Inhale Grace

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.  

Do you know that parents of trans kids are advised to have a ‘safe folder’?  This is a file containing the documents that would be necessary to defend your family in court, should it ever be needed.  Included in the file, it is recommended that we have: 

– relevant doctor’s notes

– a letter from a therapist

– character references from teachers, pastors, or community leaders (or preferably all of the above)

– documentation of any medical or mental health treatments or concerns

– photos, artwork, report cards (showing a happy, well-adjusted kid)

– copies of legal documents (name change, passport, birth certificate, social security)

The purpose of this file is to prove your fitness as a parent should you ever be accused of neglect or abuse for supporting your child’s gender identity. 

The need for a file like this terrifies me.  

I like to think that I’m relatively safe here in liberal Massachusetts.  But there are families all over the country who get reported to CPS (child protective services) or DCF (department of children and families) for ‘brainwashing’ their children into ‘being transgender.’  There are families all over the country fighting in court for the right to support their children.  

I can’t even type that without seething.  

I think I need to back up a step.  

*************

I have some pretty well-intentioned people in my life who have referred me to articles reporting parents ‘forcing’ a gender transition on elementary-aged children.  These articles, if taken at face value, are upsetting.  They paint a picture of a parent pushing an agenda.  They talk about medical transitions occurring as young as 7 or 8 years old.  They talk about lax standards of care. They talk about kids who change their presentation in different circumstances.  

I read these articles and I cringe.  I cringe because they play on our tendency to believe the worst about each other.  They paint a partial picture intended to engage our fears.  

Incompetent medical professionals? Scary.  Irreversible medical transition for a 7 year old?  Frightening.  Adults manipulating children?  Terrifying. 

So, please.  Stay with me for a minute while I reframe this story for you.  While I don’t personally know the families referenced in these articles, I do know families whose stories parallel these.  This story could easily have been our own, had I been married to a less amazing man. 

Imagine: 

A young child, aged 4 or 5, self-harming.  Beating her head against the wall.  Saying things like, “I hate myself” and “I want to die” and “Something is WRONG with me.”

Parental searching. Therapists.  Counselors.  Maybe medication.  Maybe not. 

A child who seems sometimes happy and sometimes so, so incredibly sad.  The reason is never clear.  

Overreactions to small things that don’t make sense.  A ponytail. Tights.  Pink icing on a cake.  

Marital discord. Nobody can fix it.  Each parent blames the other.  She’s too lenient.  He’s too harsh.  

An epiphany. This child declares, “Actually, I’m a boy” or asks, “When will I grow a penis?” or proclaims, “I just don’t FEEL like a girl.”

One parent (let’s say it’s the mother, for argument’s sake) embraces it. She’s figured out what the problem is.  The search begins for a solution. 

The other parent (the father, again, simply for argument’s sake) rejects this idea.  

Mom researches.  She finds support groups.  She finds a doctor and a therapist familiar with the issues at hand.  She buys new clothes and starts using new pronouns.   

Dad turns to church. He’s told he can fix this.  He needs to teach his child how to behave. He needs to reinforce appropriate behavior and punish inappropriate behavior.  He needs to stop coddling.  

The child is aware. With dad, the child conforms to gender norms. With mom, the child experiments.  Both parents are convinced that they are right.  

Eventually, the differences become too much.  The parents can’t agree.  They separate, and then divorce.  The courts are involved.  A media circus ensues.  

What gets reported in the media depends on the source.  

The liberal news will tell you:

– the conservatives hate transgender people

– the father is rejecting his child

The conservative news will tell you:

– the liberals are providing medical transitions to 7 year old children

– the mother is brainwashing her child

Even as I acknowledge that there are two sides to this, you know where I stand.  I chose to support and affirm my child.  I made my decisions based on research and faith and grounded in love and I don’t regret them for a single second.  

But the truth is:

This is tough stuff. We’re in uncharted territory in a lot of ways.  We need to remember that we are not alone. There are transgender adults who have travelled this path.  We need to listen and learn from their stories and those of their families.  There are doctors and researchers and therapists who have been in this field for decades.  We have much to learn from them, too. 

None of us knows everything. If your first reaction is to reject something because you lack knowledge, please… pause.  Educate yourself.  Just because you don’t understand something, doesn’t mean it’s not real.  

If the answer to a complicated issue seems obvious, it’s probably oversimplified and designed to play on your emotions.  Consider the source of your information.  

Nobody is providing cross-gender hormones to a seven year old.  I promise.  If you’re really interested you can do some research about puberty blocking medication and gender affirming care and hormone therapy.  There are lots of options, but none of them involve irreversible physical changes before puberty.  

ALL parents are making tough decisions.  Every day. Grant each other a little grace. Instead of making accusations or assumptions, ask thoughtful questions.  

All of us are beloved children of God.  ALL. OF. US.  

********** 

In all of this, I think what scares me the most is how quick people are to judge.  

Given the stories I’ve heard and read, given my own experience as a parent, it would be naïve to say that we don’t need a safe folder.  Because you never know.  Sometimes people who appear to be supportive are not.  Sometimes, people’s fears overwhelm their grace and they attack what they do not understand.  Sometimes, parents disagree so fundamentally that their story becomes a cautionary tale. 

******

It took me a couple of days to get around to writing this post. The catalyst was an old friend’s comment on an online article.  It wasn’t addressed to me.  But I reacted.  I vaguely responded to this friend online, but then decided I didn’t really have the energy to engage.  Deep down, I was afraid.  This person once meant a lot to me.  Even all these years later, I can’t shake the desire to maintain that relationship. I wanted to prepare what I would say, and I needed to brace myself for the loss of a friendship if it didn’t go well.  

And as I sat with all of that, as I mentally rehearsed a conversation and composed a hypothetical response, I had a chance to chat with my son.  

He opened up a little. He’s 13, so that’s becoming more the exception than the norm.  He talked about the peers who constantly ask if he’s a boy or a girl, and then ‘correct’ him when he answers.  He shared a story about the kid who wouldn’t park his bike ‘next to a tranny’s bike.’ He vaguely mentioned the kids who won’t let him join the boy’s table at lunch and those who snidely ask, “Who invited YOU?” when he rides downtown after school.  

For the most part, this kid doesn’t complain.  He knows that some people just don’t understand; he sees that some people are judgmental.  And sadly, he accepts that there will always be people who see him as ‘less-than’ simply because he is trans.  

On one hand, I’m proud of his strength.  I love that he doesn’t rely on others to establish his self-worth.  I want him to be resilient and aware and confident.  

But then he broke my heart. He said, “Mom, I’m just afraid that it’s never going to get better.  There’s always going to be transphobic people.  In high school.  In college. When I get a job.”

He talks about wanting to go ‘stealth.’  He could just start over in a place where nobody knows he’s trans.  But there’s fear involved there, too.  Because secrets can’t be contained forever, and there’s danger inherent in hiding your truth.  

I listen to him and I marvel.  I am amazed by this child.  He is thoughtful and kind and creative and strong. 

The guilt comes in waves. I had been feeling afraid and overwhelmed.  Afraid of what?  Losing a friend I haven’t talked to in decades?  Overwhelmed by what?  The possibility of someone arguing with me?  

And I realize that… EVERY DAY…. my amazing son laces up his high tops and slips into his hoodie and enters a reality so much more intimidating than the conversations I avoid. He doesn’t have the luxury of choosing when to engage.

So I’m trying to learn from him.  I’m trying to be braver.  I’m holding on to hope for a future for him that is so much brighter than the one he imagines.  I hope you will help us create it.  Until then, I just have to keep sharing our story and loving my children and protecting my family.  

Excuse me while I add the doctor’s note to our ‘safe folder…’

I’m working on some longer pieces of writing.  I’m trying to tell the story of our family, but I’m struggling.  How do I tell our whole story without messing up Lee’s pronouns? These stories go back in time, to moments when I experienced this child as a girl.  

Have you seen him lately? He’s not a girl.  I was wrong.  So how can I look back and use the wrong pronouns?  Wasn’t it Maya Angelou who said, ‘When you know better, do better?” Well, I know better now.  

Early on in his transition, my husband and I fell into this habit of switching pronouns.  We were okay in the present… but how do you talk about the past?  There was a point where it felt like two different kids; the girl-child and the boy-child.  So we spoke about them differently.  

In the first few months, there were also times when we did a cost/benefit analysis.  I’m a little ashamed to say that there were times when I used the wrong pronouns because it was just easier.   A customer or a former neighbor or an old acquaintance from high school would ask, “How’s your daughter?”  I would mentally calculate.  Should I explain?  Is it worth it?  In the grocery store aisle or at the gas station or in passing at a party?  “She’s fine,” I sometimes replied, to save myself the time or the aggravation or the emotional investment of an explanation.  

But over time, that little white lie, that dismissal of my child, that choice of convenience over honesty became more than I could handle.  The little white lie felt bigger and bigger. It wasn’t okay to negate my child’s identity for my own comfort and convenience.  And that’s what you do when you knowingly use the wrong pronouns.  I couldn’t do it anymore.  It felt wrong.  

I got to the point where I could quickly correct people.  “Actually, it’s Lee now.  HE’s transgender.”  It happened at the bank and at PTO meetings and at backyard barbecues.  The more comfortable I became with my child’s transition, the easier it was for me to smile, state the facts, and move on.  

You know what else? The more I learned, the more I researched and talked to other parents and doctors and therapists, the more confident I became.  I knew better, so I could do better.  I worried less and less about how people would respond, because, quite frankly, I didn’t care. 

My job… my first priority… is to love my kid.  Misgendering him for convenience or comfort?  That’s not love.  That’s betrayal.  My son will get enough betrayal out there in the world.  He’s going to deal with a lot of tough stuff.  There will be a lot of people making weak excuses for their poor behavior and treating him like his existence is an inconvenience.  

I’m not going to be one of them. 

There’s something else that has changed since those early days of struggling with pronouns.  It’s a little hard to explain if you haven’t been through it, but I liken it to learning a new language.  At first, when you learn new vocabulary, you think the word in your native language first.  Mentally, you translate.  There is a brief pause between the thought and the speech as it passes through a mental filter.  When Lee first changed his pronouns, my speech slowed.  Every time I was about to say the words ‘she’ or ‘her,’ there was a tiny pause.  Is this the right word?  Nope. Adjust.  

During those early months, I messed up pronouns everywhere.  My brain was adjusting to this new filter.  I misgendered my dogs and sisters and my students, because my brain was SO hesitant to use female pronouns. I couldn’t trust myself to automatically use the right word, so I overcorrected.  

It happened slowly, so I can’t pinpoint the moment… but I no longer do that.  My THOUGHTS are happening in the new language.  Mentally, I’ve categorized Lee as ‘male.’  I THINK of him as male, so the pronouns come automatically.  

Lee has been living as a boy for more than four years now.  He LOOKS like a boy.  He ACTS like a boy.  His friends are boys.  If you met him in town, you’d never know.  

Yet, he still gets misgendered.  

Of course, he gets misgendered by peers; the ones who mock him or harass him or intentionally exclude him. That’s a separate issue, and one that we (unfortunately) have to deal with.  

He also gets misgendered by family.  That is accidental.  Nobody does it on purpose.  But the family members who make mistakes are the ones who don’t see him that often. They probably have more memories and associations with a female version of this kid… and so they slip.  I know it’s not intentional.  I know they’re trying.  They just haven’t yet gotten to the point where they actually think of him as male.  They’re still translating. 

He sometimes gets misgendered by teachers.  There’s this one teacher who sometimes slips and uses the wrong pronouns.  He’s not malicious toward my kid.  He corrects himself.  But what’s fascinating about this is that this teacher NEVER KNEW a female version of my kid.  So why the mistakes?  It makes me wonder what he really thinks about trans people.  In his mind, is Lee a girl pretending to be a boy?  Is he still mentally translating, because he actually, deeply believes that Lee is female?  

I hate that I have to wonder about these things.  

And, so, back to the original question.  What do I do about the pronouns?  The ones that tell the stories of our past?  I guess I’ve known the answer all along.  I’m not sure why I’m asking all of YOU.  What I need to do is simply ask Lee.  Because after all, it’s HIS story.  

So, if you follow my blog, you probably know that Lee started testosterone back in April.  It was a big step for him (and for us), and was accompanied by much celebration and good-natured ribbing. 

“Is that a moustache I see?” asked his dad on day two.

“Yeah, but I’m still the only one with a penis,” remarked a smartass brother. 

“Wait.  Is that an actual muscle?” teased an older sister. 

The testosterone we chose was administered in patches.  They basically looked like big round band-aids, with a bubble in the middle that slowly released medication into his bloodstream throughout the day. 

Shortly after he began, we noticed changes.  A slight broadening of the shoulders, a squaring of the jaw line, a lowering of the voice.  Increased agitation and moodiness.  Some of this was clearly the testosterone.  Some of it was typical teenage behavior… maybe enhanced (or maybe not) by the newly administered hormones. 

But after a few months, we were a little disillusioned.  The patches frequently fell off.  They caused skin irritation and were easily forgotten in the hustle and bustle of a typical day.  They couldn’t be applied before or after a shower.  They often stuck to the sheets at night.  

To me, all this simply seemed like the price we had to pay for an easy, painless administration of a necessary medication.  

But my son thought differently.  At camp this summer, he spoke with some of his transgender friends.  These kids insisted that injections were more effective and worked more quickly (this rumor was debunked by our doctor).  But these kids also managed to convince my needle-phobic, fainting-prone son that a shot was actually quite simple and pain-free. 

At our next appointment, he asked the doctor about trying weekly injections instead of daily patches. To say I was hesitant would be an understatement.  I had watched this child faint after a blood draw.  He would have a full-blown panic attack when he had to get a shot at a well-visit.  I once caught his clammy head before it hit the floor in a doctor’s waiting room; he had just had an injection.  That was right before he threw up. 

So when we talked to the doctor, my doubt was apparent.  But she encouraged us to try it anyway.  “Sometimes they surprise you,” she whispered to me, knowingly. 

We agreed to order injectable testosterone, continuing with the patches until the new medication arrived. The doctor gave us the name of a mail-order pharmacy in Oregon, where we could get a full year’s worth of medication without insurance for about $80.  A local hospital pharmacy could bill over $1200, with our co-pay nearing $150 per MONTH.  

We were lucky to be working with experienced medical professionals who were able to point us in the right direction.  If you’re navigating this for the first time, I STRONGLY suggest you explore several different options for your medication, as the cost can vary significantly between sources.  

We ordered the medicine, and it arrived at our doorstep within a week, complete with needles and syringes and alcohol wipes; everything we would need to do at-home injections. A few days later, we packed up all of this paraphernalia and brought it to the gender doctor, so the nurse could teach us (read: ME) how to inject testosterone safely and efficiently.  

The steps seemed easy enough; the nurse demonstrated each part of the process, and Lee was a champ. He was super anxious and near tears until the nurse said, “All done!”  His eyes widened and a smile broke out and he proclaimed, “I didn’t even FEEL that!” 

 Once the nurse had completed the actual injection, then I had a chance to practice with a silicone bubble and an empty syringe.  I felt like I might be capable of this, after all.  

Before we left, the team offered to have us come back in a week, so I could complete my first actual injection with support and supervision.  I really liked that idea, but it seemed a little extreme to drive two hours to have a nurse WATCH me do the injection.  When I got home, I called our primary care doctor, hoping for a more convenient solution. 

Our pediatrician has been incredibly supportive throughout Lee’s transition, and my hope was that a nurse in her office might be willing to provide this service for us.  It would save me a few hours of driving and provide tremendous peace of mind.  After a bit of initial confusion and a few voicemail messages, I got to speak to a nurse who assured me she’d be happy to help us out.  

While I was grateful for her agreement, I was also a bit skeptical about her motivation.  In my experience, most medical providers haven’t had a chance to work with actual transgender people.  And while they are well-intentioned and interested in learning, I often feel like my child is being used as a guinea pig; for educational or research purposes.  They seem more intrigued and enthralled than capable and professional.  

So when we walked into our pediatrician’s office, I felt a combination of relief and wariness.  The nurse called us into a room in the back, and I clutched my bag of syringes and needles, trying not to let my child notice the nervousness that I felt.  The nurse was encouraging and friendly and obliging.  She brought in a second nurse to help and my radar went up.  There’s no way we need two nurses to WATCH me do a shot. Why were they both here?  To see something they’d never seen?  Just to lay eyes on the trans kid?  I was skeptical.

Ultimately, my fears were unfounded.  Regardless of why they were both there, they walked us through the process with encouragement and professionalism and a few helpful hints.  They were kind and enthusiastic and helped the experience go smoothly.  

In the months since, Lee and I have become an impressive injection team.  He’s no longer nervous and he handles it like a pro.  I’m still learning, but each time gets a little better. Lee gives me feedback.  “That time it stung.  I think we needed to let the alcohol dry longer.”  “Today it hurts a little.  I think maybe the angle was too deep.”  “Mom, that was the best one yet!  It didn’t hurt at all!”  

And much to my surprise, the injections ARE easier than the patch.  There’s less to remember and less chance for something to go wrong. There’s less reminding and less worrying and less chance that he’s forgotten or lost his medication.  

But there’s something else, too.  Although the administration is easier than I thought, there is something that’s harder. Maybe harder is the wrong word.  More intense, perhaps?

When my kid was wearing a patch, it was easy to forget (or ignore) the fact that we are administering a drug that will change him.  While the effects were not reversible, the patch itself somehow felt reversible.  It was a sticker.  A band-aid.  We could take it off or stop it at any time. 

And of course, we still can. But with these injections, this choice feels more intentional.  Every time I fill a syringe, I need to be confident in our decision to manipulate his hormones. 

I look at this young person, growing up, and figuring out who he is… and my emotions go haywire. He’s going through so much.  He’s so strong.  What will his life be like?  Will he ever regret this decision?  Will he ever resent me for the choices I made on his behalf?  Of course I question myself.  I think that’s the hallmark of a good parent.  We all want to do what’s right for our kids.  And most of the time, we can’t be one hundred percent sure of what that is.  

I don’t really know the answers.  I can only have faith.  I am diligent and observant and prayerful.  I trust in God and I trust my child, and I know that I am making the absolute best choices that I can with the information that I have.  

And at night, when he crawls into bed and sleepily confesses, “Mom, I don’t know what I’d do without you,” my heart swells.  He tells me he didn’t really know how lucky he was until he talked to friends whose parents were unsupportive.  He tells stories of kids stealing or trading or sourcing illegal testosterone.  He tells me that this medicine is saving his life. 

I choose to believe him.