rabble.ca/lgbtiq/the-de-radicalization-of-an-anti-trans-activist/
This is interesting, some hints and tips for anyone looking for a route out of being part of extremist gender critical hate groups 
. Worth reading the whole thing but below are a few excerpts.
This nascent anti-trans movement is known as “Trans-Exclusionary Radical Feminism” (or “TERF”) to its opponents and some neutral observers. To its proponents, however, the movement is more commonly described as “gender critical feminism”: a euphemistic rebranding of trans-exclusionary politics that tries to pass it off as something more respectable and enlightened than it is.For my part, I will use “gender critical” here to emphasize that, no matter what name it goes by, the movement is transphobic to its core.
Already, gender critical feminism has its apostates: people who initially participated in anti-trans activism, sometimes intensively, but have since desisted.
These “ex-gender criticals” are rarely profiled. De-transitioners (people who begin but later stop gender transitioning, sometimes becoming anti-trans activists themselves) figure much more prominently in the media discourse on transgender rights.
(So-called gender criticals themselves are to thank for this. They like to bandy de-transitioners around as proof that trans people’s experiences of their gender is not “real”; that trans-affirming medical care is too easy to access; and, that people can, in the end, be rescued from “transgenderism.”)
The relative absence of ex-gender criticals from the public consciousness does a disservice to trans people and our allies.
Trans-inclusive feminists have much to learn from the experiences of ex-GCers. For one thing, the trans-exclusionary movement is not nearly as solid as it might appear from the outside. It is possible for even hardcore members to join the cause of trans inclusion.
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The making of a transphobe
It was the fallout from trans woman Jessica Yaniv’s unsuccessful campaign to force aestheticians to wax her genitalia that set Alicia Hendley on the path to radicalization.
She still considered herself a trans ally in January 2019 when she connected with Morgane Oger, then the vice president of the B.C. New Democratic Party. Allegations were circulating that Yaniv had engaged in predatory behaviour online: in at least one instance, targeting a twelve-year-old girl for sexual harassment. Hendley, a sexual assault survivor herself, was concerned.
Oger suggested she try to identify some of Yaniv’s other alleged victims. So Hendley reached out to Irish transphobe Graham Linehan.
True, she and the gender criticals on Twitter had not gotten along in the past. “I saw them as transphobic and bigoted,” Hendley explained to me. “The GCers disliked me, and I disliked them. A lot of insults were tossed about.”
But the gender criticals were the ones talking about Yaniv the most — to their mind, Yaniv’s behaviour confirmed their worst fears about trans women to be true. Surely, then, a gender critical as prominent as Linehan could connect Hendley with the right people.
The road to hatred isn’t necessarily paved with hatred. It wasn’t for Hendley, whose descent into the bowels of anti-trans activism was as much a trauma response as anything else.
Linehan referred her to others in the gender-critical movement, and Hendley quickly found common ground.
The GCers speculated that Yaniv might not be a trans woman at all, just a man abusing gender self-identification to prey on vulnerable (cis) women and girls. Hendley found this possibility terrifying.
Perhaps the man who assaulted her could do this, too. Perhaps he could do this to victimize her daughter.
Radicalization is a highly personal and individual process. That is one of the reasons it is so difficult to combat. But it often flows from the unsatisfied needs that lead people to seek fulfillment in extremist movements and ideologies in the first place. There could be a need to heal from some earlier trauma, for example, and to feel safe from further victimization.
The transphobic, erroneous claim that permitting gender self-identification exposes women and girls to male violence stoked Hendley’s fears. Joining the gender criticals in their crusade against the rights of trans women in turn gave her a way to resolve them.
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Pandemic school closures meant Hendley’s children were at home much more than before. Her focus turned to providing them with the all-day supervision and care they required. Protecting “sex-based rights” began to seem less urgent.
She picked up a new hobby, learning German, and found she would rather spend her free time on that.
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“We were one group-think,” Hendley explained to me. “An echo chamber, a hive mind, with our mission to be ‘protecting the sex-based rights of girls and women’ (that meant cis).”
It’s wrong — and more than a little counterproductive — to assume that the people who join, or even found, hate groups do so because they lack intelligence. Hendley herself holds a doctorate in clinical psychology from the University of Windsor.
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Rather than argue ad nauseum that trans exclusion is anti-feminist and contrary to Canadian values, trans women and our allies ought, instead, to mobilize ex-GCers like Hendley to combat transphobic hate. Whatever such people have done in the past, they are in a unique position now to pull others out of the gender-critical movement. That makes them invaluable allies.
Recruiting ex-GCers requires, of course, knowing that these Formers exist in the first place.
“I will forever be cognizant of the harm I caused,” she told me recently, “by initiating the creation of caWsbar (not to mention my subsequent involvement). That’s on me, and no one else.”
But it is not too late for her — or any of the increasing number of ex-GCers out there — to make amends.