I’ve been a part of a lot of parent support groups. The ones for parents of transgender children always wind up talking about photos.
With all that we have going on; all the dangers and discrimination that our kids face; all the advocacy and human rights campaigns, the bullying, the fear-mongering, and the legal battles, you’d think we wouldn’t have time to worry about the little things.
But we do. We worry about the big things AND the little things. We talk about the safety of chest-binding and recommend prosthetics and specialized clothing products. We discuss pros and cons of medications and surgery and therapies and the details of how to navigate insurance claims. We talk about suicide attempts and mental health and family rejection. We talk about so many things….
But we also, inevitably, wind up talking about old photographs.
I went to my first parent support meeting less than two weeks after I found out that my child was trans. Somebody brought up old pictures… but I hadn’t even thought about photos yet. I couldn’t understand what the big deal was about PICTURES… I was still trying to wrap my mind around what it even meant to be transgender. I was learning a whole new vocabulary. Phrases like ‘gender dysphoria’ and ‘sex assigned at birth’ were entering my vernacular and I still wasn’t sure how to speak this language where I referred to my child as ‘he.’ I was in a state of shock, feeling curious and numb at the same time; feeling profound love layered on top of profound fear, and knowing that it was my JOB; no, it was my DUTY to press through the discomfort for the sake of my child.
I sat through that first conversation, half-listening to a mother’s grief, but not really understanding why it mattered so much.
Fast – forward three months. The new name was becoming more natural. My pronouns were right more than half the time, and my mistakes were more generalized; I misgendered the dog and my sister and my best friend; not just my son. It still felt disingenuous to tell strangers I had “four sons” instead of “three sons and a daughter,” but I was beginning to understand I was holding something sacred, and that was more important than what any stranger believed.
And then pictures began to disappear off the shelves in my house. Small 3x5s and 5x7s, missing. I didn’t connect the dots until I found them, stashed under my child’s bed. These photos… these memories. They brought me such joy! Look at those pigtails and smiles and frilly little skirts. This apple-picking photo is one of my favorites. And here they are, hidden in the dark. I cried, alone on his bedroom floor.
I composed myself and knew that I couldn’t bring that grief into my conversation with my son. So later, with feigned, casual indifference, I asked, “Hey. I found a bunch of pictures under your bed. What do you think we should do with those?” I was terrified that he would want to destroy them or get rid of them. He had already asked me to donate the keepsake dresses; from his baptism and his first birthday and his first Christmas. I secretly tucked them in the back of my closet, because I couldn’t bring myself to give them away.
“I guess I’m not sure.” He replied. “I mean, I know they’re important to you. But I don’t really want them on the shelves. Maybe we could make an album?” This kid was so insightful; at the tender age of 9, he was still weighing my needs against his own. I cried again, but this time the tears came from a combination of relief and pride. We made an album. We reminisced together as we filled a book with his old ‘girl’ photos and replaced our framed photos with gender-neutral or masculine images.
But there was one photo I couldn’t let go. It was the only professional photo I had of our whole family. I left that one on the wall in its frame, not realizing the impact of that one picture.
Shortly after that, we had a sticky childcare situation. We asked for help from friends and got a new sitter to come sit with the kids for an hour or two. It was a frantic, emergency sort of situation, and while she came highly recommended, I didn’t know this woman at all. We were short on time and pressed for help, and I chose not to disclose my child’s gender transition to this stranger who would likely only be part of our lives for an hour or two.
When I came home later that afternoon, my child was sullen. He was struggling with something, and I worried that I had made a poor choice by leaving him with a stranger. I probed a bit, asking about the sitter. “How was she?” “Did you have fun?” “Did you get in trouble?” I peppered him with questions. He told me that she was fine, that they did, in fact, have fun, and that nobody got in trouble.
“So, honey… what’s wrong?”
He looked at me, with his huge brown eyes and paused. I knew this look. This look meant he needed to say something that he thought might hurt me. This look meant he was measuring his words and weighing his emotions. He took a deep breath and whispered, “She asked about the little girl in the picture.”
My heart broke wide open. I had unintentionally outed my son; embarrassed him and set him up to share this highly personal detail with a total stranger all on his own. He was nine years old, and I had failed to protect him.
I hugged him and I cried with him and I apologized and we took that damned picture down. It took that moment for me to realize how selfish I had been. All along, I thought I was being supportive. But that one photo… that one relic that I thought to be so important… it hurt my child more than I had ever imagined possible.
So now, when parents in support groups talk about photos, I don’t tune out. I lean in and I feel their pain and I hear their grief and I gently share my story.
For me, at first, those photos held weight; they felt important. Now, I look at them differently. What’s important is my child. His happiness, his wholeness, his peace. Those photos are just pieces of paper. Putting them away doesn’t negate the memories. It doesn’t eliminate the past or diminish the love. Putting those photos away was an act of love. It was a release for both of us.
And in the end, it felt good.