Democrats Silent as Trans Athlete Allegations Rock Women’s Sports

Paul Riverbank, 1/9/2026 Supreme Court weighs trans athletes in women’s sports, igniting national debate on fairness and rights.

The two cases at the center of this storm—Little v. Hecox (Idaho) and West Virginia v. B.P.J.—didn’t arrive in the spotlight quietly. In both, male-born athletes who now identify as female are challenging state laws that block their participation on women’s teams. For the states, it’s framed as protecting opportunities and fairness for girls. For the athletes and advocacy groups, it’s a question of basic rights and dignity.

In West Virginia, the battle isn’t just about records or medals. It’s grown deeply personal. Adaleia Cross, a high school student, keeps a tight grip on her mom’s hand as she recounts why she left her athletic dreams behind: unease simmered in the locker room, festering after a transgender competitor allegedly made crude remarks. "He was saying… ‘I’m going to stick my d--- in your p---- and also in your a--,’" recalled her mother, Abby. Those words hung in the air, recorded both in memory and in written complaints to school authorities. The accused athlete, not surprisingly, denied everything; the ACLU leapt to their defense, and a school investigation labeled the accusations “unsubstantiated.” Yet, curiously, neither Adaleia nor her mother saw a resolution—no letter, no closure, just silence threading through the halls.

Emmy Salerno, another young woman from the same team, nods with empathy when Adaleia speaks. After refusing to compete against the transgender athlete, Salerno says she found herself on the receiving end of wordless, unsettling glares throughout meets. Friends noticed. She produced screenshots of a Snapchat post from the athlete: “Reminder that she has more testosterone than me.” It might have been meant as a joke, but to Salerno and her teammates, it wasn’t funny. “He didn’t want to talk to me. He just wanted to stare at me, and just stare down,” she recounted in a whisper, glancing at her coach for support.

These stories have made waves far beyond their hometowns. They landed just as a bloc of 130 Congressional Democrats submitted a brief to the Supreme Court urging protection for transgender athletes, citing Title IX as grounds. “All students deserve equal access to opportunity in schools—whether in the classroom, on the playing field, or in other settings,” wrote Senator Mazie Hirono, underscoring the cause as a civil right. But, following these new allegations from West Virginia, voices that once rang out for inclusion grew oddly quiet. Repeated requests to lawmakers like Hakeem Jeffries, Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, and Elizabeth Warren (all signatories) yielded little but a persistent “no comment.”

For half a century, Title IX has served as a bulwark for women and girls, unlocking new chances to play, compete, and earn scholarships. It draws a clear line: separate teams for boys and girls, built on the premise of sex—although, since 2016, that foundation has shifted. The phrase “gender identity” began to appear in federal guidance, a footnote that’s since rewritten policy battles across the country.

Proponents of sex-based sports defend this line fiercely. “Men have clear physiological advantages: They are faster and stronger than women, no matter how many wrong-sex hormones they ingest,” argued one retired national gymnastics champion, her voice echoing the frustration of many current athletes. Research, rankings, and raw numbers bear her out: sprinters, swimmers, basketball players—the records tilt male. Riley Gaines, Aryna Sabalenka, Sophie Cunningham; these are not backbenchers, but stars who say plainly that opportunities for women evaporate if sex distinctions collapse. “If you put [boys] up against females, yeah, they’re gonna win,” Cunningham shrugged. The sense of resignation in her tone told its own story.

Opposition to transgender inclusion isn’t just a conservative talking point—it’s drawn support from some unexpected quarters. The Women’s Liberation Front (WoLF), a self-styled radical feminist group, submitted their own amicus brief, describing gender self-identification as “another form of age-old misogyny… jacked up and retrofitted for the times.” Their warning: when males demand entry to women’s spaces, it’s rarely only about sport. It’s about power, vulnerability, safety. “Males who demand access to women’s spaces do so in an attempt to intimidate, harass, and sexually threaten women and girls.”

Yet, it’s not a one-sided field. Advocates for the trans athletes remind the public of a different set of dangers. “Categorical bans... undermine those protections and the ability of transgender students to be part of their school community,” their brief counters, urging the Court to see not threat, but promise, in inclusion. There’s also that deeper wound—the risk that exclusion at school sours into lifelong alienation, bullying, or worse.

What makes all of this more than a typical “culture war” squabble is the real-world, ground-level uncertainty it leaves behind. As statehouses race to erect (or dismantle) barriers—27 states have enacted restrictions so far—school districts, coaches, parents, and, most crucially, the girls themselves, are thrown into confusion. Sports authorities have tried to find some new, unifying path. The US Olympic Committee and NCAA both rewrote their eligibility policies last year, now leaning closer to White House guidance that’s friendlier to gender identity.

It hasn’t erased the problem. Beneath layers of policy and legal argument, discomfort lingers. Some female athletes—often those without superstar clout—feel the pressure most keenly. They walk a tightrope: speak out and risk social ostracism, stay silent and watch their opportunities slip away. Numbers fly in both directions: yes, women’s athletics is booming, with revenues soaring and crowds swelling for soccer, tennis, basketball. Yet, when polled, the public seems less enthralled by experiments with sex-based eligibility. Confidence in fair play is at a crossroads.

As the Justices prepare to hear arguments, one reality stands out: whatever their ruling, its effect will travel well beyond scoreboards and trophies. Embedded in the paperwork and the impassioned testimony is a much rawer question. Is “womanhood,” as it was long understood, fixed in law, or will the definition be made more malleable, folded into the era’s shifting cultural priorities? For every young girl walking into a tryout next fall, that answer will matter more than she may yet realize.

Perhaps the only certainty here is uncertainty itself—a national conversation that isn’t close to finished, no matter what the court decides.

It’s a strange new season in American athletics—one that might ultimately be defined not on the field, but inside the nation’s highest courtroom. Next week, arguments inside the Supreme Court’s marble halls could determine whether girls’ sports are reserved for those born female, or if the very idea of “female” will be rewritten by the weight of gender identity.The two cases at the center of this storm—Little v. Hecox (Idaho) and West Virginia v. B.P.J.—didn’t arrive in the spotlight quietly. In both, male-born athletes who now identify as female are challenging state laws that block their participation on women’s teams. For the states, it’s framed as protecting opportunities and fairness for girls. For the athletes and advocacy groups, it’s a question of basic rights and dignity.In West Virginia, the battle isn’t just about records or medals. It’s grown deeply personal. Adaleia Cross, a high school student, keeps a tight grip on her mom’s hand as she recounts why she left her athletic dreams behind: unease simmered in the locker room, festering after a transgender competitor allegedly made crude remarks. "He was saying… ‘I’m going to stick my d--- in your p---- and also in your a--,’" recalled her mother, Abby. Those words hung in the air, recorded both in memory and in written complaints to school authorities. The accused athlete, not surprisingly, denied everything; the ACLU leapt to their defense, and a school investigation labeled the accusations “unsubstantiated.” Yet, curiously, neither Adaleia nor her mother saw a resolution—no letter, no closure, just silence threading through the halls.Emmy Salerno, another young woman from the same team, nods with empathy when Adaleia speaks. After refusing to compete against the transgender athlete, Salerno says she found herself on the receiving end of wordless, unsettling glares throughout meets. Friends noticed. She produced screenshots of a Snapchat post from the athlete: “Reminder that she has more testosterone than me.” It might have been meant as a joke, but to Salerno and her teammates, it wasn’t funny. “He didn’t want to talk to me. He just wanted to stare at me, and just stare down,” she recounted in a whisper, glancing at her coach for support.These stories have made waves far beyond their hometowns. They landed just as a bloc of 130 Congressional Democrats submitted a brief to the Supreme Court urging protection for transgender athletes, citing Title IX as grounds. “All students deserve equal access to opportunity in schools—whether in the classroom, on the playing field, or in other settings,” wrote Senator Mazie Hirono, underscoring the cause as a civil right. But, following these new allegations from West Virginia, voices that once rang out for inclusion grew oddly quiet. Repeated requests to lawmakers like Hakeem Jeffries, Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, and Elizabeth Warren (all signatories) yielded little but a persistent “no comment.”For half a century, Title IX has served as a bulwark for women and girls, unlocking new chances to play, compete, and earn scholarships. It draws a clear line: separate teams for boys and girls, built on the premise of sex—although, since 2016, that foundation has shifted. The phrase “gender identity” began to appear in federal guidance, a footnote that’s since rewritten policy battles across the country.Proponents of sex-based sports defend this line fiercely. “Men have clear physiological advantages: They are faster and stronger than women, no matter how many wrong-sex hormones they ingest,” argued one retired national gymnastics champion, her voice echoing the frustration of many current athletes. Research, rankings, and raw numbers bear her out: sprinters, swimmers, basketball players—the records tilt male. Riley Gaines, Aryna Sabalenka, Sophie Cunningham; these are not backbenchers, but stars who say plainly that opportunities for women evaporate if sex distinctions collapse. “If you put [boys] up against females, yeah, they’re gonna win,” Cunningham shrugged. The sense of resignation in her tone told its own story.Opposition to transgender inclusion isn’t just a conservative talking point—it’s drawn support from some unexpected quarters. The Women’s Liberation Front (WoLF), a self-styled radical feminist group, submitted their own amicus brief, describing gender self-identification as “another form of age-old misogyny… jacked up and retrofitted for the times.” Their warning: when males demand entry to women’s spaces, it’s rarely only about sport. It’s about power, vulnerability, safety. “Males who demand access to women’s spaces do so in an attempt to intimidate, harass, and sexually threaten women and girls.”Yet, it’s not a one-sided field. Advocates for the trans athletes remind the public of a different set of dangers. “Categorical bans... undermine those protections and the ability of transgender students to be part of their school community,” their brief counters, urging the Court to see not threat, but promise, in inclusion. There’s also that deeper wound—the risk that exclusion at school sours into lifelong alienation, bullying, or worse.What makes all of this more than a typical “culture war” squabble is the real-world, ground-level uncertainty it leaves behind. As statehouses race to erect (or dismantle) barriers—27 states have enacted restrictions so far—school districts, coaches, parents, and, most crucially, the girls themselves, are thrown into confusion. Sports authorities have tried to find some new, unifying path. The US Olympic Committee and NCAA both rewrote their eligibility policies last year, now leaning closer to White House guidance that’s friendlier to gender identity.It hasn’t erased the problem. Beneath layers of policy and legal argument, discomfort lingers. Some female athletes—often those without superstar clout—feel the pressure most keenly. They walk a tightrope: speak out and risk social ostracism, stay silent and watch their opportunities slip away. Numbers fly in both directions: yes, women’s athletics is booming, with revenues soaring and crowds swelling for soccer, tennis, basketball. Yet, when polled, the public seems less enthralled by experiments with sex-based eligibility. Confidence in fair play is at a crossroads.As the Justices prepare to hear arguments, one reality stands out: whatever their ruling, its effect will travel well beyond scoreboards and trophies. Embedded in the paperwork and the impassioned testimony is a much rawer question. Is “womanhood,” as it was long understood, fixed in law, or will the definition be made more malleable, folded into the era’s shifting cultural priorities? For every young girl walking into a tryout next fall, that answer will matter more than she may yet realize.Perhaps the only certainty here is uncertainty itself—a national conversation that isn’t close to finished, no matter what the court decides.