A Victorian House, a Found Community, and a Fight to Stay

My name is Allegra Frazier Schawe-Lane my stage name is Nomi Love. I'm a 42-year-old transgender woman who grew up in Covington, Kentucky, just across the river from Cincinnati. For years, I performed in Cincinnati's LGBTQ+ nightclub scene — it was the only place I felt I could be myself. When I finally understood who I was, I tried to build a life there with my husband, Dane Lane, working at a warehouse to make ends meet.

Then co-workers discovered I was transgender. The harassment became relentless — threats of physical violence, a daily nightmare. It was, as I've described it, a "dire, get-the-hell-out moment." So Dane and I took a leap of faith and headed south, to Cynthiana, Kentucky — a town of about 6,500 people in the rolling hills of Harrison County.

When I arrived, I didn't leave the house for four years. But slowly, this little Victorian became my sanctuary — and Cynthiana became my home.

I poured myself into our 19th-century house. I painted over the institutional blue walls, laid out our Persian rugs, hung huge family portraits, and worked room by room to restore it to its antique glory. Eventually, I got a job at Fibonacci Antiques downtown, where I use my passion for historical interiors every day. I even spoke publicly at the Episcopal Church of the Advent — telling my story of growing up trans in small-town America to a room of 50 people who came to listen.

Our community has been kinder than I ever expected. But the financial strain of starting over — of finding work that pays enough in a job market that is not always welcoming to transgender women — has taken its toll. Property taxes on our home have gone delinquent, and we are now facing foreclosure. We have three months.

Dane and I have been together for 16 years. Our little dogs are part of our family. This house is not just where we live — it is the first place either of us has ever felt truly safe. We need $9,000 to clear the tax debt and stop the foreclosure clock.

This home has always meant more than shelter for just the two of us. When I had the means, I opened our doors to LGBTQ+ youth who had been kicked out by their families after coming out as gay, lesbian, or transgender. Kids with nowhere to go, whose own parents had turned them away. I know what it feels like to need a safe place — and I believe no young person should face that alone. It is my deepest hope that, once we are stable again, our home can be that refuge once more.

If you've read my story — in the news, at an event, or here for the first time — please consider helping us hold onto the home we fought so hard to find. You won't just be saving a house. You'll be keeping alive a place of safety, love, and welcome.