Jo Miller never planned to run for public office. She didn’t grow up sketching campaign signs or fantasizing about city council chambers. In fact, Miller says that if she hadn’t come out as trans, she likely wouldn’t be in politics at all.
“I probably wouldn’t be doing this if I wasn’t trans,” Miller says with a candid shrug. Woodbury is the town she’s called home for six years. “It was 2022, and I was watching all these attacks on trans kids, on their families, on the doctors trying to care for them. I was in law school and I realized I couldn’t wait another ten years to make a difference.”
What began as a newsletter coming out announcement snowballed into something more. A few months later, community members began encouraging her to fill a vacated council seat. She accepted and became the first openly trans person to hold partisan office in the state. Miller didn’t just arrive in public service. She stepped into it with the urgency of someone who couldn’t afford to wait.
A Constitution in the pocket
“I used to carry a copy of the Constitution in my shirt pocket,” she laughs, recalling her childhood uniform of khakis and a too-tight button-down. “I was just this annoying little Eagle Scout. I loved the structure of law, the elegance of how it worked. But I didn’t know how I fit into any of it.”
That “fit” came later. When she started law school, Miller thought her political life was over. She’d worked for elected officials before, but kept her distance. “I wasn’t out,” she says. “I didn’t know how to exist.” But then something clicked. “I realized I was developing all these skills — legal, organizational, advocacy — and kids needed help now. Not when I became a seasoned attorney 10 years from now. So, I left law school and went back into politics.” With visibility comes a spotlight, and with a spotlight, scrutiny. As one of the few openly trans people in elected office in the country (there are fewer than 40, she says), Miller is constantly balancing advocacy and daily governance.
“Even if I talk about the queer community only once in a while, it’s the only thing some people hear,” she says. “But people forget, every elected official has a passion. One person may care deeply about sports and safety. I care about trans youth. That doesn’t mean I don’t care about roads or zoning or the budget. I do. I’m on the budget committee.” She’s quick to point out that trans issues are not niche issues. “Access to estrogen, for example, matters to trans people and to women going through menopause. These are public health issues, not fringe debates.”
What leadership looks like
Miller tells the story of a local Pride concert in Woodbury. She was new to the council, nervous about emceeing the event, but doing her best. A young nonbinary teen approached her, visibly shaken. “They said, ‘I’m nonbinary. What’s it like being the only one doing what you do?’ And I said, ‘You’re already ahead of where I was at your age.’”
It was one of those moments that stayed with them. She’s since grown close to that teen and their family, bringing them to council meetings and mentoring them. “They’ve gotten taller, and it reminds me how fast time goes,” she jokes. “But also how important it is to show young people that they belong here.”
She wears an ACT UP pin passed down from actress/activist Elizabeth Coffey, who received it from an early HIV/AIDS activist named John Olson. “He wore it at the first ACT UP march in New York. It’s a physical symbol of connection,” she says. “One day, I’ll pass it on too.”
Grounded in Woodbury
Miller didn’t grow up in Woodbury, but she found a home there. She moved in 2019, drawn by the town’s early embrace of LGBTQ Pride flags and its history as a stop on the Underground Railroad. “I didn’t know who I was yet, but when I saw those Pride flags, I saw a future for myself here.”
Now, she works to preserve and expand that inclusive spirit. “We don’t want to push families out,” she says. “We want development, yes, but it has to be equitable. We want to be Woodbury, not the next overcrowded gentrified neighborhood.” One of her biggest policy goals? Supporting the Glassboro-Camden Light Rail line. “It would be transformative,” she says. “Imagine a kid in a wheelchair being able to hop on a train to Rowan or Rutgers. That’s what equity looks like.”
She’s also laser-focused on housing. Recently, Miller helped launch a housing and homelessness committee, pushing back against efforts to penalize the unhoused. “Anyone could end up without a home. Especially queer kids kicked out by their families, or veterans who didn’t get the support they earned. It’s not criminal — it’s a crisis.”
What it takes
Miller doesn’t sugarcoat the challenges. “The hardest part is the loneliness,” she says. “Being a leader in a marginalized community sometimes means being separated from that community.” She stays connected by building friendships with other LGBTQ officials nationwide. “I know most of them,” she says with a smile. “Half are in my phone.” She name-checks leaders like Martha Madrigal and Danica Roem as sources of inspiration and solidarity.
“Someone once tried to misquote the preamble to push for prayer at council meetings. I was like, honey, the first word is a pronoun. Let’s talk about pronouns.”
When asked about the common misconceptions that people still have about being trans in public leadership, they thought about the fact that they didn’t view a lot of trans elders as having experience with being elected necessarily. “I’m incredibly privileged to have been asked and supported by local leaders and by local community members. Plenty of people in the community have been doing the exact same work. Just because they haven’t held that specific office doesn’t mean they weren’t doing that job, right? So there are still people to learn from and there’s people to grow from and everything. I think that’s really an important misconception we could be working on.”
She also credits her resilience to therapy, community, and a sharp wit. “I study,” she says. “If someone’s going to come at me with nonsense, I want to be able to calmly tell them exactly why they’re wrong.” Sometimes that means quoting the Constitution correctly, especially when her critics don’t. “Someone once tried to misquote the preamble to push for prayer at council meetings. I was like, honey, the first word is a pronoun. Let’s talk about pronouns.”
Finding joy
Amid all of this, joy is nonnegotiable. “I get to dress how I want now. I make my own clothes,” Miller beams, describing a custom jacket she wore in the World Pride parade. “I get to share my book recommendations. I get to meet people from around the world doing this work.” Quoting Audre Lorde, she paints a vision of community that celebrates difference: “There is no liberation without community, but community must not mean the shedding of our differences, nor the pathetic pretense that these differences do not exist.”
Her favorite thing in the world? “Moments between the noise,” she says. “After a summer rain, when it’s quiet, and the sun is breaking through the clouds, and you can still hear the birds starting to sing again. Everything’s still, and for a second, everything’s okay.”
“Hate comes from pain. Deal with your pain and maybe, just maybe, you’ll stop hurting other people.”
Advice for Future Leaders
To anyone wondering whether they belong in public office, Miller has a simple message: “Call me.” She laughs, but she means it. “There are nearly 5,000 elected positions in New Jersey alone. You don’t think you’re more qualified than at least one of those people? You are.” She encourages aspiring candidates to start with their community. “What do you love about your town? Why do you want to protect it? That’s where you begin.”
Even cultural shifts, she says, begin with personal work. “If I could legislate one thing, it would be that everyone goes to therapy and tries to become their best self. Hate comes from pain. Deal with your pain and maybe, just maybe, you’ll stop hurting other people.”
Representing fully, honestly
For Miller, media representation must be holistic, not sanitized and not villainized. “We’re either fluffy angels or evil groomers. Neither are real,” she says. “Show us as we are — diverse, imperfect, human.” She’s grateful for the support she’s had, and she’s working to ensure that more people can follow in her footsteps, not just the ones who look like her, but anyone who’s been told they don’t belong in the room. “I’m not here to represent every trans person. I can’t. But if I can make space for someone else to be their full self, that’s enough.”
Miller’s story isn’t just one of public service, it’s about public presence. In the noise of today’s politics, she offers something rare: not just a voice, but a listening ear, a steady hand, and a fierce belief in tomorrow. Because as she says, “If South Jersey can change, anyone can.”
