Bridget McCarthy believes that if her son Riley Chart had quick and easy access to a suicide prevention hotline designed for queer young people, he might be alive today.

Chart, a trans teen who had once endured bullying because he was different, took his own life at the family’s home during the COVID-19 lockdown in September 2020 — two weeks after his 16th birthday.

“I truly believe that had there been an LGBTQ-specific [help] number right in front of him, he would’ve tried it,” McCarthy said.

State lawmakers are set to vote in August on a bill that McCarthy and its sponsors say could save the lives of other young queer Californians.

California Assembly Bill 727 would require ID cards for public school students in grades 7 through 12 and students at public institutions of higher education to list the free LGBTQ+ crisis line operated by The Trevor Project on the back, starting in July 2026.

The Trevor Project is a West Hollywood-based nonprofit that the federal government cut ties with when it eliminated funding for LGBTQ+ counseling through the National Suicide and Crisis Lifeline (9-8-8). The lifeline was expected to stop routing crisis calls to The Trevor Project and six other LGBTQ+ contractors Thursday. It’s one of several actions in the second Trump administration that critics fear will roll back years of progress of securing health-care services for queer Americans.

“When the Trump administration threatened and then went through with their threat to cut the program completely, that told us that we had to step up to the plate,” said Democratic Assemblymember Mark González of Los Angeles, who said he introduced the legislation to ensure that queer youth receive support from counselors who can relate to their life experiences. “Our goal here is to be the safety net — especially for those individuals who are not in Los Angeles but in other parts of the state who need this hotline to survive.”

California Lt. Gov. Eleni Kounalakis, the L.A. LGBT Center and the Sacramento LGBT Center all have signed on as co-sponsors of the bill. Gov. Gavin Newsom told Politico the Trump administration’s 9-8-8 decision was “indefensible” and that he also backs the bill. His office said the state’s $4.7 billion Master Plan for Kids’ Mental Health includes partnerships with organizations such as The Trevor Project.

González said the bill originally included private schools but in response to conservative opposition, the mandate was amended so it would be limited to public schools.

With federal funding for the LGBTQ+ crisis counselors who field calls through the 9-8-8 lifeline running out on Thursday, local nonprofits and elected officials have vowed to fill the void. L.A. County Supervisors Janice Hahn and Lindsey P. Horvath authored a motion to explore the impact of the cut and see whether the county can help to continue the service. The board unanimously approved it Tuesday.

“The federal government may be turning its back on LGBTQ+ people, but here in L.A. County we’ll do everything within our power to keep this community safe,” Hahn said in a statement after the vote.

About 40% of young queer people in the U.S. have seriously contemplated suicide compared to 13% of their peers, according to a teen mental health survey published last fall by the U.S. Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. The Trevor Project and other organizations have reported a rise in the number of people calling crisis lines to seek mental health support, both in California and nationwide.

Trans Americans have been particularly shaken by the backlash against LGBTQ+ people and by the prospect of new restrictions on gender-affirming healthcare, according to new findings published this week by researchers at the University of Vermont.

Their survey of 489 gender-diverse adults after the 2024 election, published Wednesday in JAMA Open Network, found that nearly a third of those interviewed would consider risky DIY hormone therapies if treatments disappear elsewhere. A fifth of respondents reported having suicidal thoughts.

Riley Chart with his father, Paul Chart.

(Bridget McCarthy)

As the mother of a trans child who died from suicide, McCarthy said she wants to use the lessons she’s learned to educate and advocate for other trans young people and their families in similar situations.

McCarthy, who lives in Culver City, has started a memorial fund with The Trevor Project, organized suicide prevention walks in West L.A. and attended Pride festivals to hand out crisis line information.

She remembers Riley as an artistic and warmhearted son who joined LGBTQ+ groups and built a network of friends while attending high schools in both Santa Monica and Culver City.

Riley had a therapist for support living as a trans teen, but during the pandemic, he found it hard to cope with not being able to spend time in person with his friends. The confinement made him increasingly irritable. He was staying up later than usual and spending excessive time on his phone, McCarthy said.

After Riley died, the family discovered that he’d texted a gay friend for help.

“The only other number in his phone was a 10-digit veterans hotline number — that he did not call,” McCarthy said. “That’s why you have to have a lifeline that speaks to different populations. A veterans hotline will not work for a 16-year-old kid who’s struggling with their identity.”

When Riley was 12, McCarthy took him to the Pride parade in West Hollywood hoping that he would experience the feeling of belonging that he seemed to yearn for. He loved it.

Riley Chart attending West Hollywood Pride in 2017.

(Bridget McCarthy)

“Ry said he’d found his people,” McCarthy recalls, using the family’s nickname for him. “He was like, ‘This is it — I’m home, mom.’”

When Riley’s mother took him to Pride a second time the following year, he bought a trans pride flag that became one of his prized possessions. “He was wrapped in it when he went, when he left us,” McCarthy said.

McCarthy spoke by phone from one of Riley’s favorite places, Lummi Island in Washington state, near the U.S.-Canada border. The family laid Riley’s remains on the island and McCarthy goes to visit the grave site four times a year to care for the maple tree planted in his memory, admire the painted stones his friends placed around it and talk to her son.

McCarthy said she and Riley visited family friends on the island almost every year when he was younger. Especially during middle school when he faced bullying from classmates and issues over which restroom to use, the island served as a refuge where McCarthy saw her son at his most carefree. He loved climbing trees, swimming and herding cows, far from the pressures of being a kid in L.A.

“When you’d open the car door, it was just like opening the barn gate,” McCarthy remembers. “Like a colt across a field, he would just run. It gave us a chance for some peace.”