With Caê Vasconcelos, Brazilian Journalist

Caê Vasconcelos is a Brazilian journalist, author, and public speaker recognized for his reporting on human rights, diversity, and, more recently, sports journalism. Raised in the working-class neighborhoods of São Paulo’s North Zone, he began his career covering public security, social inequality, and life on the urban periphery through independent news organizations such as Ponte Jornalismo and Agência Mural.

Over the years, he has expanded his presence across major Brazilian media outlets, serving as a reporter and columnist for UOL Notícias, host of the program Pra Variar on DiaTV, and contributor to both CazéTV and ESPN Brasil. Beyond journalism, Vasconcelos has become one of Brazil’s most prominent voices advocating for transgender visibility and LGBTQIA+ rights. In 2023, he made history as the first transgender man to join the panel of interviewers on Roda Viva, one of Brazil’s longest-running and most influential television interview programs.

His work also extends to literature. He is the author of Transresistência: Pessoas Trans no Mercado de Trabalho (Trans Resistance: Trans People in the Labor Market), a book that documents the experiences of transgender individuals who have challenged patterns of exclusion and built professional careers in Brazil.

The interview below was conducted for the academic volume Journalism Practice and Mental Well-Being in the Global South, a project developed by Marta Regina Maia (University of São Paulo) and Carlos Augusto Pereira dos Santos Júnior (Fluminense Federal University).

Q: When you think back to the Bolsonaro years (2019–2022), what stands out most to you—particularly in terms of your experience as both a journalist and a transgender person?

Caê Vasconcelos: It was, without question, one of the darkest periods of my life and career. When Bolsonaro was elected in 2018, I vividly remember covering demonstrations against him. One event, in particular, has stayed with me: Evangelicals Against Bolsonaro. I covered it during the election campaign alongside a close friend, Sara, an evangelical Christian who is deeply progressive and left-wing. She told me, “I feel like I need to be there with you. Let’s go together.”

I arrived carrying every possible fear. I cried throughout the event. I come from a Candomblé and Umbanda background, and because of the hostility I had often experienced from certain Christian groups, I was genuinely afraid of being in that environment. Yet what I found there was something entirely different. For the first time in a long while, I felt that people were truly embodying the idea that God is love. It gave me hope that perhaps Bolsonaro would not win the election.

At the time, I was a young journalist. I had graduated in 2017 and had only recently begun writing for Ponte Jornalismo. Throughout 2018, much of my work was driven by an attempt to understand and confront the rise of authoritarianism. Looking back, I realize how fortunate I was not to have entered mainstream journalism right away. I used to wonder why large media companies never responded to my applications. In retrospect, working in independent, advocacy-oriented journalism was one of the best things that could have happened—not only for my career, but for my development as a person.

At Ponte, our editorial focus was human rights. As Bolsonaro’s political strength became increasingly evident, we recognized that our commitment to human rights necessarily placed us in opposition to his agenda. This was not a matter of party politics but of fundamental democratic values. I reported extensively on LGBTQ+ issues, interviewed parents of transgender children and teenagers, and worked closely with Black social movements. The assassination of Marielle Franco in 2018 was a profound shock for progressive sectors across Brazil, and I spent much of the election period covering political figures and activists who carried forward her legacy.

When the election results were announced, I remember being afraid to leave my house the next day. It was not only the scale of Bolsonaro’s victory that unsettled me. I kept thinking: tomorrow I will take the subway to work, and nearly half the people in that train car may have voted for someone whose rhetoric suggests that people like me should not exist.

The editorial meeting we held afterward felt almost like a group therapy session. Someone asked, “If the worst happens—if democracy collapses—who stays?” I said that I had no intention of leaving Brazil. I did not have the financial means to do so anyway, but more importantly, I believed we needed to remain and resist. My feeling was that we would stay on the front lines for as long as necessary.

We certainly feared specific attacks on LGBTQ+ people, Black communities, and women’s rights. Yet the COVID-19 pandemic transformed the situation in ways we had not anticipated. We expected attempts to silence critical journalism and undermine democratic institutions. Instead, what emerged was something broader and, in many ways, more devastating: an assault on society as a whole, affecting people in ways none of us had fully imagined. Q: And what was that period like for you personally, considering that your gender transition began around the same time?

Caê Vasconcelos: I knew I was a trans man long before I had the language to describe it. Looking back, I think I had that awareness since childhood—I always felt different from other kids. But I had never met a trans man. You can’t identify with something you don’t know exists. Growing up, the only representations of trans people I saw were trans women and travestis, usually portrayed in a negative or stigmatizing way.

When I started working on my book in 2015 and 2016, I began to realize that I might be a trans man. But then life moved very quickly. I graduated in 2017, and fifteen days later my mother passed away. At that point, I felt I had to step back into the closet for a while to take care of my family. My younger sister was only twelve years old. It simply wasn’t the right time. When a trans person transitions, in many ways the whole family transitions too, and I needed to make sure my family was doing okay first.

In December 2019, I went to see the documentary Bicho Travesti. It had been circulating in film festivals for years but had never made it to a regular movie theater. I joke that I walked into the screening still trying to perform a version of womanhood and walked out one hundred percent certain that I was trans. I remember thinking, “This is it. Now I’m going to tell the world.”

I started by telling my closest friends and my partner at the time—we were living together. I told my sister in early March 2020, and then the lockdown began. I remember thinking, “You’ve got to be kidding me. Right when I’m finally ready to tell everyone, the entire world shuts down.”

It was an incredibly intense period, and honestly, I still don’t know which part was harder: transitioning during the pandemic while taking hormones—which affects your body, your emotions, your entire sense of self in ways that are far more internal than external—or covering public security and human rights issues while confined to a small apartment.

Everything was happening at once: the pandemic, my transition, and reporting on violence and social crises. At Ponte Jornalismo, our focus had always been human rights and public security. We had never really covered health issues before. Suddenly, we had to learn everything we could about COVID-19, consult medical experts, and completely rethink how we approached reporting.

When I finally decided to begin hormone therapy, I had already waited for years. I was almost twenty-eight. I went to a health center in São Paulo that specialized in HIV care but also provided services for LGBTQ+ people. When I arrived, I was told, “Because of the pandemic, we’re not seeing patients right now. Come back when it’s over.”

Thankfully, I didn’t wait. Otherwise, I might have spent another three years putting my life on hold. Instead, I found a way to start treatment through private healthcare. Q: How did all of this affect your mental health during that period?

Caê Vasconcelos: In April 2021, I left Ponte Jornalismo because I realized I simply couldn’t keep going. My mental health was hanging by a thread. After my mother died in 2017, I started therapy because I was afraid of developing depression myself. I remember telling my first therapist, “I don’t know if preventive mental healthcare exists, but if it does, I want it.” My mother died by suicide after living with depression for years, yet mental health was never openly discussed in our family. One of the first pieces I wrote as a journalist was a personal essay for Agência Mural about my mother’s life and death. It was only through writing that piece, a few months after she passed away, that I truly began to process my grief and understand how much of a taboo mental health remained, especially in working-class communities.

All of my therapists have been LGBTQ+ professionals. That was important to me. At one point, I tried using my health insurance plan, but during one session, after I shared some of what I was going through, the therapist simply replied, “Everyone has a difficult life.” I immediately thought, “This is not the person who’s going to help me.” Different experiences require different forms of understanding.

Being highly sensitive has helped me become the journalist I am today. I’ve interviewed mothers who lost children to police violence, documented deeply traumatic stories, and reported on people who were imprisoned simply because they were Black and from poor neighborhoods. During the pandemic, I spent hours gathering information from home, and in some cases people were later released after judges identified serious flaws in the investigations against them.

I always used to say that if I ever heard a heartbreaking story and no longer felt moved by it, then it would be time to leave journalism because I would have lost part of my humanity. At the same time, that sensitivity came at a cost. I carried many of those stories with me. As my transition progressed, I became the primary reporter covering LGBTQ+ issues at Ponte. I remember reporting on a particularly difficult transfemicide case. I was able to interview the victim’s family, and every sentence I wrote brought me to tears. At that moment, I realized I could not continue absorbing that level of pain indefinitely. I chose to leave before the work consumed me completely.

Q: Did they ever suspect who you were?

(Referring to his undercover reporting during the September 7, 2022, pro-Bolsonaro demonstrations.)

Caê Vasconcelos: Not at all. I kept very quiet, which was part of the strategy. I had to be careful because my voice wasn’t as deep as I would have liked it to be at the time. It was a chaotic experience, but I managed to do the reporting. The story was so well received that I essentially became the publication’s go-to reporter covering Bolsonaro supporters.

Q: How do you see the differences between covering the Bolsonaro administration and covering the Lula administration?

Caê Vasconcelos: As a reporter focused on public security, human rights, and politics, I didn’t cover the Lula administration in the same role. Still, the difference in the conditions under which journalists can work is very clear.

Today, journalists have far greater guarantees that they can report in public spaces, do their jobs, and return home safely. During the Bolsonaro years, that certainty simply didn’t exist. If a reporter covers a public demonstration today, they can wear press credentials openly and identify themselves as journalists without fearing immediate hostility. That was not my experience during Bolsonaro’s presidency. Every time I attended events organized by his supporters, I had to work undercover. I could not reveal that I was there as a journalist.

One thing that continues to frustrate me, however, is the way segments of the mainstream press operate under more progressive governments. At times, I feel that certain media outlets return to narratives and controversies that ultimately help strengthen far-right movements rather than critically examining the structural issues facing the country. That dynamic remains deeply troubling to me.

Journalists who cover public security in São Paulo today often argue that conditions have worsened under Governor Tarcísio de Freitas, particularly in terms of violence and the state's relationship with marginalized communities. Yet, at the same time, reporters are generally able to identify themselves openly as journalists while covering demonstrations because, at the federal level, democratic institutions and press freedoms are more clearly recognized and protected. Q: Have you been following the growing wave of attacks against trans rights?

Caê Vasconcelos: Yes, and it’s part of a global trend. You see it in Brazil with Bolsonaro and figures like Nicolas Ferreira, in the United States with Trump, and across several right-wing governments in Europe. I would even place J.K. Rowling in that same category because she has used the wealth generated by the Harry Potter franchise to support anti-trans initiatives.

I’m both a Harry Potter fan and one of Rowling’s biggest critics. To me, Hermione always represented someone who was different, someone who struggled to be accepted but ultimately found belonging and support among friends. In 2021, I wrote an article describing Rowling as a “Death Eater” because many of the values she portrayed as harmful in her books are, in my view, positions she now actively defends.

The International Olympic Committee has also begun responding to some of these political pressures, particularly in the context of the Trump administration’s influence and the upcoming Los Angeles Olympic cycle. One of the most common arguments advanced by anti-trans activists concerns the alleged competitive advantage of transgender athletes. From my perspective, the scientific literature does not support that claim. I have a book here written by a professor at the Federal University of Rio de Janeiro that compiles years of research on transgender athletes in Brazil and reaches the opposite conclusion.

For politicians such as Nicolas Ferreira, opposition to trans rights appears to be a central political agenda. That is why organizations such as ANTRA are bringing together transgender journalists and allies in the media to discuss strategies for responding to these narratives. Without collective action—and without support from the press—it becomes much harder to confront these challenges.

Q: How do you view access to mental health support within journalism? Is this something that newsrooms actively discuss?

Caê Vasconcelos: I think the pandemic changed a lot. Conversations about mental health became much more common, perhaps in part because online therapy became more accessible.

Of all the places I’ve worked, Ponte Jornalismo was where I spent the longest period—almost four and a half years. It was founded by veteran journalists who left traditional media to build an independent outlet. We had important discussions about workplace dynamics, editorial pressure, and what constitutes harassment, but there was very little formal conversation about mental health. It was an independent newsroom without an HR department or compliance structure, so most people had to manage these issues on their own.

At UOL’s Wall section, mental health was not discussed very often either. Later, when I worked at DiaTV as a host and writer, I thought, “At least here I’ll be free from LGBTQIA+ discrimination—it’ll be a kind of utopia.” The company did offer a mental health platform that included two free therapy sessions per month, and that’s actually where I met the psychologist I still see today, Jonathan. There was at least some institutional concern for employee well-being.

The most surprising experience, however, has been ESPN, which is part of the Disney group. I found a level of support that I never expected. For example, the company’s health insurance system includes a specific category for trans men, allowing for more appropriate healthcare access. I had never seen that before. I’m also part of the company’s LGBTQ+ employee network, and there are equivalent groups focused on racial diversity, women’s issues, and disability inclusion. More recently, they even launched a mental health guide for employees, and there is a physician available in the newsroom during business hours.

When I became the target of transphobic attacks online after posting about the UEFA Women’s Champions League—a post that had absolutely nothing to do with trans issues, just a sports prediction—ESPN immediately provided legal support. Three attorneys contacted me right away, fully aware that transphobia has been recognized as a crime under Brazilian law. We are currently pursuing legal action against those responsible. Whether or not anyone is ultimately convicted, simply making it clear that transphobia carries legal consequences and will not be tolerated is already an important step.

Ironically, the workplace where I expected to encounter the most hostility has been the one that has offered me the greatest protection. It’s a paradox, but it has been my reality. I never imagined I would find myself praising a multinational corporation like Disney, yet it has been the most supportive work environment I have experienced.

Q: Are there other transgender journalists who come to mind who faced similar challenges, particularly during the Bolsonaro years?

Caê Vasconcelos: Yes, quite a few. Most of them actually entered the profession during the Bolsonaro administration. One person who immediately comes to mind is Maleri, a Black trans woman and journalist whom I frequently encounter at professional events. She has worked across several different news organizations and could offer valuable perspectives on these experiences. I’ll send you her contact information afterward.