Thank you for the opportunity to speak today.

My name is Amy Green. I am a clinical psychologist focused on teens and young adults. I began my career as faculty at UC San Diego. I now live in Los Angeles, and I serve as Head of Research at Hopelab, a Bay Area–based nonprofit foundation that works to improve young people’s mental health by supporting research and investing directly in young people and the ideas and tools that help them thrive.

When we talk about social media and LGBTQ+ youth mental health, we have to hold two realities at once. These platforms can expose young people to real harm. They also provide meaningful, sometimes life‑saving support.

This reality is clear in our research. In our 2024 national survey with Common Sense Media, about three-quarters of LGBTQ+ young people said they see homophobic and transphobic comments on social media, and in our 2025 national survey with Born This Way Foundation, more than one in three LGBTQ+ young people experienced bullying and teasing online due to their LGBTQ+ identity in the past year. Yet in those same studies, 74% said social media is important for helping them feel less alone, and online spaces were rated as significantly kinder, safer, and more supportive for LGBTQ+ people than in-person spaces.

For example, only 9% of LGBTQ+ young people said they felt “very safe” being LGBTQ+ in in‑person spaces compared to nearly half online. One young person summed this up by saying, “Being online gives me at least physical protection to be who I am. People can be brutal online, but those are just words on a screen. A screen can’t beat me up.” That tension captures the reality for many LGBTQ+ young people: the same spaces that can expose them to harm are also where they find more connection and support that they are missing offline.

Against this backdrop, and consistent with decades of research that predates social media, LGBTQ+ young people are struggling with their mental health. They consistently report higher levels of loneliness, depressive symptoms, and barriers to accessing mental health resources than their peers. In our most recent national poll, about six in 10 rated their mental health as fair or poor. When asked what most negatively affects their mental health, more than half of LGBTQ+ young people identified family issues, loneliness, school challenges, and dealing with homophobia as major sources of strain. Social media actually fell much lower on that list, with about one in three saying it negatively affects their mental health. In that context, online spaces, especially those designed with safety in mind, such as Trevorspace, become a critical source of support, connection, and access to mental health resources that they cannot easily find offline.

Many LGBTQ+ young people, particularly those in unsupportive homes or communities, are not using social media passively. They turn to it deliberately to find affirming communities and to access support they cannot safely find offline. In our study with the Born This Way Foundation, online friends were nearly twice as likely to provide high levels of social support as family, at about 63% versus 33%. Many emphasized that these friendships have “kept them alive” and given them a place to be their true selves. As one of the teens in our study said, “Throughout my entire life, I have been bullied relentlessly. However, when I’m online, I find that it is easier to make friends. It’s the friendships I’ve made online that have kept me alive all these years.”

Taken together, this research tells us three key things. LGBTQ+ young people continue to experience high rates of anxiety, depression, and loneliness. And for many of them, social media and online friendships are a core source of support, safety, and hope. Yet the same platforms that help them cope also expose them to harassment and hateful content.

This dual‑reality experience has important implications for how we think about LGBTQ+ young people’s well‑being and about policies that affect their access to online spaces. First, broad, one‑size‑fits‑all solutions carry a real risk of unintended consequences. Limiting access to online spaces may reduce exposure to harmful content, but it can also reduce access to affirming communities and mental health resources. For LGBTQ+ young people who lack in‑person support, those losses can deepen isolation and remove one of the only places where they feel safe.

Second, focusing only on how much time young people spend on social media is not enough. Our research shows that young people are not passive consumers; they actively shape their online environments by curating their feeds, seeking out supportive spaces, and avoiding harmful content when they can. But they are doing this within systems that are not always designed with their well‑being in mind. In that context, it is reasonable to hold technology companies accountable for how their platforms affect young users’ safety and mental health, particularly when risks are closely tied to design decisions such as recommendation systems that favor emotionally charged content and features that encourage continuous scrolling.

Third, young people are not a monolith, and LGBTQ+ young people in particular have distinct needs and vulnerabilities. Policies should account for differences in home environments, identity development, and access to offline support, rather than assuming a single approach will work for all young people. 

Finally, I would emphasize the importance of including LGBTQ+ young people in the development of solutions. They have direct insight into how these platforms function in their lives, including both the risks and the benefits. 

If there is one takeaway I would offer, it is this: For LGBTQ+ young people, the question is not whether social media is good or bad. It is how we can thoughtfully reduce its risks while preserving the connections and resources that many young people rely on and that, in many ways, help them survive. That requires a grounding in evidence and careful attention to unintended consequences, but it is both possible and necessary.