Hundreds of trans men and women, activists and supporters rally outside of the Supreme Court on Wednesday. Marvin Joseph/The Washington Post

She had tried for more than a year not to think about this day. She had school to focus on, songs to record, a driver’s license to earn. She didn’t want to fly halfway across the country to fight for the health care that made her life better.

And so, for most of the time her lawsuit had wound its way to the Supreme Court, L.W. had willed herself to think about almost everything else. She researched colleges with aviation majors. She turned 16. She went to Japan and started collecting Pokémon cards.

But now the day was here. The nine Supreme Court justices would hear oral arguments about a Tennessee law that banned L.W. and other transgender young people from taking puberty blockers and hormones. L.W. would have rather been in her high school psychology class, but she’d traveled from Nashville because she wanted to witness a bit of history. At 8:30 a.m., an hour and a half before the arguments would begin, she approached the court’s iconic building and declared herself ready.

She and her parents had bought suits for the occasion – her dad’s first new one in more than a decade and her first one ever. Hers was black with a lavender tie, and she’d paired it with flats topped with little bows. She adjusted the tie, then headed for a side entrance.

Out front, anti-trans groups were giving speeches and playing the song “Chicken Fried,” and L.W. could hear but not see them as she waited to go in. (The Washington Post is not naming the teenager because she filed the lawsuit using only her initials.)

L.W. and her parents walked down the marble-lined halls to the courtroom and found seats three rows back from the attorneys who would argue the case. Soon after, Tennessee’s Republican Gov. Bill Lee took a spot two rows ahead of them.

“I want to talk to him,” L.W. told her mother, Samantha Williams.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Williams said. “What would you say to him?”

L.W. wanted to ask the governor why he thought the ban was a good idea when he signed it into law last year. She wanted to tell him he was wrong, that her life was immeasurably better than it had been before she started blockers and hormones.

“I believe he is unaware of the consequences of his actions,” she told her mom. “I want to make him aware.”

Chase Strangio, the first transgender attorney to appear before the Supreme Court, is congratulated Wednesday after arguments conclude in the Tennessee case. Marvin Joseph/The Washington Post

Williams considered her daughter’s point for a moment, then a court marshal stood and said, “Welcome to the Supreme Court.” Williams grabbed L.W.’s hand.

Chief Justice John G. Roberts Jr. said the court would now hear arguments. L.W. fiddled with her tie, and her father, Brian, took notes on sheets of paper he’d gotten from a lumber and supply company he works with back home.

The issue before the court was whether the ban violates the 14th Amendment’s equal protection clause by discriminating based on sex. Tennessee officials contend the statute does not do so but instead imposes age limits and other restrictions “to protect minors from risky, unproven medical interventions.” The law says the state has an interest in prohibiting treatments that “might encourage minors to become disdainful of their sex.”

But the Biden administration and the American Civil Liberties Union – the organization representing L.W., her parents and two other families with trans children — contend the law does discriminate based on sex because an adolescent assigned female at birth, for instance, cannot receive puberty-delaying treatments or testosterone to live as a male, but an adolescent assigned male at birth can.

At times, though, the justices turned from the legal questions and debated such care itself. They talked about European countries that have implemented restrictions, and they asked about medical research. Justice Clarence Thomas said he wanted to know how hormones affect “a male as opposed to a female,” while the court’s liberal justices said the evidence shows some adolescents need the care.

“Some children suffer incredibly with gender dysphoria, don’t they?” Justice Sonia Sotomayor asked Solicitor General Elizabeth B. Prelogar.

L.W. raised her hand, too low for anyone but her parents to see. In her preteen years, before she told her family she was trans, she felt as if she were underwater. She looked around and everyone else seemed to be a fish. They knew how to swim, how to breathe, but she did not. Every day, she felt like she was drowning.

She never felt like that anymore. Hormones had made her feel confident and at peace, even in this courtroom where several of the justices kept calling trans girls “boys.”

When ACLU lawyer Chase Strangio took the podium, both L.W. and her mom brightened. Strangio was the first openly trans lawyer to argue before the court. As he finished, Williams leaned over, pumped her fist, and said “crushed it!” L.W. nodded in agreement.

Tennessee Solicitor General J. Matthew Rice approached the court, and L.W. shifted in her seat. She’d read that each lawyer got 15 minutes, but the justices had quizzed the solicitor general for an hour and Strangio had answered questions for nearly that long. The wooden benches weren’t exactly comfortable. She tried to massage some life back into her legs.

Rice was before the justices for roughly half an hour, and then, all of a sudden, the hearing was over. The adults stood. L.W. looked around, then she stood, too. Everyone left the court single file, and when L.W. made it to the lobby, her mom pulled her and her dad in for a long hug.

Later, most legal pundits would say the court appeared unlikely to strike down the ban, but L.W. didn’t want to speculate. She wanted to head outside, back to the rallies. She told her mom that she wanted to talk to the people she described as “the opposition.” Her mom said she didn’t think it was a good idea.

“I just don’t understand,” L.W. said. “What’s the worst they can say to me? I’ve heard it all.”

Her mother led the family outside. The ACLU was holding a news conference on the building’s steps, but Toby Keith’s “Courtesy Of The Red, White And Blue” played so loud, L.W. couldn’t hear any of the speakers. As someone official talked, she looked down the steps. The opposition was right there. If only she could walk over and ask them why they thought her health care was any of their business. If only she could tell them how good she felt these days. She caught her mom’s eye and motioned toward the protesters.

“Please?” she asked.

Williams shook her head no and put her arm around her daughter. They walked down the marble steps together. “Chicken Fried” played again, but after a few steps, L.W. couldn’t hear the song anymore. All around her, trans people and their allies were clapping and holding up signs. They were cheering for her.

Both of her parents sobbed, but L.W. just smiled. She knew people considered her a hero. They’d told her as much. She hardly ever let herself think that way, but as the crowd chanted “trans power,” she lowered her head and began to say the words with them.

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Ann E. Marimow contributed to this report.