Category: Parenting a transgender child

Yesterday I read a post in one of my online parent groups.  A family from Florida waited a year to get into one of the best gender clinics in the country, which happens to be in Boston. They were seeking the best possible care for their child.  And while they waited, their home state banned transgender medical care for minors.  It’s heartbreaking, but not entirely surprising for Florida.  

This family traveled across the country to Boston.  They had a great appointment; consulted with the psychiatrist, the social worker, and the gender specialist.  They worked with a team of doctors and medical professionals to determine the best interventions and care for their child.  And then they got a call that their treatment plan was ‘on hold.’  

On hold while the lawyers figure out how to deal with ‘families like theirs.’  

Supportive, loving families from 19 states in our country (yes… NINETEEN) no longer have access to appropriate, affirming medical care for their children.  Those with the means are crossing state lines.  Because that’s what we do to take care of our families.  We do whatever is necessary.  

California, Colorado, Connecticut, Illinois, Maryland, Massachusetts, Minnesota, New Jersey, New Mexico, Vermont, and Washington have declared themselves ‘sanctuary states.’  These states are protecting medical professionals and families who provide gender-affirming care.  

I hear ‘sanctuary’ and I think of political refugees and endangered wildlife.   If you need a sanctuary, you are not safe out in the world.  Out there you will be persecuted, prosecuted, hunted.  

In the United States of America… land of the free… in the year 2023… our  children need sanctuary states to receive appropriate medical treatment. Because there is no doubt about it, our CHILDREN have a target on their backs.  They represent the hot-button political issue of the day, and they have become the collateral damage in this war between politicians.  

It makes me ill.  There is a helpless, hopeless feeling that engulfs me when I read these things. Even the most established gender clinic in the country, in a sanctuary state, isn’t sure how to handle out of state families.   

*****

Most of you know that my husband and I have very different political leanings.  I don’t know how this issue became about being a Republican or a Democrat.  I don’t know how we wound up putting people’s personal, private medical care at the center of our politics. 

Our societal problems are not the fault of gender-diverse children.  Our societal problems are not caused by families doing the best they can. Our problems aren’t created by average people living average lives.  They are a result of a broken system, corrupt leadership, and abuses of power.  

We are being played.  We are being manipulated by a system that knows how to rile us up and keep us distracted. Instead of looking to limit the power of the politicians, it’s beneficial to those in charge if we keep fighting with each other about things that are deeply personal, highly emotional, and hotly contested.  

How about this?  How about we trust other humans to take care of their own damn deeply personal, highly emotional, hotly contested business.  

Then we can focus on making the kind of real changes that might just save us all.  

Lee has had a cough for over a year.  It’s a niggling thing; it fades for a bit and then reappears.  He’s been on antibiotics and inhalers.  He’s been to urgent care, primary care, and a pulmonologist.  Nobody knows what’s causing it.  We’ve spent hours discussing possible allergens and reviewing his medical history and we don’t seem to be making any progress.  

The latest referral was to a hospital we don’t typically use.  We made the appointment, and I assumed we were all set until the secretary who called to confirm the appointment used the wrong name.  

What?  How did that happen?  Everything is changed.  Legally, medically… everything.  It was a process, but we went to the county court for a name change and got all the right letters and documents and updated the social security information and the insurance information and all of the medical records.  His passport and his driver’s license are both correct.  I thought we were done with this.  I was wrong. 

Apparently, we had used a doctor affiliated with that hospital about a decade ago, pre-transition for Lee.  The old information must’ve come up when we made the new appointment.  

So… I made the call again.  First to the hospital main line.  Then they transferred me to Pulmonology, who transferred me to Patient Services who transferred me to Medical Records. Each time, I explained the situation.  One hospital employee assured me that they made a note and would use his ‘preferred name.’  I took a deep breath and explained that she was misunderstanding me.  There was no need to note a ‘preferred name.’  Lee is his LEGAL name.  The old name shouldn’t appear anywhere. “Oh,” she seemed confused. “That’s strange.  It’s in here as his preferred name.”  I nearly groaned.  “Yes.  I know.  That’s what I’m calling to fix.” She transferred my call again.  

*****

The doctors scheduled a bronchoscopy.  Lee would need to go under anesthesia, but the procedure itself should only take about ten minutes.  We were both a little anxious, but eager to get some more information about what was going on.  

A few days before the procedure, I got an intake phone call.  “Is this the parent or guardian of Lee?”  “Yes,” I replied.  The woman on the phone talked me through the process.  No food for 12 hours before the procedure.  No water one hour before arrival.  We would get to the hospital, check in at the front desk, and make our way to the fourth floor.  He should wear his glasses instead of his contact lenses and remove all of his jewelry.  It seemed pretty standard.  “I do want to double check one thing,” I explained to the voice on the other end of the phone.  “I want to make sure that the name is correct.  I did speak to patient services and medical records, but if you could double check for me, I’d feel better knowing we’re really all set.”  The woman told me that it was, and I breathed a sigh of relief.  

And then she told me that they would collect a urine sample prior to the procedure, because they needed to run a standard pregnancy test.  

I explained to her that pregnancy was impossible.  That Lee had been on puberty blockers since the age of 12 and that he doesn’t have functioning reproductive organs.  She apologized and told me that they still needed to run the test. “Can they just take the sample then?  Without saying it’s for a pregnancy test?”  I was imagining the defeated, devastated look on Lee’s face.  I wanted to spare him the embarrassment. And the discomfort.  And the dysphoria.  

“Of course,” the woman replied.  “No problem.  I’ll make a note.”  I breathed another sigh of relief and began to feel optimistic.  

*****

The morning of the procedure, we drove into Boston, navigated the crowded streets and backed into a tiny spot in the packed parking garage with plenty of time to spare.  Lee was already fantasizing about his post-procedure meal, because a 12 hour fast is an eternity for a 17 year old boy.  

We checked in at the front desk as directed, and then made our way to the fourth floor.  The receptionist was wearing rainbow colors on his lanyard and two tiny silver ♂ symbols on a silver chain around his neck. These visible statements of LGBTQ inclusivity were reassuring, and I relaxed a little more.  

We sat in the waiting room, feeling a little anxious, and a friendly gentleman was tasked with walking us through the maze of the hospital to our next location.  We walked a short distance to an elevator and traveled three floors down.  A left turn, right turn, long walk.  Right turn, quick left, another elevator.  Four floors up.  I was sure I’d never find my way back to the car.  

We didn’t need to check in this time.  We were walked directly to a cot behind a curtain in a line of cots behind curtains.  A nurse approached.  Leah?  She asked.  My heart dropped.  “This is LEE,” I asserted, not masking the aggravation in my voice.  “I was assured that the other name wouldn’t appear anywhere.”  The nurse stammered a bit. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I misread.  Mispronounced.  I apologize.”  I pushed back.  “Is the name correct in the file?”  “Oh, yes.  It’s correct.  I just mispronounced.”   But the thing is, EVERY time a doctor or nurse or medical professional uses the wrong name, they try to correct by saying that they misread or mispronounced.  Because the names are so close.  So I didn’t let it go.  “It’s not listed as ‘preferred name,’ is it? It’s the ONLY name in the file?”  The nurses’ eyes widened and she looked around for backup. Another nurse came over and suggested that we move to a different space, because of the crying baby two curtains over.  “We don’t want you to get a headache while you wait,” she explained.  

They walked us a few yards through the open space to a room with walls and a door.  I’m sure it had nothing to do with my raised voice and irritated questions.  “I’m sorry.  I know you’re just doing your job.  But I have spent hours on the phone trying to fix the situation with the name.  And the ONLY name that should appear in your files is Lee.  Does another name appear?” The second nurse rolled her computer screen so I could take a look.  “Here. Look.  It’s just Lee.  I’m sorry that happened, but it’s correct in the system.”  I had to let it go.  “Okay.  Thanks.  I hope you can understand my frustration.”  “Of course,” she replied, unconvincingly.  

By this point, I had noticed lots of the hospital staff with the progress pride colors on their ID lanyards.  I also noticed that this nurse wore a plain black lanyard.  I couldn’t help but wonder if that was a deliberate choice.  

She asked all of the typical questions.  “When’s your birthday?” “Any allergies?” I was happy to be in a room with walls, but the nurse kept the door wide open, and she stood partly in the hallway.  “Do you get periods?” I did a double take.  Seriously?  With the door wide open?  And I had already explained to the intake nurse on the phone that he doesn’t.  And that they shouldn’t ask.  I was angry, but I looked to Lee first.  He seemed only mildly irritated when he answered, “no.”  I took a deep breath and tried to calm myself.  

And then she handed him a small plastic cup.  “We’ll need to do a pregnancy test before the procedure, so this is for a urine sample.” I watched his eyes grow wide and then lower in shame.  He couldn’t even look at her.  I growled, “I was TOLD that you weren’t going to say that.” “I was just explaining to my patient why we need a urine sample,” she argued.  I reiterated, “The intake nurse said that you could just TAKE the SAMPLE and you didn’t have to trigger him by saying WHY.” “Oh,” she looked back down at her notes.  “I do see it here.  It’s noted.  I just hadn’t gotten to it yet.”  She didn’t even apologize.  She handed him the cup and gave him the directions and walked away.  

I was FUMING.  When she left, I had a whispered conversation with Lee.  I apologized.  I explained what happened.  I ranted a little and told him I was going to write a complaint letter to the hospital administration.  And I knew he was upset too, because he didn’t try to calm me down.  He didn’t tell me I was overreacting.  He just headed to the bathroom to take an unnecessary pregnancy test.  

*****

From that point on, everything was fine.  We waited longer than we expected, but the procedure and Lee’s recovery went well.  He woke up, high on anesthesia, and I laughed at his inappropriate, unexpected comments while he ate three popsicles and slowly regained his motor function.  We stopped for fast food on the way home. 

At the follow up appointment, we got good news (no blockages, no infection) and bad news (we’re still not sure what’s happening, so we’re referring you to another department).  

So we’re bracing for another round of medical drama, with new doctors and departments and sometimes great, supportive staff, and sometimes careless, callous staff.  As if this whole thing weren’t hard enough already.  

A friend is struggling with his child’s new pronouns.  We were together recently and he slipped.  His wife corrected him.  He nodded, corrected himself, and kept going with his story.  

A little while later, he was telling another story; this one from a few years ago.  He used the wrong pronoun and his wife, again, gently corrected him.  He nodded, but then paused.  Eyebrows raised, he shrugged. “But they were still she back then.” I felt his struggle.  I’ve been there.  

*****

Lee came out as trans when he was nine years old.  He’s sixteen now.  

The fact that he’s sixteen, alone, is unreal to me.  He’s driving.  He’s got a job.  He’s a young adult.  But that’s a common phenomenon.  Parents can’t believe how quickly their kids grow up.  

The second, less common phenomenon is that his transition was simultaneously just yesterday and so long ago. I vividly remember the steps in the journey and also… I can’t remember who I was when I took those first shaky steps. 

*****

When Lee first came out, we made a lot of changes simultaneously.  A haircut.  New clothes.  New name.  New pronouns.  Other changes came later.  Puberty blockers.  Legal name change. Social Security card.  Passport. Eventually, there was testosterone.  But at the beginning, I didn’t know any of that.  I didn’t know where we were headed.  I just knew I needed to love my child.  To listen and learn and stop thinking I knew things because I didn’t know at all.  

Practically, the new name was pretty easy to master.  I messed up occasionally, for a few weeks.  He went from Leah to Lee.  He lost a syllable.  I frequently started to shout his name and then remembered, choking off the last syllable at the back of my throat before it escaped my lips.  

Emotionally, the name change was hard.  I chose that name so deliberately, so lovingly.  I loved the way the letters curled around each other when I wrote it out in my careful script.  I loved the way the sounds rolled off my tongue.  I loved the way the first and middle names sounded in tandem.  And he just dropped a syllable.  For months, I tried to get him to choose a new name with me.  I wanted it to be something sweet-sounding and carefully chosen.  He just wanted it to be masculine.  

The pronoun switch didn’t really trigger any emotion, but it was just harder.  In practical terms, you use pronouns more often than you use someone’s name.  And gendered pronouns are so ingrained in our speech that we use them without thinking.  For months, I would pause awkwardly before I used any pronouns at all. My speech became stilted and it felt as if I would never speak fluently again.  

I misgendered the kids, the dogs, my students, and my friends, but I eventually got Lee’s pronouns right.  

Except in the past tense.  Except when I was looking at this child in pigtails and a purple dress.  Except when I was telling old stories and relying on old memories, because THERE, in those memories, that child was still Leah. 

It always felt awkward, and I didn’t know how to navigate it.  Until I did what I should have done all along.  I asked him.  

My animal obsessed kid gave me a pet analogy.  “Mom, imagine you have a pet.  And you thought it was a girl for a long time.  Girl name.  Girl pronouns.  And then imagine you find out you were wrong.  Your pet is a boy!  So you start calling your pet by a boy name and using he/him pronouns.  You might make mistakes in the beginning, out of habit, but you try to get it right.”

“But when you go back and talk about your pet’s first vet visit, you don’t switch back because that’s what you called him then.  You get it right because you know better now.” 

“Mom, I’ve always been a boy.  You just didn’t know it.  But now you know so you have to try to get it right, even when you talk about the past.” 

*****

So that’s what I did. 

At first, it felt clumsy.  Awkward.  Like learning a new language.  I had a thought in the old language.  And then I had to translate in my head before I spoke.  

But here’s the thing about learning a new language… eventually, you get to the point where you’re not translating in your head anymore.  You’re THINKING in the new language.  

So if you’re a parent in the thick of it… if you feel clumsy and awkward?  Keep at it.  Keep practicing. It gets easier.  It becomes natural.  

Even in the past tense. 

He’s arguing with me before I even look at the missing assignment.  

“I’m not doing that one.” 

“What do you mean you’re not DOING it?  It’s not an OPTION.  It’s an assignment.” 

He’s often surly or snarky.  But he’s rarely defiant.  I can’t help but wonder what’s going on.  

I have him pull up the assignment on his Chromebook.  And then it all makes sense.  The assignment is titled, “Ode to Family Photos.”  I’m not even sure what he’s being asked to do, but I know in that instant that I’m not going to force him to do it.  

The word ‘triggering’ is so overused.  But it perfectly describes the effect of old photos on our family.  And not just for Lee… for ALL of us.  Those photos are hard.  They’re beautiful memories layered on top of unimaginable pain.  For years, they needed to be hidden.  Now, many years post-transition, we can look at them, but not without a lot of complicated emotions.  And they’re certainly not fodder for a class presentation.  

He’ll take the failing grade.  

The Mama Bear in me wants to call the teacher… to explain why it’s not appropriate.  I know teachers don’t do these things intentionally. In my younger years, I wouldn’t have thought twice.  It’s a fun assignment!  Kids love photos!  Nothing gets them engaged like talking about themselves!  And in my experience, teachers are super flexible and understanding.  They’re happy to excuse or modify the assignment…. IF you ask.  

And therein lies the problem.  I can’t ask.  He can’t ask.  He’s not OUT at the new school.  Nobody knows he’s trans.  So the advocacy will do more harm than good.  It’s better to take the F.  What a crappy decision. 

*****

Seniors!  Submit your baby photos for the ‘Guess Who’ page in the yearbook! 

Ugh.  I’ve been dreading this request; for two of my children, but Bea reaches the milestone first.   I don’t have baby photos.  She joined our family when she was 14.  

What do we do?  

Could I call her mom?  Why would she even talk to me?  DCF?  They can’t even find her passport… I can’t imagine they have any pictures.  Where would there be photos? I have an old picture from when I was her teacher.  It’s fifth grade graduation.  She’s not a baby, but it’s not recent.  Will that make it better or worse?  Will her classmates wonder why it’s not a BABY photo?   Should we just skip it?  Is it worse to be left out entirely?  

Ultimately, we get lucky.  Her sister has an old photo.  It’s pretty adorable, and Bea submits it.  

Dodged a bullet on that one. 

*****

This is hard.  It’s like those “Father Daughter” dances that everyone loves… unless you’re the kid without a dad.  

How do we continue to celebrate what’s special… being a baby who eventually graduates, or the sentimentality of old family photos, or the special relationship between a father and daughter… without hurting a whole group of kids, most of whom are already vulnerable for a slew of different reasons? 

Some might argue that, if we worry about everyone who might be hurt or offended, we could never celebrate ANYTHING.  

And, honestly, I agree.  We can’t STOP celebrating.  We can’t possibly make EVERYONE comfortable ALL the time.  

But what we can do is listen.  And learn. We can be considerate and thoughtful and deliberate, instead of doing what we’ve always done because it’s what we’ve always done.  

We can still celebrate… but add options.  Acknowledge that people have different lives and different experiences, and that each one is valuable.  

*****

So maybe the “Father-Daughter” dance becomes a “Special Someone” dance.  Or a “Father Figure” dance.  Or a “Role-Model” dance.  Whatever you call it… it could become more inclusive.  Why wouldn’t we do THAT?  It doesn’t hurt anyone.  And it could really make a difference for a kid who just wants to be included.  

Maybe the “Guess Who” page of the yearbook can be pictures OR trivia.  Guess who is the first in their family to go to college!  Guess who won a poetry contest in the second grade! Don’t take away the photos… they’re great!  Just remember that there are other ways to acknowledge the accomplishments of our graduates. 

This is especially important if a student’s grade depends on the completion of a very personal assignment.  Teacher friends… I know you’re out there.  And I know you care.  So show it.  Give options.  You could show photos.  Or you could write a story.  You could sketch.  Or build a model.  Or compose a song.  

If a student could fail because they don’t want to disclose personal information, then it’s the assignment that needs to change, not the child.  

*****

A lot of educators read this blog.  And I know that you all are well-intentioned, caring, creative people.  I am confident that you all would modify your assignment if you were aware that it was a problem for a particular student.  

And so I’m asking you to consider that it might be.  It might be a problem.  And that student maybe doesn’t want to tell you.  Because that would be awkward.  It could make it worse.  It could make them stand out.  And, really, what’s worse than that when you’re a teenager? 

So, my friends… take the initiative.   

Whether you know it or not… assume that you have foster kids and trans kids and migrant kids in your classroom.  Because when you do, they won’t want to tell you.  They will just want to blend in and be like everyone else.  

So it’s up to you.  Give them the chance to just blend in.  They’re counting on you.  We all are.    

I am a child abuser.  I am a sociopath.  I should be sterilized.  I should have my children taken away.  I hate women.  I hate lesbians.  I embrace 1950s gender norms.  I am delusional.  

According to the commenters. 

*********

At first, I was excited to have my article published.  I was proud of what I had written.  I wanted to share something beautiful.  I was hoping it had touched people; maybe shared a different perspective.  

And I admit now that I’m spoiled.  Those of you who read my blog generally know our family.  You’ve been incredibly supportive and understanding.  Even when you were unsure, you came to me with curiosity and concern instead of judgment.  Our family has been so protected by a your support and love.  

So, while I anticipated some controversy in the comments section, I wasn’t prepared for the hatred. 

On Thursday night, there were about 20 comments.  Many were supportive.  One or two were not, but others were speaking up, and I felt pretty good about the whole thing.  

On Friday morning, there were 75.  Someone had posted a link to an article about de-transitioning that I had read and debunked three years ago.  People were getting a little more fired up.  I had a long talk with my husband.  I was still feeling good about the post.  We are confident in our decisions.  We’ve done a ton of research and consulted medical professionals.  We were not going to get upset about the opinions of random strangers on the internet.  

Friday morning was full of distractions, so I couldn’t obsess.  When I checked again on Friday afternoon, we were up to 200 comments.  My sister weighed in and her support and love brought me to tears.  An old friend also piped in with beautiful, supportive words.  But the supportive comments were becoming the minority.  Maybe that’s not true.  I didn’t actually count.  But that’s certainly how it felt.  

Saturday morning, there were 350 comments.  361.  372.  The count was ticking even as I tried to read them.  I needed to stop.  

We went out to breakfast.  We went to the store.  All the while, I was trying to enjoy my husband and my children, but I was distracted.  Was there anything I could have said differently?  How could I explain more clearly?  My writing obviously didn’t convey enough of our story. 

By Saturday afternoon, I had stopped reading the comments, but my husband hadn’t.  He was becoming angrier and more defensive.  At one point, he tried to comment in our defense.  As you might imagine, everything he said was met with a new criticism.  A few comment lines on an online article could never contain the depth of our love and concern for our child.  And all words can be manipulated and misconstrued.  

During the hours of my Facebook hiatus, I received an email from the magazine.  

Hi Amy, we aren’t sure if you have been following the comments on your post, but just to let you know we have been banning the aggressive and hateful ones (so those people will not be able to keep writing in) and have updated the text with our support at the top. We are fine to take down the whole thing, if you want, it’s entirely up to you. If not, we will keep monitoring the comments. We are so sorry for any hurt this might have caused you and/or your family. 

I was grateful that they were at least monitoring the situation.  They did, in fact, remove the most hateful comments.  But there were plenty of rude, dismissive, and critical comments that didn’t quite reach the level of ‘hateful’ or ‘aggressive.’  

I reminded myself that I had put something good into the world.  That is my responsibility… to share the truth and beauty in our story.  I stand by that.  I shared something true and beautiful.  I cannot control how people respond.  That is not my responsibility. I gave them permission to keep the piece posted. 

I began repeating the mantra that was the namesake for this blog.  Inhale grace.  Exhale your gift.  Inhale grace. Exhale your gift. 

I believe that God has given me gifts.  The gift of compassion.  The gift of storytelling.  The gift of parenting.  The gift of teaching.  

But I am only able to use those gifts with the help of God’s grace.  When I inhale grace, I am breathing in the strength and the power to share my gifts with the world.  And on the exhale?  I will write.  I will love and I will teach and I will parent and I will share our story.  I will live this life and tell the truth and when I get too tired to keep going, I will inhale again.  

Breathe in grace.  Breathe in strength. 

500.  542.  605.  650.  

I’m ashamed of how I let it upset me that evening.  I really thought I was stronger than this.  I thought I would be immune to the ignorant opinions of strangers.  I was wrong.  I hadn’t shared with Lee all of what was happening online; I wanted to protect him.  But I found myself reaching to him for reassurance.  I filled him in a little.  I made light of it.  “They’re calling me a child abuser.”  He rolled his eyes and laughed.  “Yeah.  I’m SO abused,” he retorted as he bumped me with his shoulder and held up his bag of Cheetos.  

Deep down, I know I don’t owe anyone an explanation, especially not a bunch of opinionated strangers on the internet.  And there’s still a part of me that hopes, if they knew the WHOLE story, maybe they would change their minds.  Maybe they would try harder to understand.  Maybe they would be less judgmental and dismissive and hateful. 

That’s probably delusional optimism.  

But is it? 

Is it really?

Because when people we actually DO know in real life have questions or concerns or disagree with our choices, they don’t attack. 

In real life, I’ve never felt the same vitriol and hatred that emanates from an anonymous online source. 

In real life, I’ve had people question our choices and engage in thoughtful conversations. 

In real life, I’ve had family and friends express concern and listen in love. 

In real life, I’ve had people ask inappropriate questions and then apologize when I gently refuse to answer. 

In real life, I’ve had people present me with research studies and I’ve shared with them my own research and we’ve had hard conversations.  

In real life, we’ve known families who left the church when they disagreed with our choices and our church’s supportive stance. 

In real life, we’ve had therapists push us and we’ve had doctors question us and we’ve had a slew of professionals working with us to explore the options.  

In real life, I’ve never been viciously attacked for my choice to support my son.  

**********

So, delusional or not, I choose to maintain my optimism.  Our stories are powerful.  But our lives are even more so.  I will keep telling our story.  And I will keep living a life full of integrity and truth and love, in hopes that the anonymous online hatred will be replaced with real life curiosity, concern, compassion, and grace.  Inhale.  Exhale.    

His shoulders are spreading apart.  There’s a square-ness to his jaw and a deepening in his voice.  It’s all so typical, 14-year old boy.  And it’s all medically-induced.  The hormones that I inject into his thigh every week are turning him into a young man.  

I know, deeply, that this is the right choice.  He’s been all boy for the last five years.  

But there were eight years before that.  Eight years where I tried to squeeze him into this mold of who I thought he was.  Of who I thought he was supposed to be.  Of the little girl who would grow in to my best friend.  A silly dream?  Probably. 

Last night, I sat on the edge of his bed, while he scrolled through his TicToc videos for me.  He’s quite the artist.  These videos aren’t just fun to him.  They’re an artistic expression.  There’s lighting and costumes and effects.  Some are silly.  Some are dark.  All exude talent.  He explained the characters in the videos; who he was representing and why.  He talked about their backstories and which ones he could relate to and he explained the connections I never would have understood.  Watching him light up, talking about something that excites him… I’ll never get tired of that.  

Even as my eyes drooped and I stifled a yawn, I settled in to hear more.  I settled my head on his pillow, while he sat cross-legged in the center of the bed, pointing to posters for my reference.  Eventually, he curled up under his blanket, resting his head on the pillow next to mine.  He let me play with his hair (so unusual that he’ll allow it, now) and we continued to talk about significant and insignificant things.  I breathed it in.  

As they grow older, there are fewer and fewer chances to connect in a really authentic way.  They’re embarrassed by us.  They’d rather be with their friends.  They’re just too old to cuddle anymore.  

But for me, there’s another layer.  I think there’s part of me that worried I wouldn’t have those moments with my son.  When this child was a baby, I imagined lots of sweet, mother-daughter moments; dress shopping and late-night gab-fests among them.  I eventually let go of those imaginings, but not without my share of secret tears in the shower.  Perhaps I was a bit premature.  

He’s a fourteen-year old boy now.  And there are still these beautiful moments.  Binge-watching Queer Eye together.  Walking the dogs and listening to his laugh.  Chatting about his art late into the night.  None of that is gendered.  Why did I ever think it was?  Why did I ever assume that I lost something when he transitioned? 

The thing is, as parents, we’re always losing them.  We’re losing bits and pieces of their childhoods every day.  They grow and they change.  And before we know it, they’ve become such full, amazing, complicated people that we can no longer hold them under the umbrella of who WE are, as parents.  They don’t belong there anymore.  

And it doesn’t matter if their development is early or late or induced by injections.  It doesn’t matter if they’re boys or girls or who they fall in love with or what parts are in their pants.  It doesn’t matter because they all grow up.  They become so much more than just our children.  They become so much more than anything we could have made them.  

14 years ago, my imaginings were so small.  I had no idea.  I imagined a future that doesn’t make sense in hindsight.  But isn’t that the beauty of life?  Every moment has the potential for surprise.  For learning.  For change. If we’ve learned nothing from these past few months, we’ve learned that life is unpredictable.  And hard.  And beautiful.  To really live this life we’ve been given, we need to allow ourselves to listen.  To grow.  To not get so committed to our imaginings that we can’t see the beauty that’s right in front of us.  

Going Stealth

Lee transitioned in the fourth grade.  Now, four years later, he is in middle school with a bunch of kids who remember him as a girl, and a whole lot of students who know him as ‘the trans kid.’ 

And we all know that people can be mean.  And kids this age can be brutal.  There’s a core group of kids who refer to him as “that tranny.”  Of course, they never do it within earshot of adults, so it’s hard to prove and even harder to combat.  But, despite the ‘haters,’ he’s got a great group of loyal friends.  He’s got support and people who love him.  He is out and proud and unashamed.  

How much of that is a performance?  A show to convince everyone that the bullying and the name calling doesn’t bother him?  I’m not really sure.  I always just assumed this kid had an over abundance of confidence.  His “give-a-damn’s busted,” or some such cliché.  His favorite shirt reads, “Nobody Knows I’m Trans,” and I love him for wearing it proudly.  

But times, they are a changing.  He’s applying to High Schools.  And he’s excited about something I didn’t see coming.  

Going stealth.  

In the trans community, it’s a particular privilege (although this isn’t true for all trans people, especially those who with a non-binary identity) to be able to ‘pass’ in social situations.  When people in transition get ‘read’ as the correct gender by strangers in public, it’s often a milestone.  In unfamiliar situations, Lee has always had ‘passing privilege.’  Because he never went through a female puberty, he presents as male.  His hair, his clothing, his name… all of those non-medical changes were enough, at the tender age of 8, to prompt strangers to view him as a boy.  Now that he’s older, we’ve taken some medical steps, so his jaw is squaring, his shoulders are widening, a little shadow has appeared on his upper lip.  He’s pretty consistently gendered correctly.  

And having this ‘passing privilege’ opens up the option to ‘go stealth.’ He can simply rely on the general public to perceive the correct gender and not share his trans identity. 

That’s what Lee wants to do.  He wants to start at a new school, and just, well… keep his privates private.  He wants to be known for his artistic talent and his anime obsession and his animal-whispering skills.  He wants to make new friends and just BE, without answering uncomfortable questions and explaining himself to people who may or may not genuinely want to understand. 

His room is currently plastered in Pride flags.  Gay pride flags.  Pan pride flags.  Trans pride flags.  And last week, he asked me if he could take them down.  I didn’t know how to react.  The question was so unexpected… so out of character… that I wasn’t sure where it was coming from.  He read my face and clarified, “If I get to go to a different high school, I’m taking down my flags and climbing back into the closet.”  His phrasing made me giggle, but his words broke my heart.  

And, of course, it’s HIS choice.  It’s HIS lived experience we’re talking about, here.  

I haven’t lived as a trans person, so I don’t know what it’s like for him to be ‘out’.  I can’t imagine how hard it is to feel like you have a target on your back, especially as you navigate the nightmare of middle school.  But I do know what it’s like to have a secret.  To worry that someone might find out the thing that you so desperately want to hide.  To be afraid of the truth.  

Secrets are scary.  They can be used against you.  As blackmail or punishment or even a defense in court.  If a straight person murders a trans person, they can actually argue that they were so shocked and surprised by someone’s trans-ness that they’re not responsible for their own actions.  SERIOUSLY???

So, while I’m sure it would be easier for him to go to school as a boy and just ‘pass,’ I’m also worried about the repercussions if his ‘secret’ gets out.  Will he face potentially violent reactions if his peers feel like they’ve been lied to? 

I keep playing the ‘what-ifs’ in my head.  I keep imagining worst-case scenarios.  But I also need to imagine the relief at finally being able to just blend in.  The comfort of not having to watch your back or read between the lines or second-guess every interaction.  

Ultimately, I don’t think my opinion on this one is worth a damn.  He’s got to decide.  He’s always going to have to decide.  Every time he meets someone new.  Every time he starts a new job or makes a new friend or gets close enough to date someone.  Every time he enters a relationship, he’s going to have to make a choice.  He’s going to have to decide if the risk is worth the reward.  

And I can’t protect him from it.  I can’t mitigate the risks or predict the outcomes.  I can only be there to support him through it; to cheer him on through the wins and comfort him through the losses and remind him that his value is not dependent on other people’s reactions to him.  

Just like every other parent, I suppose.  I can’t fix the world for my kid, so I have to prepare my kid to be brave and bold and vulnerable and kind.  I have to help him to be cautious AND resilient as he becomes the incredible adult human that God intended him to be.  

I went to church today, mostly full of nerves because I play in the bell choir, and today’s anthem pushed me just slightly beyond my comfort zone as a musician.  I was focused on the song, and the ringing, and the counting. I was rehearsing in my head as a family entered the sanctuary.  They were there to baptize their twin daughters.  Those little girls were gorgeous and innocent and wide-eyed in their frilly white dresses.  I cried. 

Those moments take me by surprise and they take my breath away.  I was crying because I remembered Lee’s baptism.  The frilly white dress.  The white patent leather shoes.  The little flowered headband that wouldn’t stay where I placed it.  The baby smiles and the baby eyes and all of the dreams and hopes that I had for this child… they flooded my memory and my emotions went into overload.  

What moment is more beautiful and hopeful than the baptism of a baby?  On that day, we imagine the most inspiring version of what we hope for our children.  A loving community.  A strong faith.  An abiding hope.  A future full of ups and downs, of course, but hopefully more ups.  The love of family and friends and community and God. 

And there I was, overreacting to the baptism of children I didn’t even know.  I stepped out of the sanctuary.  I found a safe place to cry in the church kitchen, with friends who held me as I felt all of the emotions that I so rarely allow myself to feel. And even now, I feel guilty writing about it.  I have nothing to grieve.  I have a son to celebrate and honor and love.  I have a happy, healthy, thriving child who is growing perfectly into who God created him to be.  

So I wiped away my tears. I snuck back in to the sanctuary, and sat in the last pew with a friend who just happened to be there.  I got there just in time for the sermon.  And my pastor delivered the exact message that I needed to hear.  She spoke about letting go.  Letting go of expectations and grief and fear.  Letting go of our children when it’s time.  Releasing our tight grasp on certainty and security and taking a leap of faith towards the path that we’re meant to travel.  My friend held my hand through the prayers and handed me a tissue as all of those bottled up emotions squeezed out through my closed eyes.  

Lee’s baptism dress still hangs in the back of my closet.  It’s the one clothing item I wouldn’t let him give away.  I’ve been hanging on to it; holding tight to a memory that’s so tightly interwoven with the hopes and expectations I had for my child. Those tears and that sermon and that beautiful baptism helped me to see that I need to release them.  I have photos and memories, but that dress and those expectations?  I need to let them go.  

After the service, I sat in the pew, reflecting for a moment on the emotions that had flooded me.  And this amazing child walked in and rolled his eyes, and with his most exasperated voice, he smirked at me.  “Mom, were you crying in church AGAIN?” I wrapped this growing young man into a hug, and I was overwhelmed with love and pride and gratitude for the gift of being his mom.  I’m going to hold on tight to that, and let all the rest go.