In a small apartment nestled in the heart of Astoria, 40-year-old Kacey — as she chooses to be identified for security reasons — sits with her legs tucked tightly beneath her. Throughout the conversation she tugs nervously at her pants. She frequently looks down, as if she questions the validity of her own voice.

The walls are painted with bright swirls of color, and the apartment is covered with pieces of her artwork. In the corner is a papier-mâché torso. Half of the sculpture has breasts and the curvature of a female body; the other has exposed muscles and the suggestion of a penis.

In another room, a bookcase is covered with small ceramic birds. Each piece has a white smiling face plastered over it, grimacing eerily out toward the space. Kacey says they represent the mask she had to wear both as a transgender woman in her native Mexico and throughout her traumatic introduction to the U.S.

According to estimates made by the U.S. Department of State, traffickers bring 14,500 to 17,500 people into the United States every year. The department also states that Tenancingo, Mexico is the single largest source for sexual trafficking into the country.

Growing up as a transgender woman in Monterrey, Mexico, Kacey was forced to hide her true self from the community in a country where it was illegal to be openly transgender. In an attempt to escape the prejudice, she invested her hopes in a group of men that promised her a better life in America.

“I didn’t grow up with my mum, and I never met my father,” Kacey said, her eyes darting off as if searching for an explanation. As a result, she was forced to live with her aunt and uncle. From the age of five she endured her uncle sexually assaulting her. At night he would creep into her room and created opportunities to be alone with her in the house.

“The others (her family) didn’t do anything to save me,” she whispered. “Since I was 5 years old I was trying to survive, alone. I was forced to grow up.”

Kacey left her childhood home at 16 and chose to officially transition, or change gender, a year later. With nowhere to go, and no one to support her, she found work as a stripper in Tijuana. Like many other transgender women in Mexico, this was the only job that would take her.

In the ensuing months, her manager exploited her for money, threatening to call the police if she didn’t pay. Policemen would wait outside the club — Kacey suspects they were working with the manager — arrest her without cause and demand money to avoid a police report.

For Kacey, life was a chaotic blend of extortion, misery and suppression. It was at this moment when she was most vulnerable, that a group approached her and offered her an escape.

“There were three guys and two girls, they used to come to the club and buy me drinks. They told me that they have a club in New York, that they had connections. They said that if I came to the U.S, I could be doing the same thing but I wouldn’t have to hide myself.”

A few weeks after this initial encounter, Kacey discovered her friend and fellow transgender dancer had been brutally murdered. After going to another club with a group of men, Alejandra had been beaten, castrated and her penis stuffed into her mouth.

“I knew I had to leave, it was very traumatizing.” Kacey said.

Kacey was taken to New York, and upon arrival told to strip off her old clothes and dispense of the rest of her “garbage”. At first, the experience was exciting for her.

“They bought me lots of new clothes and labels. I said, ‘I can’t pay for these clothes’. They said I didn’t need to worry about that. We went to clubs and took taxis all the time. I thought it was a beautiful experience and that these people liked me for who I am.”

Soon, it became apparent that everything was not as it seemed. Her passport and documents were taken for “safekeeping” and she was moved into a room with three other women. None of them, including Kacey, spoke English.

Eventually, she was told that she could start paying off her debts by “meeting a few friends.” Men were brought to the apartment and she was instructed to “do whatever they want.” After a few weeks, she found herself being forced to have sex with 10–15 men a day, and in some cases was instructed to smoke crack cocaine with her clients.

“They always told me I owed all this money and I couldn’t leave because I didn’t have a place to go, and I didn’t have any friends.” At this point, Kacey’s voice begins to crack and her tone becomes increasingly panicked. It was only then, when it was too late, that she realized she was a victim of sexual trafficking, and there was no foreseeable way out.

Trafficking has become a particularly prominent issue in New York. Since last September, more than 2,000 people have passed through the Human Trafficking Intervention Courts (HTICs) in New York City.

“I thought they were protecting me. I was always looking for someone to protect me, because I never had nobody in my life.” As tears roll down her cheek, she pauses in an attempt to regain control of her anxiety. “I thought these people actually cared about me.”

With Kacey’s traffickers providing her with an increasingly dangerous and addictive cocktail of drugs, she found herself dependent upon them. Some days she would be forced to take so many drugs that she would pass out for hours.

On many occasions, “when I woke up I had semen inside me. I knew it wasn’t from the guy I was seeing because he was on so many drugs, that he couldn’t ever penetrate me,” Kacey said in a whisper

After 10 years of rape, abuse and addiction, in a desperate bid to escape these daily horrors, Kacey attempted to commit suicide by not eating. As a result of her starvation, and increased tendency to pass out on drugs, the traffickers sent her to a rehabilitation center. There, she learned that she had HIV.

For many, this diagnosis would have been devastating. For Kacey, it was liberating.

Though tears were streaking down her face, Kacey said: “That’s what saved me. I felt relieved. They (the traffickers) didn’t want anything to do with me following the diagnosis.”

Kacey’s story, though horrific, is not unique and human trafficking remains a significant issue in Mexico and the US. In July 2014 alone, US officials arrested almost 200 people and seized more than $625,000 in illegal profits after a month-long crackdown.

Tiana Bien-Aimé, executive director of the Coalition Against Trafficking in Women, said that as powerful drug cartels are often involved in trafficking women, the police are unwilling or unable to do anything to protect them.

Furthermore, although there is no data to suggest transgender women are trafficked more than other women, their position within society certainly makes them more vulnerable.

“These women sometimes face sexual abuse, are forced to leave their homes, or face problems during their childhood,” said Bien-Aimé. “This makes them particularly vulnerable.”

Harper Jean Tobin, director of Policy for the National Centre of Transgender Equality, added: “Many of the most extreme stories of persecution and torture are of trans asylum seekers.”

“Immigration judges and other decision makers in the U.S. have a hard time understanding the difference between being gay and being transgender in a country like Mexico.”

Because countries such as Mexico and Brazil have seen a more progressive view towards transgender rights, it “doesn’t really translate to police protection or even absence of violence against people in everyday life.”

As Kacey reflects upon her horrifying journey from a Tijuana strip club to finding salvation through New York support groups, it is clear there are many scars left to heal.

“When I went to rehab, that’s when I really left Mexico. All the people who trafficked me were Mexicans. It was like a Mexican mafia. They do this to their own people. So even though I was living in the U.S., I was still in Mexico because they were with me the whole time. I was never free.”

Though Kacey clearly struggles to fully overcome the trauma of her past, she has found solace in the support and company of local New York LGBT and asylum organizations.

“It’s weird. I’ve been living in this country for 18 years, and I’ve only just started living.”