Pochola was just a kid, only 17, still figuring out who she was. She wore her makeup with the insecure hand of someone learning to figure themselves out, trying to make sense of a person the world looked at with contempt. Her life was already heavy with questions and dreams that had been chipped away too soon. She had taken to working in the streets, not because she wanted to, but because surviving left her with no other choice. Out there, the world met her not with kindness, but with contempt.

And then she was diagnosed: HIV. As if the burdens she suffered weren’t enough. There was no one to turn to, no support system, no safe place to land. Her family, the people who should have protected her, cast her out, rejecting her. They judged her for being trans, blamed her for being positive, hated her for being herself. The shame they threw at her was too much to bear. At just 17, with no one beside her, Pochola ended her life. Alone. But not forgotten. Now her life’s story can help many other transwomen to extend their life expectancy Beyond 35.

Gabriela, Miss Colectivo Violeta, was much more than a beauty queen: she was a queen of joy, a defender of the trans community. But behind her contagious smile, she struggled with internal demons, seeking solace in alcohol. Her premature death from cirrhosis is a painful reminder of the difficulties faced by trans women, the discrimination that pushes them to seek harmful escapes. However, Gabriela was never alone on her path.

Always present by her side was a young man nicknamed in the neighborhood as "4 Pantalones" (Four Pants), her life partner.

They were unconditional, those two. Always together, for better or for worse; amidst toasts that celebrated life but sought to drown something deep within their being. When Gabriela departed, you could find "4 Pantalones" in downtown Tegucigalpa crying like someone who loses half their soul, feeling the immense void left by her absence. Her story, marked by joy and tragedy, demands a radical change in the way society treats trans people. Her legacy, although tinged with sadness, compels us to build a future where trans women can live full lives, overcoming the barriers that prevent them from achieving their dreams and living Beyond 35.

Deborita was just 19 years old. Joyful, generous, full of life. At Colectivo Violeta, everyone knew her for her loud laugh and the way she danced like sadness had never touched her. That night, they were celebrating an anniversary, one of those rare moments of safety and joy in a city where both are hard to find. Then a car pulled up. Four armed men inside. They called her over. Told her to get in. She didn’t run. She didn’t cry.

She looked them straight in the eye and said:

“I’d never get into a car with that many men.” That was enough. They shot her, point-blank, right there on the street. She died instantly. They drove off. No one stopped them. No one was arrested. Deborita didn’t make it to 35. Like so many other trans women in Honduras, lives cut short, erased without justice, without mourning, without memory. But now, we say her name. We tell her story. And that story becomes a force, a voice, a reason. To help others live what she was never allowed to: Beyond 35.

Everyone said Michelle was the prettiest. Her smile didn’t ask for permission, it just lit up every room. She worked the streets, like so many trans women in Honduras, because the system left her no other choice. That night, she went to meet a regular client. But two unknown men showed up instead. They accused her of stealing. No questions. No time. Just fists. They beat her so badly her face was unrecognizable. No one knew who she was, until they saw the tattoos on her arms.

But what the autopsy revealed was even more horrifying. She had been tortured. They had shoved tubes into her eyes until they burst. Michelle didn’t make it to 20. No justice. No protection. No one held accountable. But silence won’t be the last word. Her story is still here.

Her name still matters. And her memory now fights for others. So more trans women can live what Michelle was denied: Beyond 35.

Everyone knew Charito Flores, not just for her beauty, but for her hands. Hands that could style hair, offer comfort, build trust. Her beauty salon in Barrio Buenos Aires was more than a business. It was a space for listening, healing, and building community. She named herself after a soap opera character, like many trans women do, because novelas teach you how to dream, how to name yourself with pride. Charito was crowned Miss Talentos Gay de El Progreso. She was part of “Las 25,” the group of trans women who turned the Obelisco into a space of joy and resistance.

Later, she moved to Olancho. She opened another salon. Started fresh. Fell in love. But the man she loved was married. And one morning, before opening her shop, his wife came looking for her. She brought a shotgun. She shot her in the head. Charito deserved a longer life. A safer love. A better ending. But her story doesn’t end there. Because the hands that once shaped beauty are now shaping something else: a future. So that other women like her can live with safety, with dignity, and with time. So that they too can live Beyond 35.

Hancel walked as if she were floating. She had that soft, mysterious presence, as if she lived in a world different from ours. She didn’t speak much, but when she did, her words were like brushstrokes: precise, heartfelt, full of color. She was an artist. She made masks, headpieces, unique pieces that seemed to be taken from a carnival only she could imagine. She created them from her home in San Pedro Sula, but her soul traveled far. She would go to Tegucigalpa when she could, to meet with other girls, share, laugh, exist without fear. It was there that she took a picture at the Holiday Inn. It may not seem like much, but to those who knew her, that image is pure gold. Because in it, you can see her essence:

free, delicate, infinite. She died from HIV, like many others. But what killed her was not just the virus. It was the lack of access, lack of attention, lack of everything. She was only 25 years old. She didn’t make it to 26. From her life, her works remain. Her masks are still kept, cared for by a friend who holds them as if they were relics. And they are. They are the marks of an artist who lived with dignity, even when the world refused to see her. La Hancel was not loud, nor famous, nor seeking applause. She just wanted to live peacefully. And still, without making noise, she left her mark. Because there are presences that don’t need to shout to stay with you.

Bessy Ferrera was not one to hide. She walked with a firm step, with a clear voice and her head held high. Because if there was one thing she knew for sure, it was this: living in fear is not living. She knew the risks. She knew that being trans in Honduras meant living in the spotlight. That raising your voice was an act of courage, and danger. But she raised it anyway. She was an activist, a defender, a trans woman, a sex worker, HIV positive. All of that, without hiding anything. She worked with Arcoíris and ASONACIDA, organizations that fight for the rights of the trans community. She went to marches, organized workshops, spoke in public. She fought for rights, even when that cost her own. Because when she refused to silence part of her story,

when she proudly said yes, she was a sex worker, they took her job. But not her voice. In Guatemala, they detained her and denied her treatment.

It was as if the punishment for being who she was had no borders. But she kept going. Until the end. They killed her in broad daylight. She was 30 years old. They didn’t surprise her: they murdered her. Despite everything, Bessy never gave up. And that’s the part that can’t be erased. That shouldn’t be erased. Because in a country where being trans is a sentence, she chose to fight. Her death was a crime. But her life was a revolution.

And although she didn’t make it to 35, her story helps many others live beyond that.

Michelle was from Honduras, but her life took her to San Miguel, El Salvador. There, she made floats, the kind that parade during festivals, full of glitter, color, and life. That was her: a woman who knew how to turn the everyday into a spectacle. A creator. A dreamer. But when night fell, it was time to change the stage. The streets became her only possible stage. Like many trans women with no real options, she worked there. Without a safety net, without guarantees, just with the strength of someone who refuses to give up. She had HIV. But that’s not what killed her. What killed her was silence. She had no treatment, no information, no support. She was 35 years old when she died. Not because her body couldn’t take it anymore, but because the system never saw her.

Because in a world that decides who deserves to live, they left her out. Michelle didn’t believe in borders. Not physical ones, nor those of prejudice. She knew that stigma doesn’t ask for a passport. That discrimination catches up with you wherever you are. And although she died without answers, she left questions that are still alive today.

Why are people still dying for lack of information? Why are those living with HIV still punished with abandonment? Why did a life like Michelle’s have to end like this? Her story shouldn’t hurt alone. It should hurt collectively. So that it doesn’t happen again. So that many other trans women can live beyond 35.

Chichi grew up in a family of uniforms. Her father, grandfather, and brothers all served. No one asked who you wanted to be, only that you follow the rules, be strong, be a man. She became a firefighter, then a soldier.

Not out of choice, but because tradition demanded it. But behind the uniform, in the quiet moments, she knew who she really was. A woman, not pretending, surviving. When she finally spoke her truth, she lost everything.

Discharged from service, rejected by her family, forced into the streets. There, she lived on the sidewalk, cigarette in hand, sleeping curled up against a world that had shut her out. Alcohol dulled the pain. Cirrhosis did the rest. She died alone. No one came. No one cried. But her story didn’t die with her. Because Chichi lived as herself, even when it cost her everything. Her life reminds us why trans women deserve a chance to grow old, with dignity, with safety, Beyond 35.

Karicia didn’t just walk, she owned every sidewalk she touched. Red lips, fierce eyes, and a presence you couldn’t ignore. She worked alone, with no safety net, just courage and fire. One night, she found a bag. Thought it held a disc player. It was payroll money, almost 100,000 pesos. She laughed, shared it, lived like it was finally her turn. But the men who lost that money came back.

No warnings. Just 25 bullets. They left her body by the roadside. Facedown. Alone. At least someone found her. Many others never are. Karicia didn’t get justice. But her life mattered. Her courage mattered. She didn’t want to be a headline ,she just wanted to make it home. Her story calls for others to have that chance. To live safely, fully, and fiercely, Beyond 35.

Valeria was 28 years old when she died, back in 2004. She lived in Colonia 30 de Noviembre, where people knew her for her easy laugh, her dreamy way of moving through the world, and the calm presence she brought when things got hard. She was the kind of person who remembered birthdays, showed up with the right words, and gave hugs that made the weight of life feel lighter, just for a moment. She was Maggie’s best friend. Her soul sister. They had faced the nights of Tegucigalpa together, walking through cold streets and colder stares. The silence, the fear, the rejection, none of it was new to them.

They worked the streets not because they wanted to, but because few doors had ever opened for girls like them. Valeria died alone, in her home. A cocaine overdose, the report said. But her friends knew it was more than that. It was everything she had carried, everything she had survived, and how little she had been given in return. Gone too soon. Gone too unfairly. But her story doesn’t end there. Because Valeria gave so much of herself to others. And now, we give something back: her name, her memory, her place in the fight. So that other trans women don’t have to leave like she did. So that more of them can live, safely, freely, and fully, Beyond 35.