LONDON, ENGLAND – APRIL 22: Pedro Pascal attends the “Thunderbolts*” UK Special Screening at … More
During Coachella weekend, Australian pop singer Troye Sivan joined Charli XCX onstage wearing a white T-shirt with bold black lettering reading: ‘Protect the Dolls.’ The shirt, designed by American-born, London-based designer Conner Ives, has quickly become a statement piece that has gone viral over social media and within Hollywood.
This shirt comes in the wake of the UK Supreme Court’s ruling, in which judges unanimously determined that, under equality law, a woman is defined by biological sex. It also coincides with bans in both the UK and in the U.S., that prohibit transgender women from participating in women’s sports. The move marked yet another aggressive shift of Trump’s legislative agenda, as he continues to push anti-trans rhetoric and vows to eliminate what he calls “transgender insanity”.
The phrase ‘Protect the Dolls’ is intended as a symbolic gesture of protection for transgender women, who are often affectionately referred to as ‘dolls.’ Seen on the backs of Pedro Pascal, Tilda Swinton, and Addison Rae, the shirt acts as a rallying of love toward trans women—but can a T-shirt truly serve as a lifeline to them and how do actual Transgender women feel about them?
T-shirt culture, which gained prominence during the Black Lives Matter protests, has faced criticism for being performative, serving as a substitute for real activism. These shirts often project an image of progressiveness or social awareness without necessarily reflecting a genuine commitment to those values — which creates dissonance.
Sophia Hernandez, a transgender model and influencer finds the t-shirts, “very intriguing.” She continues, “People are so quick to buy a shirt and show that they are aware that trans people exist and that we need to be protected however it still falls short.” Hernandez says “One could say “oh well when is it enough?” but that’s the bare minimum. It’s like showing support from a distance without putting in the action, like donating to trans women or getting involved in community work that helps us.”
“People need to take action and remember that a shirt doesn’t save my life,” says Hernandez. While proceeds from the shirt go to Trans Lifeline, a nonprofit offering phone support to transgender people in the U.S., questions remain about how much is actually donated and how those funds are distributed. Retailing at £75, the shirt has reportedly raised up to £380,000 for the organization Trans Lifeline, according to The Guardian.
“If you’re going to be for the dolls, make sure it’s going to the right organization, okay? Why don’t you just do direct pay-stubs—we need help in America,” says popular trans influencer Veondre in a TikTok video. Another trans influencer, Devin Halbal, echoes the concern: “You’re ‘protecting the dolls,’ but how? And ask yourself this—why, as a doll, do I need to be protected in this society? Why am I, as a doll, not granted safety?” She continues, “How are you, my allies, complicit in the very systems designed to exclude the dolls?”
These concerns reveal a deeper tension: Awareness, on its own, doesn’t necessarily lead to tangible support or meaningful change. Instead, it risks remaining purely symbolic rather than truly transformative — and worse, a little transactional.
Ives, the designer of the shirt, says the T-shirt was a response to anti-trans policies put in place by Donald Trump, and in support of his trans friends. “I never had that intention when I was doing it,” Ives says. “I was just like ‘This is what I want to say. This is what feels right’ and it turned into something else.”
Dee Harper, a transgender producer based in California describes the t-shirt as “lackluster” and has simplified the display of them as “performative.”
“The shirt is oddly insulting because most people aren’t protecting the dolls physically, i.e., being on the forefront of us being in danger from assault, housing insecurity, and making sure we are getting safely from point A to point B — monetarily, and even formally with employment,” she says.
“Oftentimes I wonder if this protection is only accessible to white and light-skinned trans women?” she asks. “If they are the only ones who can pass through executive rooms, be on runways, or the face of all things trans. Who’s protecting the dolls who live in hotel rooms for survival?” Harper leaves off with an important question: “Is it their oppressors who pay for their access and livelihood, or are their cis counterparts who call them fab?”
Transgender people are over four times more likely than cisgender individuals to experience violent victimization—including rape, sexual assault, and aggravated assault—according to a study by the Williams Institute at UCLA School of Law. Households with transgender members also face higher rates of poverty and crime. This is the violence Ives alludes to when calling for the protection of transgender women.
Transgender musician, Deevious claims that the shirt and the slogan, due to its virality have just become an “accessory.” She continues, “Like most people especially gay men treat trans women like accessories for social capital or even to get into a party or rave for free.” She compares it to the dichotomy that existed in the mainstream media in the early 2000s of how gay men were an “accessory to cis women.”
“Now our protection and safety is just an accessory but they can’t do anything to help us,” Deevious says.
While the intention behind the message “Protect the Dolls” may be well-meaning—and even a reminder that, amid political attacks and legislative erasure, a marginalized group is being overlooked—it ultimately falls short. But in the face of rising trans-targeted assaults, discriminatory legislation, and social exclusion, the effectiveness of a T-shirt and a one-time donation as meaningful protection remains deeply limited. Without sustained allyship or broader calls to action, such symbolic gestures fall short of truly shielding transgender women from their everyday oppressors.
