In the harsh fluorescent light of a men’s maximum-security prison in upstate New York, 34-year-old Mia Rodriguez has spent just seven days behind bars, but the terror feels like it has already lasted a lifetime. Convicted on a non-violent drug charge and sentenced to 18 months, Mia—a transgender woman who has lived openly as female for over a decade—was assigned to the general male population upon arrival. What she expected as difficult has quickly become unbearable. “I don’t sleep,” she said in a whispered phone call to her attorney.
“Every time the lights go out, I hear footsteps, doors opening, guys whispering my name like it’s a joke. I feel like prey.”
Mia’s story is not unique. Across the United States, transgender women are routinely placed in facilities designated for men, despite federal guidelines under the Prison Rape Elimination Act (PREA) that require serious consideration of an individual’s own views on their safety. In practice, the vast majority—thousands of transgender women—are housed according to their sex assigned at birth. Federal data shows only a tiny fraction, perhaps 10 out of over 1,000 in federal custody, ever see placement in women’s facilities. State systems follow similar patterns, leaving trans women isolated in environments where vulnerability is exploited.
From the moment of intake, the dangers compound. Mia describes being strip-searched by male officers in front of other inmates, her body exposed and mocked. “They laughed, called me names, said things like ‘You’re in the right place now, sweetheart.’ I tried to cover myself, but they made me stand there longer.” Protective custody—often the only alternative offered—means solitary confinement, which many trans inmates describe as trading one form of danger for another. In solitary, reports indicate trans women face harassment or assault from staff, with limited ways to report abuse without retaliation.
Within the first week, Mia has already faced multiple incidents that underscore her fear. On day three, during recreation in the yard, a group of inmates surrounded her, demanding “favors” in exchange for “protection.” She refused and was shoved against a fence, sustaining bruises to her arms and ribs. Corrections officers intervened only after the situation escalated, but no disciplinary action followed for the aggressors. “They told me to stay out of trouble,” Mia recounted. “Like it was my fault for being who I am.”
Studies paint a grim statistical picture that matches these personal accounts. Research from the Bureau of Justice Statistics reveals that transgender inmates report sexual assault rates as high as 37-40%, compared to around 3-4% for the general prison population. A Vera Institute of Justice survey of nearly 300 incarcerated trans people found more than half had experienced nonconsensual sexual contact during their current sentence. Over 30% cited harassment, threats, and attacks from other inmates as the primary reason they felt unsafe. In California alone, earlier studies showed nearly 60% of trans women reporting sexual assault while incarcerated.
The psychological toll is immense. Mia speaks of constant hypervigilance—scanning faces in the chow hall, avoiding showers when possible, sleeping with her back to the wall. “I feel like I’m disappearing,” she said. “My identity, my dignity, everything. I came in hoping to serve my time quietly, but now I’m just trying to survive each day.” Hormone therapy, which she had been on for years prior to incarceration, has been inconsistent; delays in receiving medication exacerbate dysphoria and emotional distress, making her feel even more alienated in her own body.
Advocates argue that these placements violate basic constitutional protections. The Supreme Court’s 1994 ruling in Farmer v. Brennan established that deliberate indifference to an inmate’s safety—particularly when vulnerability is known—amounts to cruel and unusual punishment. Yet trans women continue to face what experts call a “double punishment”: incarceration plus heightened risk of violence due to systemic bias.
Mia’s attorney has filed an emergency grievance requesting transfer to a women’s facility or at least segregated protective housing with better oversight. But approvals are rare and slow. In the meantime, she remains in the general population, where every interaction carries risk. “I’m not asking for special treatment,” she emphasized. “I’m asking not to be raped or beaten because of who I am. One week in, and I already feel like I might not make it out.”
Her experience highlights broader failures in the correctional system. While some states have designated “hubs” for trans inmates with clustered support services, these remain exceptions. Most facilities lack training for staff on gender identity issues, leading to misgendering, denial of care, and indifference to threats. Solitary confinement, used disproportionately against trans people “for their protection,” often worsens mental health, with reports of self-harm spiking in isolation.
As Mia enters her second week, the fear has not lessened. She avoids eye contact, eats quickly, and prays the nights pass quietly. “Prison is supposed to punish you for a crime,” she said. “But this feels like punishment for being trans. I just want to feel safe enough to close my eyes.”
Her story is a stark reminder that for transgender women in men’s prisons, safety is not guaranteed—it is a daily battle. Until policies prioritize lived gender identity and genuine risk assessment over outdated binary housing rules, women like Mia will continue to enter detention hoping for redemption, only to find themselves trapped in nightmare scenarios from the very first week.
