“So, where do you intend to practice?”
It’s a question I’ve frequently encountered throughout my first semester at the UF Levin College of Law, asked by professors, advisors and classmates.
Like any good lawyer-to-be, I respond, “It depends.”
Depends on what? Well, I love Florida. I want to practice law in Florida. Yet, I look around and see the levers of state power used to gradually escalate targeted attacks on queer Floridians like me. Day after day, my future in the state becomes more uncertain. Should I flee Florida?
In 2023, between January and June, various GoFundMe campaigns for trans Floridians attempting to escape raised $200,000. In 2025, one campaign reads, “This is my way out of uncertainty and in hopes of a better, safer future.” For some, the future is certainly unsafe; for others, the future lacks all certainty. In either case, queer Floridians are leaving Florida in search of futures free from persecution.
So where do I fall? On the one hand, Gov. Ron DeSantis and the reactionary right are passing fads with fleeting power. Yet, they wield that power dangerously. Will they use it to put me in jail? Threaten my employment? Rally mobs against me? These aren’t hypotheticals — I wouldn’t be the first jailed, fired or villainized.
But wouldn’t my departure just empower these paper tigers? Their vision of a Florida without queer people gets a little bit closer to reality for each of us that leaves. To speak of a Florida without queer people is akin to speaking of a Florida without alligators or palm trees. We belong here no less than the soil itself.
The abstract principle of my right to be here does not, however, put a roof over my head. It’s not enough to stay here. Can I succeed here? In 2024, the Florida Supreme Court ended the Florida Bar’s funding for diversity and inclusion initiatives and eliminated its internal diversity and inclusion policy.
If present trends continue, will my queerness be a liability for my bar application? This year, Florida Attorney General James Uthmeier announced a policy disqualifying law firms from serving as outside counsel for the state if they consider diversity, equity and inclusion in hiring. Will employers hesitate to consider me for fear of reprisal?
The question of whether to leave is a hydra. Each consideration I dispense with gives way to two more. Queer Floridians all over the state confront the same uncertainty. Florida’s leaders have succeeded in placing question marks on our rights, our safety and our livelihoods. Above all, they have placed a massive question mark on our future.
Our future is not theirs to define, though. A Florida where marginalized communities see justice and inclusion falls within our reach. With community, organization and mindfulness, we can construct that Florida from its flawed present.
Ultimately, I’m still uncertain whether I should flee Florida. But what I can say, with certainty, is that I won’t. Queer Floridians have a future here — we have only to build it. I wish every queer Floridian seeking a new home to find a safe future somewhere on this Earth. I also wish, one day in the future, to welcome your return.
Liam Taylor King is a 23-year-old law student at the UF Levin College of Law.
