Award-winning psychotherapist, reluctant activist, and author Sabah Choudrey has spent over a decade building spaces for queer and trans people of colour.
From co-founding Trans Pride Brighton, the UK’s first trans pride event, in 2013; to supporting trans youth through Gendered Intelligence and co-creating the Colours Youth Network, their work has been rooted in visibility, healing, and structural change. In recognition of this impact, they’ve been shortlisted for The Ethnicity Awards in the Outstanding Contribution to Communities category; a powerful moment of visibility for LGBTQ+ South Asians being acknowledged in mainstream spaces.
Named on the Diversity Power List 2025 and now serving as Vice Chair of the Inclusive Mosque Initiative and Director at Middlesex Pride, Sabah brings a unique voice to South Asian Heritage Month; one that’s proud, intersectional, and grounded in lived experience.
Yet, Sabah’s relationship with their heritage hasn’t always been straightforward. “When I was growing up in Hounslow, I didn’t really think about heritage,” they say. “Especially when you’re in a South Asian area, it’s just the norm.”
It wasn’t until they moved to Brighton that things changed. “I started to realise I stood out. I was different. I’m a visible person of colour,” they explain. “That’s when I began to reflect more deeply on my South Asian heritage.”
Coming out as a lesbian, and later as trans, brought even more clarity. “I realised that my gender and my race, my culture, are deeply connected. You can’t separate them. Even the way masculinity and femininity show up looks different in our communities.”
From food and dress to expressions of gender, Sabah now sees heritage not as something fixed but as the living root of their identity. “It’s how I relate to others, how I connect. It’s become essential to how I understand myself and the world.”
Representation and fear
As a visible trans South Asian, Sabah is painfully aware of the challenges that come with being at the intersection of multiple marginalised identities. A key one is the lack, and nature, of representation.
“Growing up, the few portrayals we had of queer or trans South Asians were overwhelmingly negative,” they recall. “It was always people being rejected, being hurt. That builds a culture of fear.” Fear, they say, is a major barrier. “Why choose to be different when it feels safer to stay silent, to be ‘normal’? That fear is deeply rooted in tradition, especially in faith-based South Asian communities.”
For many, religion also becomes a line that cannot be crossed. “When someone doesn’t conform, the reaction is often, ‘My faith can’t be wrong, so you must be,’” they explain. “But if we were more open, we could have such meaningful conversations about faith and identity.”
Sabah speaks from experience. After growing up with one rigid view of Islam, they later rejected it, only to rediscover and reclaim it on their own terms. “Now, I feel more connected to both my religion and my community. It’s no longer about ticking boxes, it’s about curiosity and care.”
Creating space for others
One constant in Sabah’s work has been the emphasis on creating space, for themselves, for others, for people whose identities don’t fit easy categories.
“That’s why I wrote my book,” they say, referring to ‘Supporting Trans People of Colour’, published this year. “A lot of what we’ve been talking about is in there: practical ways to support people like me, to make workplaces and communities more inclusive.”
It’s also why they remain a fierce advocate for everyday allyship. “People like me remember who opened the door for us. We talk to each other. We share which services made us feel safe, which people respected our identities. That word of mouth matters.”
Their advice for allies is refreshingly grounded: don’t wait for queer and trans South Asians to ask if they can participate, design your spaces to include them from the start. “You don’t have to build a whole new organisation,” Sabah says. “Just take one step that makes our lives a little easier. That’s what allyship looks like.”
For families and communities wondering how to be supportive, Sabah suggests turning inward. “Ask yourself: What does being South Asian mean to me? What have I been taught about gender, masculinity, femininity? Who taught me that? Have I ever questioned it?”
These are questions Sabah believes everyone should ask, not just queer and trans people. “I love being trans and queer because it gives me the chance to think about these things all the time. And sometimes, just by being myself, I see my family and friends start to reflect too.”
They describe how family members sometimes open up, saying things like, “I used to be a bit boyish as a girl” or “There was someone I knew growing up who was like you too.”
“We don’t always realise how common these experiences are,” they say. “Even just imagining, What if I wore drag?’ or ‘What if I explored this part of myself?’, can be transformative.”
A generation with more questions and more tools
When asked if they’ve noticed a shift among younger South Asians, Sabah lights up.
“Absolutely. Young people today have so many more spaces to explore their identity; online, at school, among friends. When I was growing up, all I had was whatever was on TV or in the library.”
Now, they see young South Asians expressing themselves through creativity; art, content creation, personal storytelling. “It’s inspiring. And it reminds me how powerful intergenerational conversations could be.”
They’d like to see more of those. “Especially for people like us, who live at these multiple intersections, we’re always going to be a minority. We need to hear from each other across generations.”
Reluctant, but unstoppable
Sabah calls themselves a “reluctant activist”, a phrase that speaks to the emotional toll of their work. “I didn’t choose activism because I had free time. I did it because I needed those spaces to exist. I needed to survive.”
So much of their community work was built out of necessity. “We shouldn’t always be the ones creating everything, fighting for space, doing the emotional labour,” they say. “We should be able to rest. To be joyful.”
Which brings us to self-care, something Sabah admits doesn’t come easily. “When you're immersed in this kind of work, it’s hard to slow down. You feel like if you’re not present, you’re failing someone.”
But a friend once told them, “Sabah, the revolution needs you to be well.”
“That stayed with me. It reminded me that this is a long journey. We need to rest now if we want to keep going. To keep showing up.”
Self-care, for Sabah, is not a luxury—it’s survival. And it’s not just bubble baths or holidays. “It’s learning not to compare myself to others. It’s asking: What do I need to keep doing this work from a place of strength?”
As South Asian Heritage Month begins, Sabah hopes conversations like these reach new ears. “You have a platform, and maybe your readers aren’t the kind of people who would follow me on Instagram or come to a trans pride event. That’s why this matters.”
Their message is clear: inclusion doesn’t start with a policy or a rainbow logo. It starts with reflection, with asking better questions, with opening the door and remembering who held it open for you.
