Intersections of Exclusion: The Lived Realities and Resistance of Trans Women of Color Sex Workers in New York City

Problematizing Sex Work and Transgender Criminalization

Sex work occupies a contested space within feminist criminology, shaped by enduring tensions between abolitionist and labor-rights frameworks. Abolitionist perspectives conceptualize prostitution as inherently coercive and constitutive of patriarchal domination (Barry, 1996; Dworkin, 1993), while sex worker rights and sex-positive feminist approaches emphasize labor, agency, and the structural conditions that constrain economic choices (Chapkis, 2013). Critical trafficking scholars have increasingly challenged binary framings of sex workers as either victims or empowered entrepreneurs, instead situating sex work within intersecting regimes of gender, race, class, and carceral governance (Bernstein, 2019; Musto, 2016).

For transgender women, particularly Black and Latina trans women, these debates intersect with longstanding histories of racialized gender regulation. TWOC are disproportionately exposed to criminalization in public space, including arrests for prostitution-related offenses, loitering, and “walking while trans” policies (Baker, 2019; Mogul et al., 2011). Policing practices often target gender presentation itself, rendering trans embodiment suspect and legible as deviance irrespective of behavior (Mogul et al., 2011). Within this context, sex work is criminalized labor but also a site where racialized transmisogyny and carceral logics converge.

Empirical research consistently documents elevated levels of violence, housing instability, and labor market exclusion among transgender women engaged in sex work (Nadal et al., 2014; Nuttbrock, 2018). Discrimination in hiring, workplace harassment, and wage disparities significantly restrict access to formal employment (Grant et al., 2011). These exclusions are compounded by housing discrimination and shelter inaccessibility, which disproportionately affect TWOC (Spicer, 2010). Therefore, participation in sex trades emerges within constrained economic landscapes shaped by systemic marginalization rather than individual pathology.

Research on transgender sex workers has also documented heightened exposure to client violence, police harassment, and barriers to healthcare access (Platt et al., 2018). Importantly, scholars have argued that many of these harms are intensified by criminalization itself, which limits access to legal protections and increases vulnerability to exploitation (Moton, 2025). Carceral interventions framed as protective often reproduce surveillance and stigma, particularly for TWOC whose gender presentation is already subject to state scrutiny (Bernstein, 2019; Moton, 2025; Musto, 2016).

While this body of scholarship establishes the structural vulnerability of transgender women sex workers, fewer studies center how TWOC themselves interpret these conditions across the life course. Much of the empirical literature focuses on risk profiles, service utilization, or health outcomes, leaving less space for narrative accounts that connect early life experiences, labor exclusion, criminalization, and community survival strategies over time. Feminist criminology’s longstanding attention to pathways into criminalized systems provides a useful entry point for examining these trajectories.

Feminist and Queer Pathways to Criminalization

The feminist pathways perspective foregrounds women’s experiences of victimization, abuse, and economic marginalization as central routes into criminalized systems (Belknap, 2010; DeHart, 2008). Instead of treating offending as individual pathology, pathways research situates criminalization within cumulative life-course trauma and structural inequality. For TWOC, early experiences of familial rejection, school pushout, and homelessness often precede engagement with informal economies (Nadal et al., 2014). These experiences reflect broader failures of social institutions to support gender-diverse youth.

Queer pathways scholarship extends this framework by examining how criminalization operates through heteronormative and cisnormative regulation (Asquith et al., 2017; Winters, 2022). From this perspective, deviance is not inherent to LGBTQ+ identities but produced through institutional reactions to gender nonconformity. TWOC are frequently policed for their racialized gender expression which is often read as inherently disorderly or illicit (Baker, 2019). Integrating feminist and queer pathways highlights how structural exclusion and gender regulation interact to shape TWOC’s trajectories into and through the sex trade.

Intersectional Stigma and Structural Vulnerability

Intersectionality provides a foundational analytic for understanding how race, gender identity, class, and sexuality intersect to structure inequality (Crenshaw, 1991). Intersectional stigma scholarship further clarifies how overlapping stigmatized identities interact to produce compounded exclusion in institutional contexts (Bowleg, 2012; Turan et al., 2019). For TWOC sex workers, stigma operates multiplicatively, shaping experiences in healthcare settings, employment, housing markets, and courtrooms.

These intersecting stigmas also structure public narratives about sex work. Carceral feminist frameworks often collapse sex work into trafficking or victimhood, positioning state intervention as inherently protective (Bernstein, 2019; Moton, 2024, 2025; Musto, 2016). Such narratives can obscure the ways TWOC articulate survival strategies, mutual aid networks, and alternative visions of safety that extend beyond punitive responses. Centering intersectional stigma alongside pathways scholarship allows for a more nuanced understanding of how structural vulnerability and agency coexist within constrained conditions.

Site Context

I conducted this research in New York City, a jurisdiction experiencing notable shifts in its approach to sex work criminalization. Since 2021, all five boroughs have taken steps toward partial decriminalization, including the vacatur of prostitution-related charges and convictions and the repeal of the “Walking While Trans” law (Bromwich, 2021; Clark, 2021). These legal reforms emerged through years of organizing by trans-led and sex worker-led coalitions (Santiago, 2021). However, the participants I interviewed primarily reflected on experiences that occurred before these reforms took effect, offering insight into the long-standing harms that preceded legal reform and continue to shape the lives of TWOC.

Sampling and Recruitment

Given the criminalized and stigmatized nature of sex work and the pervasive institutional mistrust among TWOC, I employed a snowball sampling method to ethically access this hard-to-reach population. I recruited initial participants (or “seeds”) through trusted community organizations and digital network listservs. Subsequent participants were referred by individuals I had already interviewed, allowing recruitment to proceed through existing relational trust and peer validation (Frank & Snijders, 1994). I selected this approach because it aligns with feminist and queer methodological traditions that prioritize relationship-building, participant autonomy, and harm reduction throughout the research process.

Data Collection

I conducted in-depth, semi-structured interviews from September 2021 to January 2022. Each interview lasted approximately 60 min. During the interviews, I asked participants about their life histories, pathways into sex work, encounters with police and courts, experiences of gendered and racialized labor exclusion, and participant-driven visions for policy and support. I developed the interview guide using both existing scholarship and input from individuals with lived experience (Gerassi et al., 2017). All participants received a $50 honorarium in recognition of their time, labor, and expertise.

Data Analysis

I audio-recorded and professionally transcribed all interviews. I then analyzed the transcripts using reflexive thematic analysis (Braun & Clarke, 2006) in Atlas.ti. Consistent with feminist and queer methodological approaches, I approached coding as an interpretive and iterative process rather than a neutral act of theme discovery. Instead of assuming that patterns would “emerge,” I actively engaged the data through repeated close readings, analytic memo-writing, and reflexive questioning about how my theoretical commitments and social location shaped interpretation.

I began with open coding to capture participants’ language, conceptual categories, and meaning-making processes. During this phase, I coded expansively, prioritizing participants’ own framing of structural harm, survival strategies, and institutional encounters. As patterns became more visible across interviews, I grouped related codes into broader conceptual categories. These themes did not naturally organize themselves within the data; rather, I determined that they provided an analytically useful structure for synthesizing recurring patterns while preserving participants’ interpretive frameworks. Throughout this process, I moved between individual narratives and cross-case comparison, asking how particular experiences were shaped by intersecting systems of race, gender, class, and criminalization.

To enhance reflexivity and analytic rigor, a subset of transcripts was co-coded with a research collaborator. We discussed points of divergence and convergence in interpretation, refining code definitions and analytic boundaries. I also maintained analytic memos documenting coding decisions, theoretical insights, and moments of tension in interpretation (Schwartz-Shea, 2015). These practices ensured that the resulting thematic structure reflects both systematic engagement with the data and sustained reflexive attention to my role in knowledge production.

Childhood Trauma and Familial Rejection

Many participants traced their involvement in the sex trade to early experiences of trauma, rejection, or instability. Others described more gradual entry shaped by economic pressures or peer influence. For those who experienced family-based violence or displacement, these events often preceded engagement in survival sex work. Yolanda, a 40-year-old mixed-race trans woman, described the intersection of gender-based violence and familial rejection that led to her early departure from home and reliance on sex work:

When I started dressing as a woman, I ran away a lot. My family wouldn’t allow it. My dad would beat the shit out of me, so I had to go. And at first, sex work was a means of survival. I was living on the streets and I ain’t have nobody to take care of me. I had to do what I had to do to ensure that I was OK. Also…drug abuse and stuff like that also made me do it. This was early on when I was 12 or 13. I was a baby.

Yolanda described leaving home as a direct response to violence and framed sex work as a strategy for securing shelter and resources during adolescence. America, a 21-year-old Black trans woman, detailed a different but similarly early trajectory:

I started selling sex at 14. Before I left home, I was molested. My mother was a sex worker and my father was a drug addict. I had a horrible childhood experience. I was raped, my father was molesting me, then my mother kicked me out and I was on the streets. I had no documentation. I was forced to engage in oral and anal sex just to find somewhere to stay. I even had to fuck neighbors or family members. It was the only way. But I’m getting supportive housing, I can’t do this anymore.

America connected childhood abuse, parental neglect, and homelessness to her early engagement in sex work. Like others in the sample, she described limited options during adolescence.

Not all participants framed entry exclusively through trauma. Some described peer mentorship or chosen family as central to their early experiences. Trina, a 35-year-old Black trans woman, reflected:

I was so traumatized from my family. I didn’t know what love was. I wanted to be loved so bad, I thought I could find it in other people. I was also so scared that I was going to go into foster care, so I went out there [to the stroll] and was taught how to do it [sex work]. The older girls helped me and taught me how to do it. They became my family.

Trina emphasized both displacement and community formation. Across interviews, participants differed in how centrally they positioned family rejection, but early trauma and economic vulnerability were commonly described as shaping later pathways.

Criminal Legal Encounters

Participants described varied interactions with law enforcement and courts. Some recounted frequent stops and arrests; others described particular incidents that shaped their perceptions. Janelle, a 39-year-old Black trans woman, recounted her first time dressing in alignment with her gender identity and the response from police:

But unfortunately, the cops don’t care what area you are in. If you’re a Black trans woman or a gay man, then you’re a prostitute to them. And so unfortunately, that first night I went to the pier to show the other trans people that I became friends with how I looked all dressed up. But instead, they [police officers] jump out of a car, started yelling with their guns aimed at us and then they arrested all of us. They arrested me dressed in my women’s clothes and I was thrown in a men’s jail. We weren’t even bothering nobody.

Janelle described being arrested despite not engaging in sex work at that moment. Others similarly described feeling targeted based on gender presentation, race, and location. Beverly, a 39-year-old Black trans woman, explained:

Now they [police] would be locking us up, even if you wasn’t prostituting, you know, they would be locking you up even because the way you was dressed. Or because of the area you was in, you know, or maybe you had too many condoms in your pocket. The cops knew me. So, even if I’m just walking down the street, they’d pick me up. I’m minding my own business, going to the store to get cigarettes and they see me, now I’m spending a night in jail. I had to start planning when I was going to the store to make sure I miss the cops patrolling.

Participants described routinely modifying their movements, appearance, and daily routines in efforts to avoid police contact, harassment, or arrest. These strategies shaped how participants navigated public space and reflected broader concerns about surveillance and criminalization.

Participants also described courtroom experiences as sites of humiliation and discrimination, recounting instances of being mocked, misgendered, or otherwise demeaned by court personnel, including judges and clerks. Evelyn, a 52-year-old Hispanic trans woman, reflected:

I mean I got immune to them [criminal legal officials] treating us a certain way. And especially because we were transgender women and we ain’t White. As soon as we come out in a courtroom, it’s like you see some of the guards they have a smirk on their face. The judges usually always be the serious ones. They roll their eyes at us while they’re trying a case that has nothing to do with prostitution. So, it’s like they already made up their mind, like what they’re going to say to us, what they’re going to give us [sentence]. Or what they are going to do to us.

Others described how court officials weaponized their discretionary power to impose additional penalties. Candy, a 55-year-old Black trans woman, described discretionary sentencing practices:

Say for example, the prosecutor or whoever wants to give you 10 days in jail. And then I say I can’t do 10 days, I have my apartment, I gotta pay my rent. And they will see my other girlfriends [trans women] in the booth there to support me. Then they [the prosecutor] will go up to the judge and the judge would then say 20 days in jail. More time than before! So yeah, it was a lot of stuff like losing my housing, losing jobs, losing respect from family members because prosecutors and judges want to play games.

Participants framed these encounters as routine aspects of everyday life rather than isolated incidents. Repeated experiences of harassment, profiling, and violence shaped how many participants understood and navigated interactions with the criminal legal system, reinforcing expectations of mistreatment in both public and institutional settings.

Employment Discrimination

Participants described varied experiences in the formal labor market. Some emphasized attempts to secure stability through legal employment, while others focused on persistent barriers tied to gender identity, race, and workplace climate. Across accounts, participants discussed being denied opportunities, encountering harassment, being underpaid, or experiencing stalled advancement, all of which shaped how they evaluated formal employment relative to sex work.

Loretta, a 57-year-old Black trans woman, reflected on the cultural messaging she received about trans women and employment and how those messages continue to resonate:

When I first came out in the ‘90s, people told me if you’re a trans woman, you could never have a regular job because society doesn’t accept us. And the ones that had jobs were related to being a sex worker like teaching them [other trans women] safe sex or to help you get out of sex work. It was never like a regular office job. But now, there’s still a lot of barriers for us, because there are times when I go to work [at a fast-food restaurant] and there’s barriers I have to get by. For example, there’s one guy at my job, when he walks by me, like he puts his hands like ‘this’ [covers face] because he can’t stand to look at me. So, we still have a long way to go.

Loretta described this kind of workplace hostility as emotionally exhausting and as something that could shape decisions about whether to remain in formal employment. She elaborated on how ongoing harassment could push some TWOC back toward sex work:

You know how that guy at my job covers his face and stuff? Stuff like that could trigger girls to say, you know, fuck this office job, let me go and do sex work because when I do sex work, the men don’t make me feel like that. So that’s a trigger. Working and dealing with people in regular society every day, it’s a different story. A lot of stuff would trigger you to go back to what you know, whether it’s safe or not. Some girls enjoy what they do [sex work], but most of them don’t. They don’t want to do that. They want a better life. But they don’t want to deal with the reality where they have to deal with discrimination at a regular job every day.

Other participants discussed pay inequities and lack of recognition, including in settings where they were hired to support LGBTQ+ or trans communities. Jessica, a 39-year-old Hispanic trans woman, described her experience working at a state agency where she played a central role in developing a gender-affirming healthcare program but did not receive a raise or promotion:

What I went through with them [her former employer] was unbelievable, really. They used me for my knowledge and never gave me the money I deserved. Like, I built their program [gender-affirming care for trans clients] from the ground up. It was my dream job, but the program director ended up making it so impossible for me to continue to work there. I always wanted to be able to help my community in a positive way. And I felt like helping them getting their surgeries was what needed to be done in that moment. I spearheaded the whole initiative. And so afterward, I asked for a raise. And they thought I was crazy. I was there for 5 years, and I know people who got raises after 2 or 3 years. And people [White cisgender co-workers] would get promotions over me constantly despite my contributions. I never got anything, so I quit.

Jessica framed her departure as the result of feeling undervalued and blocked from advancement despite sustained labor and expertise.

Despite these barriers, some participants emphasized that formal employment could offer meaningful stability or a pathway to reduce reliance on sex work, particularly when jobs provided safety, respect, or a sense of purpose. Genesis, a 40-year-old Black trans woman, reflected on the role her current position has played in her life:

Now I have gotten this job [peer support coordinator], I’m trying to slow down on it [sex work]. It’s a different life [sex work]. It’s all I know. For me, I enjoy this job more than going out there and having to deal with these different types of men and dealing with all the bullshit on the stroll. You know, the men feel like they own you, you know? They say, ‘I already paid you,’ or you get into an incident or you’re taking too long, or ‘give me my money back.’ You know, it’s just too much. Girls are dying out there. When you’re grown and you’re basically raised into that? It is hard to just get out of it. And then you see yourself like you are not worthy of nothing else. It plays with your mental state. I’m surprised that I made it this many years. 40 years old. I’m starting to feel it now like body wise. And that’s why I’m glad that I have this new job.

Genesis described formal employment as a source of income, a shift in day-to-day safety, and a reorientation toward a different future. Across interviews, participants described significant obstacles to stable employment, though the intensity and form of these barriers varied. For some, workplace discrimination and exclusion shaped whether formal employment felt viable or sustainable. For others, particular jobs offered partial relief, stability, or a pathway toward reducing sex work.

Persistent Fear and Hypervigilance

Participants described ongoing concerns about safety while engaging in sex work, as well as harassment and violence encountered in public spaces more broadly. These experiences varied in frequency and severity, but many participants spoke about navigating daily life with heightened vigilance shaped by gender identity, race, and occupation. Talia, a 38-year-old Black trans woman, described harassment occurring both inside and outside the context of sex work:

I have found myself dodging bottles in the streets from people just walking by. They use the f bomb ¹ and throw bottles at us [trans women]. I have had eggs thrown at me for Halloween and one guy threw a cup full of pee at me before. I’ve had to fight just trying to walk down the street, and somebody just decided that they want to fight me and impress their friends…And when it comes to sex work, I mean, I’ve had to fight clients before because for whatever reason, they probably were intoxicated and decided to attack.

Talia’s account situates violence within both public space and transactional encounters. She described harassment as something that extended beyond work itself.

Vivian, a 53-year-old Asian trans woman lacking authorized immigration status in the United States, spoke about fear that intensified with age and visibility:

I ask myself, is my life in danger? You know, sometimes I put myself in the position where I’m on a regular [cisgender] female stroll. Sometimes people don’t even know what I am [transgender]. You know, I ask myself am I going to survive until tomorrow? At my age, I can’t defend myself like I used to. I’m scared whenever I get in the car with a new client. This is a thing I have to deal with and think about. You know, sometimes like when you’re on drugs, you don’t care. But when you’re sober, you think about stuff and you’re nervous, especially when you haven't done it in a long time.

Vivian described weighing visibility, age, and immigration precarity when assessing risk. She also connected substance use to temporary relief from fear. Several participants shared direct experiences of physical violence. Janelle, a 39-year-old Black trans woman, recounted a near-fatal assault:

Some people are horrible. I don’t want it to be my last day with somebody I really don’t know. Right? Because it has happened. You know I was going down on somebody for some money and they didn’t know [that I was trans]. And they figured it out and they got really close to killing me. They stabbed me four times. They thought I was dead. It was almost my last day living.

Janelle described the attack as occurring after a client realized she was transgender. In addition to describing violence, participants discussed decisions shaped by financial urgency. Wanda, a 44-year-old Black trans woman, explained:

You’re in a predicament where you have to make decisions based on surviving. So even when things look risky, like, why would I get in a car with two people, right? But if you’re doing survival sex and two people pull up with the money, and if you’ve been out here on the stroll five hours and this is your only opportunity, that’s why you get in a car with two people. You’re in a lot more danger entertaining two people at once because you don’t know what they had planned before they got to you. And then if one of them attacks you and the other one doesn’t, it’s not like he’s gonna report it or turn his friend in. He ain’t gonna help you. No one’s gonna help you.

Wanda described making decisions where immediate economic need shaped assessments of risk. Across interviews, participants described managing fear through strategies such as screening clients, working in familiar areas, coordinating with peers, or adjusting schedules. Some framed fear as constant; others described periods of relative stability interrupted by specific incidents. Prior research has documented alarmingly low life expectancy estimates among TWOC (Platt et al., 2018), and several participants referenced awareness of violence in their communities when reflecting on their own safety. Experiences differed in intensity and frequency, but many described living with some degree of ongoing vigilance while navigating public space and sex work.

Policy and Programming Needs of TWOC Sex Workers

Participants were asked what changes they believed would improve safety, stability, and well-being for TWOC sex workers. Their responses addressed legal reform, institutional practices, housing and health services, employment access, and community-based support. Several participants began by emphasizing the importance of listening to sex workers themselves. America, a 21-year-old Black trans woman, described the need for supportive relationships and safe spaces where sex workers can receive guidance and assistance navigating services: “Sex workers need someone to hear them, be patient with them, and help them get to a safe place. If you listen to us, we’ll tell you that we need a friend, we need someone to help guide us.”

Participants also spoke about reforms within the criminal legal system, particularly the need to reduce harassment and improve how transgender individuals are treated by police and courts. Evelyn, a 52-year-old Hispanic trans woman, explained: “We need to decriminalize sex work so the police will stop harassing us and let sex workers do what we want to do. Because all they do is misgender us, arrest us, then send us to the male jails.”

Jessica, a 39-year-old Hispanic trans woman, described how greater education among legal actors could improve responses to sex workers’ experiences:

When I went to court, they would have recognized my trauma if they were more educated on sex work and how it can turn out differently. I was trafficked at one point and got arrested and my social service representative vouched for my trafficker! So, we need to continue to educate the different agencies in the city about sex work and trafficking and how to deal with the survivors. We need a sex worker representative for the mayor’s office to advocate for us at the city level.

Participants also highlighted the need for expanded access to housing, health care, harm reduction services, and community-based resources. Trina, a 35-year-old Black trans woman, emphasized the importance of creating spaces where sex workers’ experiences are acknowledged and their stories are heard: “We need to be heard, our stories need to be told. Services like more HIV testing, support groups, drug treatment, more research on us and for us. I’m tired of LGBT prostitutes dying and no one hearing our stories.” Similarly, Wanda, a 44-year-old Black trans woman, described a wide range of services that could support stability and well-being:

Oh wow, we need mental health treatment and counselors that look like us or are at least compassionate toward us, housing, parenting classes, shelter, stability and structure, sex-ed classes, condoms, protection, life guidance to stay off drugs, or even just regular access to a bath so we can wash ourselves and get clean between dates. It helps with self-esteem.

Participants also discussed community-based safety strategies that are already used informally among sex workers. Janelle, a 39-year-old Black trans woman, described the importance of peer networks, housing support, and shared safety information:

A facility for sex workers that could double as housing. The younger generation of sex workers need proper resources. A buddy system to navigate the dangers of sex work. Trans sex workers are being murdered and we need compassion as a community. Maybe create an organization where if this [trading sexual services] is what they’re [sex workers] doing, we make them feel comfortable, like safe spaces. We need housing. If you have a stable home, it’s somewhere you can lay your head. I’ve seen these things on Facebook called Bad Date Lists where we can report violent Johns and warn our sisters [fellow sex workers].

Loretta, a 57-year-old Black trans woman, also emphasized peer mentorship and knowledge-sharing among sex workers: “More older street workers should train the newer ones to be safe, like a mentorship program for newer sex workers, peer support.” In addition to these community-based strategies, participants frequently discussed the value of centralized services where multiple needs could be addressed in one location. Genesis, a 39-year-old Black trans woman, described her vision for a program that would provide coordinated support:

Something like one place where we can get everything taken care of. It’s too much trying to make appointments at all these different places. We need stuff like substance abuse treatment, mental health treatment, housing or a shelter, education on abusive relationships. Like a social worker or something to see if sex workers have been trafficked and if they’re underage. A lot of stuff like that. That would be amazing because a lot of the girls have nowhere to go. So, if they had like one stable place to get help, a lot of the girls probably wouldn’t be out on the street.

Employment opportunities and job training were also recurring themes. Participants discussed both the desire for employment and the barriers that can make it difficult to transition out of sex work. Deja, a 57-year-old mixed-race trans woman, explained:

We need jobs, most importantly. Because a lot of sex workers feel like they have no end, you know, especially when you’ve been a sex worker since you were a kid or a teenager. Most trans people who are sex workers are doing it since they were children, you know, and that’s the only thing that they knew. Now they’re getting little jobs here and there. They’ve opened up these peer positions, there’s a lot more now than it was 10 years ago. That’s what I try to do, I try to help people get jobs and stuff like that.

Talia, a 38-year-old Black trans woman, distinguished between the availability of jobs and the kinds of support needed to help people access and maintain employment:

I think sex workers don’t necessarily need employment opportunities. They need employment opportunity support. Because you can say McDonald’s is always hiring, that is true. But when that Black trans sex worker walks into McDonald’s, are they going to hire her? Just because places are hiring doesn’t mean they will hire you (speaker emphasis). It’s up to their discretion. You may need that first check to get professional clothes. So, we have to have more compassion, giving more space for people who are trying to climb.

Education and skill-building were also raised as alternatives to punitive responses. Yolanda, a 40-year-old mixed-race trans woman, explained:

Not every sex worker hates being a sex worker. They just need someone to sit down and analyze them and find out what they want. We need education instead of jail time. Make us take classes, not just the GED. Force us to take vocational classes so we have skills and can be more in control of our lives. Without skills, we’re susceptible to putting our lives into someone else’s hands. This is similar for trans and cis women sex workers alike.

Finally, several participants emphasized the importance of family acceptance and early intervention. Candy, a 55-year-old Black trans woman, reflected on how family rejection can shape later vulnerability:

Here’s what I will say. The world needs to understand when we throw our children away—when we disown, dismiss, and unlove them—we give them these options [sex work]. And any parent that has told their trans child not to come home anymore or whatever… you sent your child out to sell their body.

Across interviews, participants described policy and program needs spanning legal reform, housing stability, employment access, health services, and community-based support. Their recommendations addressed both immediate safety concerns and longer-term structural conditions shaping entry into and reliance on sex work.

Limitations

Although I sought to engage a diverse group of participants, the sample was predominantly Black (10 of 17 participants). This reflects the disproportionate representation of Black trans women in street-based sex work and the criminal legal system, but it also limits my ability to explore intra-group differences across racial or ethnic identities. Given that race, gender identity, and labor stigma intersect in distinct ways, future research should examine the experiences of Latinx, Asian, Indigenous, multiracial, and immigrant TWOC sex workers to further explore these nuances.

I also relied on snowball sampling, which allowed me to ethically access a hard-to-reach and criminalized population but may have introduced bias through participants’ social networks. Ideally, researchers would assess such bias against a known population (Heckathorn, 1997), but because TWOC sex workers constitute a hard-to-reach population without a defined sampling frame, representativeness cannot be determined (Nadal et al., 2014). Future studies could incorporate social network analysis or respondent-driven sampling to access a broader and more varied group of TWOC sex workers, including those working indoors, those with diverse immigration statuses, or those outside established peer networks (Knoke & Yang, 2008).

Additionally, I relied on retrospective self-reported interview data. Participants reflected on past experiences, including childhood events and prior encounters with the criminal legal system, which may be subject to recall bias. Memories can shift over time, and traumatic experiences may be remembered in fragmented or evolving ways. The narratives presented here reflect participants’ interpretations of their experiences at the time of the interview rather than verifiable chronological accounts.

Interview-based research is also shaped by social desirability dynamics. Given the stigmatization of sex work, criminalization, and substance use, participants may have chosen to withhold certain details or present aspects of their experiences selectively. To mitigate these concerns, I conducted interviews in private settings and emphasized confidentiality. However, the possibility of selective disclosure remains.