then leaving a marriage and essentially reincarnating myself on a paddleboard while queer dating (the subject of Bachelorx) – I felt I had finally arrived at queer joy and self-acceptance.
But almost as soon as Trump was elected, I stopped being able to sleep for more than a few hours a night. I had heart palpitations. I had anxiety. I sometimes struggled to eat. Old post-traumatic stress symptoms returned.
As I say in my book, I had trouble finding my inner Orpheus – the light inside that is the truest sense of safety. It was not fun. We – all of me – were terrified. My yoga students, my improv comrades, my friends, my chosen family – everyone was terrified in those last months of 2025.
I might have been more terrified than the average person. I struggled with writing, getting centered before yoga, and getting out on the water as much as usual.
I started doing hands-on assists for my students. I started thinking more about peace.
My students asked if I was okay. Everyone knew my pronouns and how out I was.
It was no secret that another Trump presidency would include attacks on non-binary and trans people (as well as women, BIPOC, disabled people – anyone outside of white male supremacy). I immediately took steps to understand what I needed to do to leave the country. I went on the Portuguese consulate website and found the requirements. I went on Fiverr and found a Portuguese attorney. I bought plane tickets and rented a Malta apartment for a month. I had a Portuguese tax number before 2026.
When I want to get things done, I get them done.
In 2017, I spent half a year in Canada trying to emigrate. I had an acting agent and an immigration attorney, but I barely had enough points to qualify under Express Entry. It became clear I wouldn’t get in because of medical inadmissibility – post-traumatic stress meant a medical interview, extra investigation, significant cost, and a high likelihood of rejection. One lawyer even dropped me because I refused to lie about having PTSD.
So, in 2018, I returned to the U.S., performed a solo show about trying to emigrate, and later created an intersectional, feminist, pro-trans web series during the pandemic. I also did light research into which countries would be most likely to accept me if I ever needed to leave again – prioritizing places with strong LGBTQ+ rights.
I made a Plan B.
Can you describe an actual event that made you fear for your safety?
There are two types of events: public and personal.
On the public side, the killings of George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, and Ahmaud Arbery had a profound impact. Living and working in a Black community meant the disregard for life and the reality of white supremacy were not abstract – they were present every day. I am white, but I felt viscerally that if one of us isn’t safe, none of us are. I heard first-hand the grief, rage, and fear of my Black friends, neighbors, and colleagues. I don’t really have words for the depth of anguish I felt.
I was also deeply shaken by the first Trump presidency’s treatment of immigrants, particularly the separation of families and the disappearance of children. It made me fear the building of camps like Alligator Alcatraz. The idea that the USA was heading into this kind of inhumanity was devastating to me.
At the same time, I knew that trans people would be a priority target. As an openly trans and non-binary activist, I felt very at risk.
I anticipated an ICE so out of control that people like Renee Good could be killed. I wondered it if would be me.
On a personal level, I had recently experienced transphobia within my Unitarian church. It wasn’t always overt, but it showed up as exclusion – being quietly left out of the social fabric of the community. That hurt. I also began to sense that even some allies were uncomfortable with how openly I expressed my identity. One person said to me, “Well, you are a radical.” It made me question who would stand up for me.
Finally, I am a survivor of childhood trafficking, which I discuss in my book. Because of that, I am acutely aware of how power can be abused – particularly by the wealthy, white powerful men who acquire unlimited privilege that allows them impunity outside the law. That prior experience shaped how I viewed the political climate. I recognized the patterns.
I didn’t trust that we would resist in the way we have.
I am incredibly proud of the American people. I was completely accurate in my assessment of the current administration and the Doge; I underestimated the courage of the American people. I have been an activist my entire life, and have often been discouraged by complacency. That has shifted. The American people are fighting back with a fierce dedication, and that gives me hope. I love us so much.
Did you belong to a community that promised some safety? If so, why not?
I mentioned above that, prior to the election, I had realized my UU church wasn’t as liberal as it thought it was. (Oh, the virtue signaling.) I saw this clearly when I dated a cisgender, straight-passing woman and watched her achieve a level of social acceptance in weeks that I hadn’t experienced in years.
The minister I deeply trusted left soon after, and my trust in the community broke completely.
I had other communities. I worked part-time as a yoga teacher and Livestrong instructor (working with cancer survivors) at the YMCA, which is, ironically, one of the best jobs I’ve ever had. I’ve taught at university level, managed an inner city educational program and run a theatre company, but the Y is more user-friendly, less stressful, and more inclusive than almost anything else I’ve done.
That community made a real effort to include me and educate themselves about nonbinary identity. I felt touched by their acceptance. I miss them. They even gave me an award for customer service. So, I had safety there, and safety in my queer and artistic communities as well.
But was it enough to allow me to finish a book about gender, identity, neurodiversity/plurality, and trauma? To promote that book with full commitment to its message, and to coming out publicly as plural? To exercise my voice and freedom without more post-traumatic stress than I could realistically bear? Was it enough to sustain the peace and joy I had found after years of healing?
No.
It’s the felt sense of safety that makes daily life either peaceful or full of distress. Having known a high level of powerlessness during the first twenty years of my life, I knew the effort it would take to have to manage that terror again.
Perhaps I could have fought through it. But I wanted to keep being an artist – I’m at the top of my game, I’m in my sixties, and I don’t have four years to sit back and wait to be safe enough to let my gender-fluid, plural flag fly.
What thought process did you go through that helped you arrive at your decision to leave the U.S.?
I thought about it a great deal, because the part of me that holds intuition felt I should stay. I had a deep pull toward my home, which I love, in the state of Massachusetts, which I love, near the ocean where I paddleboard in all seasons, which I love.
As I am plural, I make decisions based on the well-being of all of me. Often that means going with my intuition, but not always. The inner children in me who had been trafficked were terrified. When I asked them if we would be able to support them enough through that fear to stay safe, they said no.
My deepest commitment to my selves is to protect us from ever having to endure again what we did when we were young.
So, I made the decision to rent out my place short-term (three months, renewable), so I could return home if that felt like a realistic possibility. My boss held my job at the YMCA for six months. In other words, I hedged my bets, then left on January 19th.
In Trump’s inauguration speech, he erased non-binary identities and began his attack on trans and nonbinary people. I was in London, then Malta, as universities and institutions began complying in advance. That acquiescence made the future look very bleak.
I watched, travelled, and finished my book. I paddleboarded on 15 lochs in Scotland. I experienced some of the most incredible natural beauty of my life – all before the resistance really began to gain momentum.
It has become clear that, in spite of the grit of the American people, the fate of the U.S. still hangs in the balance. The midterm elections – and whether they happen – will determine whether safety in the U.S. becomes possible again.
The ineffective actions of an oligarchic Congress have been a roadblock to safety – not just for the U.S., but globally.
Why Lisbon? Were there other countries you considered?
Portugal is one of the least expensive places in Europe – both in terms of cost of living and what you need to prove in income – that also offers the level of LGBTQ+ protections I was looking for. It has great weather, places to paddleboard, and a strong storytelling community. It’s not especially strong on non-binary recognition, but it is good for trans rights. It’s a beautiful country, and I’ve experienced a great deal of kindness here.
I did consider other countries. I spent a month in Malta, but it wasn’t the right fit. I also considered Spain and likely would have chosen it if the income requirements weren’t significantly higher. I’ve lived and worked in Spain, I speak Spanish, and I love the culture – so it was a difficult decision not to choose it.
How did your family feel about your decision? Your friends? How did that support or lack of support affect your decision?
Perhaps because they’d all seen me run for Canada, it wasn’t exactly a surprise. No one told me not to go. They talked about their own choice to lean into community, into their work. The ones I’m closest to understood my need for safety – some of them even urged me to leave so I could have some day-to-day happiness instead of the struggle with fear we all knew I’d have in the USA.
Plus, since I’ve been nomadic, no one questioned whether I could adapt to another new country.
The support really came with how homesick I was – Portugal is my sixth country, and I’ve never been homesick before. It hit me hard, probably because I travelled constantly for 11 months before settling (I was only allowed to be in Portugal/the Schengen area for three months at a time, so I left, spent months in the UK, and came back).
Anyhow, I wanted to be home – and I couldn’t feel safe at home. A double bind, managed with lots of Zoom and WhatsApp.’
What has been your experience so far in Lisbon? Are people accepting? What do they think about your decision to leave the U.S.?
I have found so much acceptance and kindness in Portugal, both from Portuguese people and from ex-patriates here. Literally everyone thinks it’s a great thing that I left; no one questions it. It’s more like: of course, thank God – you’re safe here, please stay.
It’s common to see LGBTQ people holding hands on the street. Non-binary identity and pronouns are the hardest part, but thankfully I’ve found a very diverse storytelling community where people really make an effort to make me feel welcome and seen.
I have Swedish friends and Dutch friends and Brazilian friends. They’re often more liberal than Americans and have lived with universal healthcare and more advanced approaches to education and society.
I feel less like a unicorn here than I did in my own country. I have so much in common with other expats – we’re all seekers.
How will you continue to speak out about LQBTQ issues from your new home?
I’ve continued to speak out while living here – and have gotten progressively more vocal (some people would say, “You? Is it possible for you to be more vocal?”).
I give money, write essays and articles, make social media videos, and join online panels when asked. I speak, as I always have, about anti-racism, trans rights and pride, ableism, looksism and ageism, non-binary identity, and what intersectional feminism can offer. I speak out against fascism.
Meanwhile, Bachelorx is a watershed work in a very social justice-driven artistic life. I’ve made a lot of sacrifices to write and publish it – and it’s so worth it. As reviewers have said, it’s a trauma memoir, a queer manifesto, a comedy, a mythopoetic study in meaning, and above all, an out-of-the-box structural experiment in writing with plural voices.
In my book, I proudly assert that plural identity is normal, that queerness is normal, that a non-hierarchical, feminist, consent-based way of living is the only sound way forward.
That is how I speak out. Plus, I’ve recorded an audiobook in all my plural voices, each speaking for themselves. It’s terrifying and badass. Plural pride and queer joy.
What do you hope people will get from your book?
Bachelorx is a memoir told through plural voices – a queer, experimental exploration of identity, healing, and meaning, pushing the boundaries of how stories – and selves – can be told.
I hope by writing it as I have, to obliterate the misunderstanding and bias against plural and non-binary/trans people.
But more personally, I hope the book opens a path for readers to radical self-love – a love for all parts of who we are, without conditions, as we learn to become free and whole. I want people to recognize themselves in it, even if their experience looks completely different on the surface.
I hope they laugh – at teenage MICAH and George’s banter, at five-year-old Kara’s rants about the mean women I date, at my stating the obvious at every possible moment. I hope they cry at the heartbreak.
I hope it gives people permission to be more honest, more complex, more themselves. And ultimately, I hope it leaves people feeling less alone.
Do you ever see yourself coming back to the U.S.?
It’s very ironic that, having experienced living in countries that feel so much safer than the USA – no gun violence, little street crime, democratic socialism – and the peace these countries offer to an individual life, I would want to come home. I have often felt that if my Black friends could live here for six months and see how much better their lives could be, they’d be overwhelmed by how unnecessarily violent the USA has always been. We Americans have trouble imagining the felt sense of better. But better is subjective, too.
If the USA began to recover from this devastation of democracy, and I felt I could make a difference, I’d probably run right toward it. I don’t think I could help myself. I’d want to be part of the healing.
And if I was able, I’d want to live here part-time – for the rest and peace. I’d want to paddleboard all the remaining lochs in Scotland and Ireland.
I am incredibly grateful to Portugal. To Europe. To the oddest chance that let me be here now. I am not likely to forget the Bem-vindo. Bienvenidos. Bienvenue. Welcome.
Bachelorx: a Nonbinary Memoir
Skylar Lyralen Kaye
For more information:
TikTok: @bachelorx.nonbinary.book
Instagram: @lyralenkaye
Substack
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