Most of the time, the guards just looked the other way.
In the long arc of human dignity, a Colorado court settlement marks a rare moment when institutional walls—literal and bureaucratic—are forced to yield to the claims of the most vulnerable. Approximately 400 transgender women who endured years of sexual violence and medical neglect inside men's prisons will receive $2.15 million in compensation, new voluntary housing units, and access to gender-affirming care. The agreement, emerging from a 2019 civil rights lawsuit, does not merely redress past harm—it establishes a precedent that may quietly reshape how American prisons reckon with the bodies and identities they hold.
- Trans women in Colorado's men's prisons faced sexual assault at catastrophic rates—sometimes thirteen times higher than other inmates—while guards routinely looked away and housing requests went unanswered.
- A single brutal rape of a young trans woman transferred from a juvenile facility to an adult men's prison became the catalyst for a class-action lawsuit that would take years and enormous legal pressure to resolve.
- The consent decree forces Colorado to become the first state to establish voluntary separate housing units for trans women, a step federal law normally prohibits without a court order.
- Staff will now be required to use correct names and pronouns, cross-gender searches will be limited, and an expert committee—not a single administrator—will make housing decisions case by case.
- The settlement lands as part of a growing national legal movement, with similar victories already won in Washington, Georgia, California, and Idaho, signaling that 'deliberate indifference' to trans prisoner safety is increasingly indefensible in court.
When Taliyah Murphy received a letter in early 2018 announcing a class-action lawsuit on behalf of transgender women in Colorado's men's prisons, she recognized the world it described. She had lived it—targeted for sexual assault and extortion, surrounded by guards who turned away. "Most of the time," she would later say, "the guards just looked the other way."
The lawsuit, filed in 2019 by civil rights attorney Paula Greisen and the Transgender Law Center, grew from a specific tragedy: a young trans woman safely housed in a juvenile facility was transferred to an adult men's prison, where she was raped. Her repeated requests for safer housing were denied. That case opened a door, and Greisen found many more waiting behind it. National studies confirmed what these women already knew—between 35 and 59 percent of incarcerated trans people report sexual assault, a rate up to thirteen times higher than for other inmates.
The resulting settlement, expected to receive final approval in early 2024, is historic in scope. Colorado will pay $2.15 million to roughly 400 affected trans women, establish two new voluntary housing units—including a 100-bed unit at Sterling Correctional Facility and a 44-bed integration unit for women transitioning to the women's prison—and improve access to medical and mental health care. Staff will be trained on pronouns, cross-gender searches will be restricted, and housing decisions will be made by expert committees rather than anatomy alone. No trans woman can be forced into either unit or punished for refusing.
The settlement also confronts the gap between written policy and lived reality on gender-affirming care. Murphy herself pursued surgery twice during her incarceration, only to have the process stall because providers lacked training to evaluate her. She received care only after her release in 2020. Untreated gender dysphoria, research shows, compounds depression, anxiety, and self-harm—conditions already elevated among trans people.
Colorado's case joins a growing national legal movement. Since a 1994 Supreme Court ruling established that deliberate indifference to prisoner safety constitutes cruel and unusual punishment, trans inmates have won protections in multiple states. Greisen was direct about what it takes: "You often have to sue to get their attention." Murphy, now a small-business owner pursuing a degree in finance, frames the settlement in simpler terms—"We want them to leave better off than they came in."
In early 2018, Taliyah Murphy opened a letter that would reshape her understanding of what was possible. It announced a class-action lawsuit on behalf of transgender women like her—women locked in Colorado's men's prisons, facing years of sexual assault, extortion, and indifference from the guards meant to protect them. Murphy had been one of those women. She knew what it meant to be a target.
"We were targets for victimizing, whether it was sexual assault, extortion, you name it," Murphy said years later, after her release in 2020. "Most of the time, the guards just looked the other way." She was not alone. Across Colorado's prison system, trans women had been systematically denied safer housing and medical care for gender dysphoria—the psychological distress that arises when someone's gender identity conflicts with the sex they were assigned at birth. The lawsuit, filed in 2019 by civil rights attorney Paula Greisen and the Transgender Law Center, emerged from a specific tragedy: a young trans woman who had been housed safely in a juvenile facility was transferred to an adult men's prison, where she was brutally raped. When she asked repeatedly to be moved to housing with other women, citing safety concerns, the request was denied. That case opened a door. Greisen found many more.
The numbers tell a stark story. A 2014 Department of Justice study found that 35 percent of incarcerated trans people reported sexual assault in the previous year. A 2007 California study was even grimmer: 59 percent of trans women in that state's prisons had been sexually assaulted during incarceration—a rate thirteen times higher than for other inmates. Housing assignments in American prisons are determined almost entirely by anatomy, despite federal law requiring that safety concerns be considered. The result is predictable and devastating.
In January, a Colorado state judge held a hearing on a historic settlement—a consent decree expected to be finalized by early March—that would fundamentally reshape how the state houses and treats incarcerated trans women. The agreement, which received preliminary approval in the fall, mandates that Colorado become the first state to establish separate voluntary housing units for trans women. Federal law typically prohibits such units unless court-ordered; this settlement clears that path. The Colorado Department of Corrections will pay $2.15 million to affected trans women, update staff training and protocols, improve access to medical and mental health care, limit cross-gender searches by correctional officers, and require staff to use correct names and pronouns. Approximately 400 currently or formerly incarcerated trans women are eligible for compensation.
The housing plan itself reflects hard-won compromise. A 100-bed voluntary unit will be established at Sterling Correctional Facility, a men's prison. Trans women approved for transfer to the women's prison will spend several months in a 44-bed integration unit—a transition period designed to ease adjustment for both the trans women leaving traumatic situations and the cisgender women already housed there. Eligibility decisions will be made case-by-case by a committee including medical experts trained in gender-affirming care, psychiatric specialists, and prison officials. Critically, no trans woman can be forced into either unit or punished for refusing placement.
The settlement also addresses a second crisis: access to gender-affirming surgery and care. Colorado's prison system, like many across the country, has written policies on paper but lacks the infrastructure to deliver. Current rules require multiple recommendation letters from medical and mental health providers before a trans woman can be considered for surgery—a standard that contradicts guidelines from the World Professional Association for Transgender Health, which recommends an informed consent model. Taliyah Murphy's own experience illustrates the gap between policy and reality. She pursued gender-affirming surgery twice during her incarceration, which began in 2009 after a conviction stemming from an altercation with her abusive boyfriend. In 2019, a corrections psychiatrist finally recommended her for surgery. But other medical providers lacked the training to evaluate her, and the process stalled. She received surgical treatment only after her release in 2020. Untreated gender dysphoria can trigger depression, anxiety, self-harm, and suicidality—conditions already disproportionately affecting trans people because of discrimination and social stress. Treatment, research shows, generally resolves or improves these symptoms.
Colorado's case is part of a broader national movement. Since a 1994 Supreme Court ruling established that "deliberate indifference" to prisoner safety violates the Eighth Amendment's prohibition on cruel and unusual punishment, incarcerated trans people have won legal victories in Washington, Georgia, California, and Idaho. California became the first state to establish gender-affirming surgery policies in prisons, beginning in 2017. Idaho was ordered by a federal court to perform a surgery it had previously denied. As of December, 148 trans women were housed in Colorado prisons, with only nine in women's facilities. Before 2018, all trans women were housed with men.
Greisen, the attorney who filed the lawsuit, spoke plainly about what it took to get here. "The Department of Corrections in every state—it's like trying to turn around the Titanic. There's so much bureaucracy," she said. "You often have to sue to get their attention." Now, with independent medical experts hired and a gender-affirming care specialist on staff, Colorado has begun that turn. Taliyah Murphy, now a small-business owner in Colorado Springs pursuing a degree in finance and accounting, sees what the settlement means: "We want them to leave better off than they came in and get the care they need. That's what this is all about."
Notable Quotes
We were targets for victimizing, whether it was sexual assault, extortion, you name it. Most of the time, the guards just looked the other way.— Taliyah Murphy, formerly incarcerated trans woman
The Department of Corrections in every state—it's like trying to turn around the Titanic. There's so much bureaucracy. You often have to sue to get their attention.— Paula Greisen, civil rights attorney
The Hearth Conversation Another angle on the story
Why did it take a lawsuit to change how Colorado houses trans women in prison?
Because the system wasn't broken in a way that forced anyone's hand. Trans women were being assaulted at rates thirteen times higher than other inmates, but that violence was invisible to people making decisions. You need someone with legal standing and resources to make the state listen.
What does "voluntary" housing actually mean in a prison context?
It means a trans woman can't be forced into the new unit against her will, and she can't be punished for refusing it. That matters because in prison, "voluntary" often becomes coercive—you're pressured, isolated, or retaliated against if you don't comply. This settlement explicitly forbids that.
Why the integration unit? Why not just move trans women directly to women's prisons?
Because you're moving people from traumatic situations into entirely new environments. The integration unit gives everyone—the trans women and the cisgender women already there—time to adjust. Without it, you risk what one attorney called a "sink-or-swim situation."
The settlement mentions gender-affirming surgery. How common is that in prisons?
Extremely rare. One person in Colorado had it before this settlement. The barriers are bureaucratic and medical—prisons require multiple recommendation letters, and there's a national shortage of providers trained in gender-affirming care. Most trans women in prison never access it.
What happens to trans women who don't want either of the new housing options?
They still have to receive adequate mental and physical health care under the settlement. The point isn't to funnel everyone into one solution. It's to give options and ensure basic constitutional protections regardless of where someone is housed.
Is Colorado's settlement likely to spread to other states?
It's already happening. Washington, Georgia, California, and Idaho have all had successful lawsuits. This consent decree sets a template—it shows what's legally possible and what courts will enforce. Other states are watching.