From Orientation High to Congressional Lows: Sarah McBride Opens Up About Her Darkest Moment in Office

When Sarah McBride stepped into Congress earlier this year, she became a symbol of progress for countless LGBTQ+ Americans. The Delaware Democrat's election as the first openly transgender member of the U.S. House of Representatives felt like a watershed moment—proof that the community's decades of organizing, visibility work, and relentless advocacy were paying dividends in the halls of power.

But behind the champagne toasts and historic photographs lies a more complicated, painful reality that McBride is now willing to discuss publicly.

"The high of orientation was met with probably the deepest low of my life outside of losing my husband to cancer," McBride told The Advocate in an interview published on November 3, 2025. The stark honesty of that statement—equating her darkest congressional moment with one of the most devastating personal losses of her life—underscores just how brutal the transition from celebration to reality has been for the congresswoman.

To understand McBride's experience, it's essential to recognize what it means to be a"first" in American politics. It's not simply about breaking a barrier; it's about absorbing the full weight of a community's hopes, fears, and historical trauma. Every misstep becomes a referendum on an entire identity. Every attack feels personal not just to the individual, but to everyone who sees themselves reflected in that person's story.

McBride has been remarkably thoughtful about this burden. In interviews with the Washington Blade earlier this year, she drew a comparison to Jackie Robinson, the baseball legend who integrated Major League Baseball in 1947. "Jackie Robinson understood the microscope that a'first' is under, understood that strength is often in being dignified and graceful under attack," McBride explained.

Yet even with that intellectual framework in place, even with a deliberate strategy of restraint and dignity, the reality of being targeted has proven emotionally devastating. The"deepest low" McBride referenced appears to be connected to the bathroom ban controversy that erupted just weeks after her election, when Republican Rep. Nancy Mace of South Carolina introduced a resolution to bar McBride from using women's restrooms in the Capitol.

The bathroom resolution was a calculated attack designed to generate exactly the kind of media firestorm and culture war distraction that Republicans have weaponized for years. It worked. The story dominated headlines. Democratic allies rushed to McBride's defense. LGBTQ+ advocates mobilized. House Speaker Mike Johnson announced he would enforce a bathroom ban.

What happened next revealed the impossible position McBride occupies. Rather than fight back publicly or make a dramatic stand, she chose a strategy of restraint that some in the community viewed as capitulation. She issued a statement calling for focus on"bringing down the cost of housing, health care, and child care, not manufacturing culture wars." When Johnson moved to enforce the bathroom ban—pointedly doing so on Transgender Day of Remembrance—McBride released a lengthier statement saying she would follow the rules"even if I disagree with them."

For some trans advocates, this response felt like a betrayal. They wanted their representative to fight, to refuse, to make a stand. But McBride's calculus was different, and she has since explained her reasoning with remarkable clarity in a new documentary about her election called"State of Firsts."

"The disobedience isn't taking a toilet seat; the disobedience is taking this congressional seat," McBride says in the film. "It's not just that they don't want me in bathrooms; they don't want me in Congress."

She continues:"A win for them is me fighting back and then turning me into a caricature. There would be a bounty on my head if I said I refused to comply. I refuse to be martyred. I want to be a member of Congress."

What McBride's recent comments to The Advocate reveal is that this strategic restraint—this refusal to be martyred—came at an enormous personal and emotional cost. The"deepest low" she describes isn't just about political calculation or strategic positioning. It's about the very human experience of being attacked, misgendered, and targeted while trying to do a job that most members of Congress never have to do under a microscope.

It's about being a trans person in a hostile environment, surrounded by colleagues who don't see you as fully human, who introduce legislation specifically designed to humiliate and exclude you. It's about having to maintain composure and dignity while your community viscerally feels every blow aimed at you.

"When you are a'first,' people viscerally feel your highs, but they also viscerally feel the lows," McBride told the Washington Blade. "And I think it's understandable that when people see behavior toward me in Congress, they feel it themselves."

Despite the darkness, McBride has found ways to move forward. Her strategy appears to have worked in at least one respect: Republicans like Mace and Marjorie Taylor Greene have since directed their attention elsewhere, and McBride has managed to work across the aisle to introduce and co-sponsor bipartisan legislation.

McBride has also been clear about her long-term vision."The power of proximity, the power of our presence—it doesn't change everything, but it has an impact," she said. At a panel discussion following the New York City premiere of"State of Firsts," she explained her approach to dealing with her antagonists:"You have to remove the incentives for these people, because at the end of the day the incentive is attention. They're employing the strategies of reality TV."

McBride's willingness to open up about her darkest moment comes at a time when the trans community faces unprecedented political hostility. From bathroom bills to healthcare restrictions to drag performance bans, transgender people—and particularly transgender politicians—have become targets in a broader culture war. McBride's experience is not unique; it's emblematic of what trans people in visible positions face every single day.

What makes her story significant for the LGBTQ+ community is not just that she has achieved something historic, but that she is willing to be honest about the cost. She's not pretending that being first is a triumphant narrative arc. She's acknowledging the pain, the isolation, the weight of representation, and the impossible choices that come with breaking barriers.

Her late husband, Andrew Cray—a trans health advocate and attorney who passed away from cancer a decade ago—was also trans and understood these struggles intimately. McBride has spoken about how much of her legislative work has been shaped by honoring his memory and his commitment to expanding access to healthcare. In many ways, McBride carries both her own burden and his legacy into Congress each day.

McBride's revelation about her darkest day is not a moment of defeat. Rather, it's an act of vulnerability that humanizes the work of representation and reminds the community that progress is not linear, that breaking barriers comes with real psychological and emotional costs, and that those who do this work deserve compassion and support—even when their strategies don't align with everyone's expectations.

As McBride continues her work in Congress, her willingness to speak openly about the highs and lows of her experience serves an important function. It validates the pain that many trans people feel in hostile environments. It acknowledges that dignity and restraint can coexist with deep emotional wounds. And it suggests that the real work of change—the long game, as McBride calls it—requires not just political strategy, but emotional resilience and community support.

The congresswoman may have faced one of the deepest lows of her life in those early weeks in Congress, but her decision to speak about it publicly is itself an act of strength and leadership.