OPINION | Ugla writes about navigating life as a trans person in Iceland vs. UK
Having lived both in the UK and Iceland as a trans person, it’s bizarre to consider how different the experiences are between these two countries. On one hand, Iceland is hailed as one of the most progressive nations on LGBTQIA+ rights, consistently ranking near the top on both the ILGA Europe Rainbow Map and the TGEU Trans Rights Map. On the other, the UK has earned the nickname ‘Terf Island’ – a reflection of the growing hostility and political turmoil surrounding trans rights.
In recent years, the UK has refused to ban conversion therapy, restricted life-saving puberty blockers for young trans people, and is now moving towards banning trans people from using public facilities such as bathrooms that align with their gender identity, following a Supreme Court ruling. Trans people are demonised daily in the press and on television, while well-funded anti-trans groups increasingly take employers to court for supporting their trans staff.
As someone who speaks publicly about trans issues, I am met with relentless abuse simply for existing in public life. People attack my looks, body, and identity. If I share positive stories of acceptance, I’m accused of lying. If I highlight the challenges trans people face, I’m accused of hating women. If I defend myself, I’m accused of being aggressive, hysterical, or abusive. I’ve even received death threats serious enough to involve the police.
The irony is that this kind of abuse mirrors what many other women face when they dare to speak online. In a twisted way, it confirms my womanhood – because I am attacked with the same misogyny directed at women more broadly.
Meanwhile, Iceland has moved ahead with progressive legislation such as banning conversion therapy, setting out to remove restrictions on blood donations and the passing of the Gender Autonomy Act in 2019. With more progress to be made, we are pushing forward.
But Iceland is not perfect either. Just days ago, after I criticised a parliamentarian for repeating harmful anti-trans rhetoric in an interview, I was subjected to a barrage of online abuse. People misgendered me, speculated about my body, and called me mentally ill. I received hateful messages, got tagged into hostile comment threads, and watched as strangers showed up uninvited on my social media.
So while trans people have a stronger position here in Iceland, with broader legal protections and social acceptance, prejudice and violence still exist – and like elsewhere, it is growing. Anti-trans rhetoric is increasingly common in politics, media, and everyday conversations.
Just days ago, after I criticised a parliamentarian for repeating harmful anti-trans rhetoric in an interview, I was subjected to a barrage of online abuse. People misgendered me, speculated about my body, and called me mentally ill.
When I moved back to Iceland after eight years in the UK, I felt relief. Here, the media is far less hostile. I don’t worry as much for my safety. Using swimming pools or bathrooms that align with who I am isn’t a daily stress – or a looming legal threat, as it may soon be in the UK.
I also know I can safely appear in the media in Iceland without being ridiculed or humiliated by journalists, which is a stark contrast to my experiences in the UK – most infamously, when Piers Morgan mocked me on Good Morning Britain in 2017.
And yet, in the rhythms of day-to-day life, things aren’t always so different. This past weekend I went with my partner to look at a new house in a nearby town, browsed local shops, and chatted to people at an art faire. No one cared that I’m trans, as every day conversations and experiences don’t evolve around that. For all the noise in politics and media, most people don’t actually care all that much.
I am very aware of the privilege I hold in being able to navigate society without strangers knowing I’m trans. It is not a privilege I take lightly, especially as I watch the UK become increasingly hostile.
Even if bathroom bans become law in the UK, I won’t change how I live or how I use public facilities. These laws are unenforceable – and unless the government plans to install chromosome checkpoints at every bathroom door, I don’t see how it will work. And if they did, plenty of unsuspecting intersex people would be in for a rude awakening.
In reality, it will be gender non-conforming cisgender women that will face the most abuse with laws like this, as they by far outnumber the number of trans women. Bathrooms will now become a battlefield for self-proclaimed bathroom police, which will simply create chaos and danger where there was none before.
Living between Iceland and the UK has shown me how fragile that dignity can be, and how quickly rights can be stripped away once hate becomes normalised.
But at the end of the day, my life isn’t defined by bathroom bans, online trolls, or political debates. It’s defined by who I am, how I live my life, and the people around. It’s about the everyday moments – looking for a new home with my partner, chatting with strangers at an art fair, swimming at the local pool. That’s all most of us want: to live our lives with dignity and without constant scrutiny.
But living between Iceland and the UK has shown me how fragile that dignity can be, and how quickly rights can be stripped away once hate becomes normalised. Iceland may feel safer and more progressive, but the growing hostility here is a warning sign. The UK shows us what happens when misinformation and fear go unchecked.
For me, the challenge is to hold on to the small, ordinary joys while never losing sight of how precarious they are – and to keep speaking up, even when it’s hard, because silence only helps those who want to roll back our rights. If we allow hatred to become normal, it festers. Because when people stay silent in the face of hatred, it doesn’t disappear – it thrives, grows, and divides.