Beneath the numbers

What are we missing when we overly focus on the number of detransitioners who participate in research studies?

Detransitioned people are a “hard-to-reach,” minoritized population, according to research standards used in the social sciences/health sciences.

Broadly speaking, hard-to-reach populations are those that you can’t easily reach using typical methods used with the general population, like, say, randomly phoning or e-mailing people to take a survey.

Hard-to-reach and minoritized populations can be difficult to study due to histories of strained relationships between academic researchers and patients/service user communities (such as is the case with LGBTQ+ and detrans people). This has resulted in rightful mistrust and skepticism from communities of people who may have been hurt by academic research studies or care providers in the past.

In fact, in our own research, we’ve often heard or learned of detrans people who were well aware of existing call for participants, but nonetheless expressed no interest, refused to participate, or even advised other detransitioned folks to refrain from participation for these reasons. This has helped us understand how some detransitioners may approach participating in research studies. Even as researchers, we’re still learning about detransition and how to design studies that are respectful of and welcoming to a broad range of experiences. There is not, after all, one singular detrans experience.

Sometimes, there can also be political reasons that some people partake in, or decline, trans/detrans/retrans research. For instance, only participating in research with the hopes of contributing to a specific study outcome, or opting not to partake if there is a concern that that investigator does not share the same political/ideological perspective as the prospective participant. This article is not so much about that, though.

We’ve also encountered people who were eligible for our respective research studies but they declined participation for completely different factors—unrelated to politics or mistrust.

Usually, the reasons are along one of these two lines:

(1) “I don’t want to relive the past, I need to move on”; or

(2) “I don’t feel strong enough to share my story now.”

Others mention they are struggling with mental health issues and don’t feel able or prepared to participate at the time.

These experiences have got us thinking about some claims we’ve repeatedly heard on social media, in blog posts, and even in scientific venues that “X detransition study could only find X [a low number] participants,” implying that a small number of participants necessarily means irrelevance, statistical or otherwise. “This contrasts,” they say, “with the most recent US Transgender Survey, which managed to recruit over 90,000 trans participants!”

Leaving aside the outright downplaying and minimization of detransition when it does occur, even as it is a minority experience within gender diverse communities, these claims presume that self-disclosure of detransition-related experiences via research studies would be a positive thing for those who take part. Maybe so, because detransition is still an emerging reality in need of much attention and better understanding from a neutral research perspective. If one has an experience that is poorly understood, under-researched, stigmatized, ignored, and minoritized by the academic research enterprise itself, what other way is there to move information forward?

However, this way of thinking completely misses the point.

In our own experience, the decision not to participate in a detransition study can be as revealing as a detransition story itself. A refusal or silence can speak volumes about wounds that are still open. Nonparticipation does not always mean absence or indifference: it may well communicate a decision of self-protection.

The “hard-to-reach” status of detransition research tells us a lot about the weight of stigma and the emotional costs, especially in a highly politicized context where support and understanding are hard to come by. Of course, this can’t be captured by statistics alone.

A low participation rate or difficulty in finding participants for a detransition study doesn’t mean that these experiences don’t exist or aren’t important. Rather, it highlights some of the real barriers to broad societal understanding that detransitioned people and others who had a non-linear gender transition face today.

When research participants choose to share such intimate details of their lives, they do so knowing that they are entering a public space where stories about detransition are often scrutinized, misunderstood, or weaponized against them. This is not a casual disclosure: it’s an act of courage that boldly resists prevailing assumptions about gender, identity, and mainstream beliefs about gender transition. And sharing one’s story about transition/detransition/retransition that challenges conventional beliefs about detransition similarly can upend stereotypical or narrow ideas about these experiences.

In addition, some detransitioned people (though not all!) face some degree of community isolation. Sharing these experiences is an emotionally draining decision that requires a supportive space, perhaps an on-going human relationship, which a single face-to-face virtual interview with a stranger or even an anonymous online survey may not be able to provide.

In many ways, the reluctance to participate is itself critical data that provides a window of insight into the phenomena under study.

Non-participation provides crucial context about the costs of sharing one’s story in an environment where vulnerability can invite judgement. It also reveals a wider cultural and knowledge context in which detransition is not only under-researched, but often actively marginalized (or distorted for political wins).

The emotional toll of reliving difficult experiences, coupled with the fear of judgement, may create an environment where silence becomes protection and power.

This realization, I believe, should compel us to rethink the discourses around numbers in detransition research. When someone reinforces the idea that detransition is a minor issue because the number of participants in a study is “small,” we need to ask them and ourselves:

Aren’t we missing something? What is really stopping people from telling their stories of detransition or post-transition gender exploration?

When we consider the stigma, the fear of being judged and taken out of context, and the potential for retraumatization, it’s no wonder that so many opt out.

Ultimately, the challenge isn’t just about recruiting more participants. It’s about understanding the emotional and social barriers that prevent many from sharing their stories. The real takeaway is the range of personal and systemic barriers that can prevent people from coming forward.

By taking these barriers seriously, we can work towards research methods that create safer spaces and respect individual boundaries, while still striving to shed light on an under-researched and marginalized reality.

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