When You Became She, One Year Later

My dear daughter,

Well, here we are. One year later. Can you believe it?

Remember what we were doing a year ago? Shopping for shirts for National Pink Shirt Day. It was tough to find anything pink in the boys' department, which led to your little brother sporting a rather long women's shirt in the smallest size possible and tying it in a knot on the side like something out of a Debbie Gibson video. 

It also generated what I thought at the time was a very healthy discussion about the ridiculousness of assigning particular colours to gendered clothing, and how it's really okay to just be you.

I said it mostly for your brother, who likes to wear nail polish on occasion and predominately hangs out with girls these days. I felt like I had done my little self-esteem job of the day.

Nice one, mom. I told myself. Good parenting and stuff.  Just make sure you never show the kid a Debbie Gibson video.

But what I didn't know until last night, when we were driving home from a LGBT support group, is how closely you were listening to my every word that day. I didn't know that conversation was your catalyst. A few hours later, you would send us an email to tell us that you are she. You are her. You have never really been him all along.

I'm sitting at my desk right now, which is the same spot I sat when your dad came in to show me the email on his phone. I remember it so clearly. "You need to see this right now," he said. I'll never forget the wave of shock that rushed through me as I read those brave words. I was floored. Even when I look back a year later and try to unearth from your childhood some concrete signs of you being transgender, I can't find any. We couldn't have seen it coming.

Little you, circa 2004. Your hair is way cooler now.

"What are we going to do?" he asked. I knew what he meant. The implications were huge for you emotionally, physically, socially. We looked at each other worriedly.

I took a deep breath and stood up. "We're going to go tell our child we love him." That's all I could think to do. That had to come first.

You were hiding in your room, crying under the covers. You were so scared of what our reaction would be. Your dad and I climbed into your bed and hugged you so tight.

"We love you," we said over and over. "And that will never change."

We support you no matter what. 

We just want you to be happy. 

We are always here for you.

Waves of fear crashed into me for days and days. I cried a lot. It was ridiculous. Making toast? Cry. Frying an egg? Cry. Pumping gas? Cry. I don't know how I didn't die of dehydration.

And you? You hesitantly dipped your toe into femininity. It took months to shed all the boy clothes completely. Your hair grew longer, your smile wider. Transition takes times. It's not over yet. Maybe it's never over. In a way, aren't we always transitioning, all of us?

But look at us now. It's been a whole year. And today is pink shirt day again! I couldn't find your brother's Debbie Gibson tie-up shirt, so I had to send him to school with a pink scarf out of my closet. He can handle it. 

You know what's great about today? You're no longer sad and I'm no longer afraid.

You've changed the course of your life, and in turn you've changed the course of mine; my writing, advocacy work and future educational goals are all fueled by my drive to make the world a safer place for you. You've given me direction.

By letting me tell our story here and elsewhere, you have shifted people's thinking and opened their hearts. I get emails all the time from readers who tell me how much your transition is helping them understand someone else's. You are literally improving the lives of others. How incredible is that?

So yes, we were scared. We cried (Mostly me. Very salty eggs that month.) We worried for the future. Sometimes I still do, but those moments are fleeting.

Mostly, we celebrate.

Happy one year out to the brave and beautiful girl I am proud to call my daughter. Thanks for being you. Thanks for letting us all be there for you.

Thank you to your brothers, who accepted this change swiftly and wholeheartedly. Thank you to your dad, who is the greatest guy I could travel this bumpy parenting road with.

Here's to our extended family that has embraced you entirely. Here's to our friends, both online and off, who have shown us so much love. Here's to the other trans families who let us know we were on the right path by supporting you, and the incredible trans community for reminding me that it gets better. Here's to the experts, people like the wonderful Nadine Thornhill and the great people at CHEO's Gender Identity Clinic, who helped us learn so we could fully support you.

Here's to a full year of life lived authentically, and to many more to come. 

We support you no matter what. 

We just want you to be happy. 

We are always here for you.

We love you. 

When it All Comes Crashing Down

"Several brownies" by jeffreyw - originally posted to Flickr as brownies...yawn...boooring. Licensed under CC BY 2.0 via Wikimedia Commons - http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Several_brownies.jpg#mediaviewer/File:Several_brownies.jpg

I cried this morning. I was grinding beans for coffee #2 and all of a sudden the levee was breached and I found myself inundated with tears.

It doesn't happen much. Most days, I'm a bouncy ball of positivity (and caffeine) when it comes to everything, including raising our twelve-year-old transgender daughter. I feel like we've got this.  We have strong family, community and medical support. She's the happiest I've ever seen her. What's to cry about?

But then I see things like this. A Florida legislator wants to make it illegal for citizens like Jazz - my daughter's hero and the reason she had the courage to come out when she did - to use the public washrooms of the gender they identify with.  Frank Artiles, who submitted the bill, says it shouldn't be a big deal for trans folk, because using a public washroom is a "choice."

I should laugh. It's idiotic, isn't it? This bill doesn't stand a chance.

Or does it?

Every now and then it hits me that there are so many ignorant, hateful people like Mr. Artiles out there. They live in my country, too. They have a hand in making rules that directly affect my child's human rights.

I see it all the time. I see it in Judgmental Mom. I see it in the handful of family friends we lost this year. I see it in Facebook comments and at the bottom of articles with an LGBTQ focus.

I don't get it. My child needs to use the washroom when she's out, and asking her to use the men's would be downright traumatizing for her. She's a girl. Her brain is female.  Medical experts have confirmed this. Her male puberty is now arrested. There is no testosterone in her system. She will start estrogen in the near future and have as much of it coursing through her veins any other teen girl. 

Why can't people get this concept? She is not a predator in girl's clothing, going in to peek at or harass other females (the main argument opponents of trans rights seem to have about washroom use). She is a girl who needs to pee. That's it. Nothing more.

Furthermore, as trans women are still being murdered at an alarming rate compared to the general population, it's a huge safety concern to insist they use the men's washroom. (And of course, there are serious concerns for trans men as well.)

Normally I can just shake my head and shrug it off. But every now and then I am reminded that I'm still very much afraid of what the future holds for my daughter. It is an uphill battle, and right now I'm her shield against much of the discrimination the world is throwing her way.

So I take a cry day, where I stay in pyjamas and maybe eat some brownies. I guess today is that day.  Good thing I made brownies last night. They have icing and everything.

Sometimes these days make me feel like a lousy advocate. How am I supposed to help change the world for the better if I let fear win like this? I am my harshest critic when it comes to falling apart.

But I'm trying to take a gentler approach. Maybe I'm not letting fear win. Maybe these are simply my refuelling days. My battery is worn down and I need to charge it with tears and brownies and sappy TV shows and hugs, that's all.

I'll be better tomorrow. I will. And I'll get back up and start doing my part to change the world again.  Honestly, I've never felt so full of purpose as I have this past year. It's given me a reason to write again, a reason to get more education, and another good reason to keep myself as physically and emotionally healthy as possible. This is what I'm meant to do. I feel it the core. So I will take my occasional shitty day and come back even stronger the next.

See you tomorrow, legislators and judgmental moms of the world.

I'll bring brownies.

Dear Judgmental Mom (BlogHer #VOTY submission)

(This is an edited version of my original post, Dear Judgmental Mom, published on September 17, 2014. I shortened it to meet the submission guidelines for BlogHer Voices of the Year. Apparently I'm way too verbose. Like, way.)

Credit: Wikipedia Commons

I just want you to know we're cool. 

Yes you, with your eyes that won't meet mine, who ignores me even when I speak to you, who seems to tell everyone but me how strongly you disagree with us supporting our transgender child in her transition.

The thing is, I have to let you have your opinion. I don't have to like it or agree with it, but it's your right to have it.

I'll admit I’ve been a little hurt. Not because you disagree with our parenting - that's entirely your call - but because of the way you've chosen to go about it. We're not close friends, and I'm pretty sure you don't even know I have a blog. But nobody likes to feel ignored or ostracized. And for a while I contemplated avoiding any place you might be because it made me uncomfortable.

I contemplated it for, like, two milliseconds.

That would have been needlessly complicated and my life is complicated enough. I'm glad I talked myself out of that one. And you know what else? I don't want my daughter avoiding places because of what other people might think, so I'm definitely not going to set that kind of example.

I want her walk tall, hold her beautiful head up, and be fierce. I want her to part the proverbial sea wherever she goes, and those nearby can either choose to be where she is or swim away. She doesn't need to be avoiding people - ever. And neither do I.

My child is undergoing a huge transformation. It's something you or I could never fully grasp, but I might have a better clue because I researched transgender issues before blindly whacking at them with the judgment cane. This was a kid who hid in her room for years. When she lived as a boy, she was depressed and riddled with anxiety.

When she realized the source of her pain, this was a kid who was terrified of what that meant in a way I can't even begin to imagine.

But she told her parents; she entrusted us with this secret she had been holding onto so tightly. She is the bravest human being I know, and probably one of the bravest you know too - even if you can't see it right now. You may never see it, but that doesn't make it any less true.

As parents, we did what unconditional love told us to do: we supported our child. What else is there to do, really? Have you seen the statistics on trans kids who aren't supported by their families?

Sky high suicide rates.

Homelessness.

Poverty.

Misery.

But our daughter has some key advantages: She has an open-minded family, access to specialists, and time on her side.

Trans kids who get help at her age thrive. They thrive, lady. That's what we want for her, a rich and full and wonderful life. Isn't that what every parent wants?

So, if kids who are supported in their transition thrive and kids who are not supported have the highest suicide rate of any marginalized group, who is rocking the shit out of this parenting thing?

Oh, that's right: This girl. The one you're judging.

Funny, that.

Today I took my daughter to get a really cute haircut. She also got her first purse and a necklace and some pretty shoes. She looks totally adorable and about as girly as a girl can girl. I can't wait for you to see her.

Because we will be around, my daughter and I.

We won't be avoiding any place or any person.

We will be standing tall and making waves.

We won't ignore you like you do us.

I'm going to be nice and polite and cheerily engage you whenever possible. I'm going to teach my daughter how to deal with difficult people, because there will be many in her lifetime. There are haters everywhere. You aren't the first and you won't be the last.

So expect smiles and great shoes and one amazing kid and her mom all up in your business. In the nicest way possible, of course.

See you around.

Why I Choose Kindness Even When Others Don't

Wise words. Thanks to filmsforaction.org for this image.

I cut off a woman in the children's hospital parking lot this week.

It was purely accidental, I swear. I just got my first pair of glasses and their thick hipster rims have created blind spots that I'm still getting used to. I just didn't see her car. It was nothing personal.

But apparently it was personal to her, because she not only proceeded to honk at me (which, if it ended there, would have resulted in an apologetic wave from yours truly) but also rolled down her window and started yelling at me while my child was in the car.

And yelling.

And yelling.

And yelling. Like oh-mi-gawd. It was ridiculous. If I had taken out of my phone, she could have been a YouTube sensation.

She was a total rage case for 30 seconds - because that's all it was, really. Her trip was delayed by the time it took me to stick my parking pass into the machine, pull it out again and drive away.  I couldn't understand why she was making such a big deal out of something so small.

The old me - the person I was before having to do a lot of growing up this past year - would have done one of two things:

1. Flipped her off from the comfort of my vehicle and smiled smugly, because if you're going to act like a total bitch I'm going to show you what pure bitchery actually looks like, or

2. Exited the vehicle and had a few words with her about calming the fuck down in a parking lot full of young children and accepting that people make mistakes sometimes so please get a clue and some Xanax

No matter which option I would have chosen, however, it would have inevitably resulted in regretting the decision to react with such negativity to an already negative situation. I never like myself afterwards.  

So I chose kindness.

Instead of thinking, "That douchecanoe is completely freaking out behind me.  I'm going to show her how we do things in the west end," I thought, "Poor thing. She must have a lot going on. Nobody visits the children's hospital for fun. I'm going to get out of here as quickly as possible and let her take her turn."

And I also chose not to take it personally.

Yes, I made a mistake. It was my fault that I cut her off. But her reaction was completely her responsibility. She could have sighed or swore under her breath - and let it go. She could have assumed that I have a lot on my mind as well and just didn't see her - and let it go.  But she didn't. Like, she really didn't. She really, really needed to let me know how much I offended her. But I didn't let her extreme reaction dictate how I felt about myself.  I felt sheepish because I had made a mistake, but I didn't feel like the worst human being on the planet just because she felt that way in that moment.

Her reaction, her business. My mistake, my business.

Holy shit. I'm totes growing up.

I'm doing the same thing with Judgmental Mom, the fellow parent I have to deal with on a semi-regular basis who has made it clear to many that she does not agree with our decision to support our transgender child. 

I meet her with kindness - always. I smile and I say hello and I break the ice at every encounter.  I include her in conversations and neither hide nor emphasize the fact that we have a transgender child. I treat her just like everyone else.

I empathize. Her upbringing was very different from mine, and the way she practices her faith does not coincide with how I raise my child.  I don't have religion to tangle with when it comes to acceptance, but she does. My life does not revolve around trying to make a deity happy in the way I think I'm supposed to. I can imagine that would be a lot to work through on the path to open-mindedness. I hope she gets there someday.

I don't take it personally. Her reaction is entirely hers. Her beliefs are entirely her own. This isn't about us, or anything we've done. I won't tolerate outright hatred or intolerance, but if she treats us cordially, we're good.

I have hope that kindness will beget more kindness. It's infectious, you know. And I'm creating the right atmosphere for learning. I'm letting her into our world whenever she's around, so she can see that we're just a normal, happy, functional family who happens to be raising a transgender child. It might make a difference. It might make no difference. But at least I'm setting an example I can be proud of, rather than making a challenging situation worse.

It's funny, you know. Despite how passionate I am about the issues affecting my child and my strong desire to make the world a better place for her, I seem to be choosing kindness over anger most of the time. Maybe the glasses are making me smarter.

Yep. It's totally the glasses.

Now with added blindspots.

What I've Learned About Mental Health This Year

Copyright: Amanda Jette Knox themavenofmayhem.com

Sometimes I like to just sit and watch my 12-year-old bounce around the house with a big smile on her face.

She's not literally bouncing, of course, but her walk is... lighter, like the weight of the world no longer sits on her shoulders. And her steps are more meaningful.

Her reasons for leaving the house - or even just her bedroom - are different. She's no longer simply doing it because we're making her, or because she absolutely has to for some other reason. She actually wants to spend time with people, engage with the world, and experience new things.

This year, for the first time in many, my child is no longer depressed or suffering from severe anxiety.

It has been a wild and unexpected ride to get here.

We went to several different therapists.

I read every book and new study I could get my hands on.

We tried restricted diets, natural sleep aids, and various parenting methods.

We moved to a different province to access better medical services.

She and I sat in emergency rooms during full-on coming apart moments, tears running down both our faces. ("What's wrong, honey?" "I don't know, mom. I don't know why I'm like this. Why am I like this?")

I begged doctors to take us seriously. ("Please help her. I feel like we're losing her and I don't know why.")

Depression. Anxiety. Isolation. OCD. Panic attacks. These were part of her world each and every day. They were part of our family's world. We didn't know why, we just all did the best we could.

Sometimes there is no why; at least not one medical science knows of yet. Sometimes depression is just depression, and anxiety is just anxiety. You treat it, you manage it, and you do the best you can.

But mental illness can also be a symptom of something else, something even you have hidden from yourself for years, bubbling on the surface of you subconscious, irritating your brain and bleeding into your life. In Gutsy's case, it was the denial of who she really was, followed by the fear of revealing that truth to others.  She hid being transgender from herself for years, and then hid it from us until she could finally bring herself to tell her secret.

There are many things I'm grateful for each day. But the one that has stuck out this year above all else has been that our child was brave enough to tell us what was going on. Taking that huge risk has not only improved her life, but also quite possibly saved it.

With her male puberty now suppressed, an army of people who support her living as she, pink streaked hair and an adorable new wardrobe, she is transformed into her authentic self.  She's happy for the first time in years. She still takes a low dose medication for anxiety, but her overall mental health picture is so good. So, so good.

We are not out of the woods. Gutsy faces a lifetime of uphill battles, both physically and emotionally. She will have to stare down a world that sometimes seeks to harm her, to tear her down, to treat her as less than. The rates of depression, suicide and addiction are all higher in the trans community, in large part because of how cruel the world can be. But my child is the bravest and most resilient human being I know. I believe that with love and support, she is going to soar. And the more we talk and educate and learn, the more we improve the lives of all people in the LGBTQ community.

Here's what I've learned this year: When it comes to having family members with mental health issues, the need for connection cannot be overstated. Trust, honesty and support are paramount. Whether there is a detectable reason behind their illness or not, connection with loved ones can be a lifeline. I know that, when I was a suicidal teen, connection saved me.  And while it can't and won't save everyone, I believe it also saved my daughter. 

So, like I said, sometimes I just like to watch her bounce around. I love when she comes into the kitchen and talks my ear off about computers or music production (even if I don't understand half of what she's saying). I love listening to her laugh hysterically with her little brother in the other room. I love seeing her smile finally reaching her eyes.

I love all of it. And I love her.

What I Learned About Myself by Finishing High School at 38

I might have preemptively commemorated it on the calendar

Yesterday afternoon I wrote my final exam for my final high school course in the history of ever. I am done. Finished. Mission accomplie.

After it was over, I went back to my car, sat there for a few minutes, and cried.

Then some dude walked by and looked a little concerned. So I panicked and pretended I was laughing, which actually just made me look a whole lot crazier.

And just when you thought it couldn't get worse, I was at a stoplight on the drive home and realized - truly realized - that I had actually just completed something really important to me. So then I cried again, but this time while yelling "YEAAAAAHHHHH!!" and "WOOOOOOOOOO!" and fist pumping like every suburban mom does on her drive home.

If there is not a newly minted YouTube video entitled "This insane woman in Ottawa traffic, though," I will be shocked. (And grateful.)

As I once shared, I have been to eight different high schools. Eight. Yet, I still entered adulthood a few credits short of a diploma. And there I sat, rather uncomfortably, for two decades.

Just like herpes, the knowledge that I had never finished high school would lay dormant, flaring up at the most inconvenient times, like when I tried to tell myself that I'm smart, or worthy of good things, or in any way accomplished in life.

You didn't even finish high school, Amanda. Everybody finishes high school - well, except you, apparently.

It was a shame that hung off me like a sandbag, weighing me down emotionally my entire life. Despite my best efforts to tell myself I was just as good as anyone else, just as smart and just as accomplished in other ways, I felt like I was walking in other people's shadows. It's one thing to have never gone to university; I know plenty of people who haven't and are quite successful. But not having a high school diploma? Why couldn't I at least do that?

I know, I know. I have a backstory. I had to leave school at 14 to go to rehab for six months. I lived on my own at 16. I got pregnant at 19.

Then again at 26.

Oh, and at 30. My husband and I apparently really like each other.

My days got full and busy and good. In so many ways, I have a great life. I've been a homeowner since the age of 22. I write for a living. I've stayed home to raise three of the best kids I know. I'm still madly in love with the father of my children. I've cultivated some truly amazing friendships. If happiness determines success, then it's been an utterly successful life.

But deep down, there has always been a part of me that felt stuck. I still felt like that girl who never finished something important. And so, in the summer of 2013, I grabbed my transcripts and signed up again.

I don't know what was different about this time, other than the fact that I have great hair now and I'm a little bit fatter. But I walked out of the school after registering, thinking that this was going to be the biggest thing I would accomplish in the next little while.

News flash: In case you haven't been reading my blog regularly, this was NOT the biggest thing I would be accomplishing in the next little while.

In fact, I had no idea what the following year would bring. I didn't know my child is trans. I didn't know she was going to come out to us two days before I was due to write my grade 11 English exam. I didn't know how stressed out and worried I would be, how much advocating I would have to do, or that I would be homeschooling her this year.

If I had known, I never would have signed up. Never, ever, ever. So I suppose it was a really good thing I didn't know.

I almost quit. After Gutsy came out, I felt so overwhelmed that I made the decision to take a hiatus. Some friends convinced me to keep going. I was a little mad at them for a while. I thought they were total jerks for pushing me forward at a time when I felt I couldn't breathe. Didn't they understand how stressed out I was? Jerks.

I decided to take the hiatus anyway, and called guidance to push my final two courses aside for a few months. She must have been talking to my jerk friends, because she also encouraged me to stick it out. What was this conspiracy? I resented the shit out of them all for encouraging the little bit of guilt inside me to finally see this goal through.

Thank you, jerks. You're the best conspirators a girl could ask for. I wouldn't be done if it weren’t for you. I might have never been done.  I owe a lot of this to you.

I also need to thank Ryan, my favourite adult high school teacher. I'm pretty sure he doesn't read my blog, but he still gets a mention.  He is not a jerk like the rest of you guys. Ryan, thanks for your patience, understanding, humour, and for not totally hating on me because I'm a writer in a high school English class. I know how eccentric we can be. Confession time: I despite literary essays and reading Shakespeare. I never told you that. But pretty much everyone on Twitter knows, thanks to my 140 character rants. Those things make me die a little inside, Ryan. But you know, if I had to analyze the thoughts and feelings of King Lear to get a high school diploma, I'm glad it was for you because you're awesome. And totally not a jerk. Please remember that when you're correcting my last few assignments.

Thank you to my husband, who made it entirely possible for me to be a woman of leisure/mature student/homeschooling parent/writer/painting/photographer/not really a woman of leisure after all. But your constant support, both emotionally and financially, made this possible for me. I love you, and can now analyze my feelings for you in a more educated way and even write an essay about it. But I won't.

But I could.

Thank you to my friends and family who cheered me on, including 80 bajillion of you (I did not take any advanced math courses) who congratulated me after I posted this Facebook status. Wow. You're amazing. And internet people I have yet to meet? You're amazing too. How many of you have virtually high-fived me over the last few months? (That's a rhetorical question. I learned about those in school. Please take my excellent retention into account when grading my papers, Ryan. Thanks.)

And a very special thanks to my kids, who met me at the door with hugs while excitedly shouting "congratulations!" (and "merry birthday" and "Happy Hanukkah"... sigh.) as I walked in after my exam. I'll remember that, always. I love you all so much, and I hope you carry this important lesson with you: it's never too late to follow your dreams or meet a goal, even if you're already exceptionally awesome like me, your gorgeous mother.

I feel lighter today. Definitely not physically lighter after binging on celebratory cake last night, but emotionally so. I completed a lifelong goal! And while I know it's not a big deal in terms of overall accomplishment (pretty much everyone finishes high school and most of them far sooner than I did), I'm still so proud of myself. I finished something. Take that, box of scrapbooking supplies in the basement.

I am a high school graduate. I finally did it.

With great hair, even.

Dear Leelah's Parents: What I Wish You Had Known

Image Source

We had an appointment today at our local children's hospital, and you were on my mind the whole time.

The hospitals' Gender Identity Clinic sees around 100 kids like my daughter - like your daughter. They not only help our child through her transition from male to female, but support her family, too. They answer our questions and listen to our concerns. They always point us in the right direction, should we need more information.

Last year we needed a lot of support because that was when she came out to us. She was eleven at the time, and we were unprepared for the news - probably just like you. There's nothing quite like being told your child's insides don't match their outsides, is there?

I didn't know what to do at first, so I turned to the people in my life that I trusted.  I'm fortunate to know some great therapists and sex educators with experience in gender issues. They gave me sound information, and that's what set us down this path of accepting and embracing our child for who she is.

When I read about Leelah - and yes, I will be using her chosen name and pronouns - my first reaction was to be really angry with you. How could you not support your child? How could you seemingly cut her contact with the outside world, deny her request for much-needed medical services, and send her to "professionals" who psychologically damaged her? What were you thinking?

But then a thought occurred to me: When our child came out to us, we went to the people we trusted. When yours came out to you, you went to the people you trusted. We both did the same thing. Unfortunately for Leelah, those people weren't worthy of your trust. They lead you down the wrong path.

But this does not mean I think you're blameless.

Yes, you have religious beliefs. So what? Many people do, and only some choose to use them as a flimsy shield to deny rights to others. Many of my daughter's biggest supporters are religious, ranging from Catholic to Muslim. How do they do it and maintain their beliefs? They choose love above judgment. It's that simple. There are a million ways to worship, and not all of them involve an anti-LGBT sentiment.

Yes, you likely acted on the advice of "professionals." So what? It clearly wasn't working. She was miserable. At that point, it's time to step out of one's belief-based comfort zone and explore other options. At any point, there was this amazing tool at your disposal called the internet, and it is full of helpful information. If you had done some independent research into the several recent studies on the successes of trans kids who are allowed to transition, it might have raised some questions about the treatment Leelah was being provided. It could have saved her life.

So yes, I believe you are at least partially responsible for the unhappiness Leelah suffered. You chose to stay on the path you were on, and that ultimately lead to her tragic death. I'm heartbroken for all of you that it did.

But I also have to believe that you had her best intentions at heart, no matter how deeply flawed or steeped in ignorance your parenting decisions might have been. She was your child. You loved her.

So today, while I was sitting in the clinic waiting room chatting with another supportive mom of a trans child, I thought of you and all I wish you had known before it was too late.

I wish you had known how much better trans youth fare when their families and communities support them, rather than try to suppress them. The suicide rate drops dramatically, as does the rate of homelessness, poverty and addiction.

I wish you could have seen the happy person you child might have become if you had listened from the beginning and supported her transition. My daughter went from a dangerously depressed and isolated "boy" to a lovely girl I rarely see without a smile on her face. She is joyous for the first time in her life.  Joyous. I don't use that term loosely.

I wish you would have known how damaging conversion therapy is to people in the LGBT community.  I guess now you do know. But I'm so sad you had to find out this way.

I wish you would have known enough to immerse yourself in the trans community. I've learned more about resiliency and authenticity through the trans people I've met than I ever imagined possible. I've learned that transgender people can be happy; they can fall in love, have families and careers and wonderful lives. Being trans is still a challenge, but it's not at all what conversion therapists or rightwing lobbyists make it out to be. I wish you could have embraced Leelah's community. It's a good one.

I wish you could have known what moving from fear to hope feels like. I used to be afraid. But education, time and making the conscious decision to love my daughter unconditionally have reaped some wonderful rewards. I have far more hope for my happy daughter's future than I ever had for my unhappy son's. This is a good place to be.

Let me be clear: I don't, for even a moment, think I'm better than you or that I love my child more than you loved yours. I'm sure you loved her dearly. But for whatever reason - be it upbringing, environment or overall life experience - my husband and I were able to be more open-minded with our child. That's what this world needs more of, because open-mindedness breeds acceptance. It saves lives. It pains me that not all trans people have open-minded parents. I, along with many others, am actively working to change that.

I hope you don't choose to hide behind religion or ignorance in your grief. I hope you decide, in your own time, to do what your daughter wanted: she wanted trans visibility and education. She wanted allies.

You can be those allies. You can, if you choose, use your grief to do some good. You can speak to other parents and say, "We made mistakes. Here's what we would have done differently now that we know better."

You can save lives. You can make it your mission to ensure that no other transgender child feels invisible, and no other parent listens to the wrong people.

In the wake of so much tragedy, I hope you choose to honour your daughter. I hope you choose love.

Raising a Trans Girl: It's Exactly the Same, but Different.

Image source

"It's exactly the same, but different" is how I describe raising a trans daughter as opposed to one assigned female at birth.

I was reminded of this at the dollar store a couple of days ago, as I excitedly strolled down the aisle filled with feminine things. You know, the girly stuff: the nail polish and the lotions and the hairbands. I threw a bunch of estrogen happy stuff into the cart to put under the tree this year.

It was so fun! So great! I was having a blast. I passed the berry-scented shampoo and the cuticle oil and the cotton swabs...

And that's when I came across the pregnancy tests.

BAM. Instant punch to the heart. Tears clouded my vision. I quickly composed myself and kept walking.

Every now and then, I'm reminded that, barring a major medical advancement, my daughter - my only daughter - will never be able to carry and deliver a baby.  She'll never get the positive pregnancy test, or feel the baby kick from the inside, or experience the exhilaration of having just given birth to another human being.  And I won't share in those experiences with her because she won't ever have them.

I know she's not alone in this. I know. Many women deal with infertility. I had secondary infertility and it was balls. Besides, not all women choose to have children. But there's something about never having the choice or the hope or the dream of biological babies for my child that hurts. I hurt for her. 

That's how it's exactly the same, but different.

I hurt because of the atypical-ness of it all.  I feel like the Universe was all, "here, have three boys!" and I said, "Great! Thanks! Boys rule! But no girl? I kind of thought I would have at least one of those." And The Universe said, "Nope. You get what you get. Enjoy!" and I said, "That's cool. I will enjoy!" and I settled into my life with three boys. I was okay with not having a daughter.

And then, a few years later, The Universe came back and was all, "Oops. Listen, there's been a bit of a mix-up. It turns out you do have a daughter! Congrats! But your daughter will need a lot of help to become the person she needs to be, both emotionally and medically.  It's not going to be an easy road. Hope you're ready."

And I am ready. I am. Except when I see the damn pregnancy tests and ovulation prediction kits. Except when I think about the complexities and safety of her upcoming dating life and know I'll be waiting up and worried until she comes home. Until I think about her eventual re-entry into school, and how she's going to navigate the haters and, even worse, the parents who will refuse to get why she'll be using the girls' washroom and locker room. Except when I see the cute little holiday dresses and think of the lost years - the sad, uncomfortable years - and wish we had all known sooner.

It's the exactly same, but different.

And yet, most of the time I think I feel a lot like any other mom tasked with raising a daughter. I think of how I can help her confidence grow - because she's going to need a lot of it. I think about how I compliment her ("you're so smart!" escapes my lips more than "you're so pretty!" but I also want her to know how beautiful she is) I talk to her about friendships and relationships and what to look for in both. I teach her to value and honour her voice and her body.

I sit back and admire the quiet fierceness she carries inside of her. She's intelligent, witty, and knows what she wants. She doesn't put up with bullshit.

And when she brings up parenting, she makes my heart glow. She speaks excitedly about how there are so many children out there who need homes. Foster children. Orphaned children. Her future children. "There are so many ways to become a parent, mom," she tells me. "I might not be able to have my own babies, but I will be a mom someday."

My thoughts of pregnancy tests and ovulation prediction kits fade away when she smiles. Because the important thing is she's smiling. She's happy. She has a plan for her life. She wants to become an oncologist. She wants a family. And while her plans may change as she gets older, I know her determination won't. That kid is going to achieve absolutely everything she sets her mind to.  This is a child who will leave her mark in the world.

She's exactly the same, but different. Wonderfully different.

(Finally) Being Okay With Being Ordinary

An ordinary pair of jeans (thankfully not acid wash) Source: wikipedia.org

It was around the time Genevieve and her kindergarten crew were doing their best to exclude me from any schoolyard fun that I started daydreaming about being more than ordinary.

I needed to be somebody.

Not just somebody, but a somebody.

I needed to be famous.

If I were famous - like, say, a K-Tel Minipops kid (a pretty big deal in dinosauric times, kids) - I'd show them. Because you know what? You're not going to call me names if I show up to school in a limo wearing sequence and leg warmers, bitches.

And so, for the next few years, whenever things got a little rough at school, I would escape into my 45s or my tapes (those were types of music media from the olden days) and lip-sync myself into a daydream where I was emotionally untouchable, unmoved by their attempts to cut me down. For just a few minutes, this wounded little girl was Cindi Lauper, Janet Jackson, Rick Astley or Brian Adams.

Later on, that same girl became The Maven.

See, that feeling never entirely went away. And while I didn't start this blog to become a somebody, somewhere along the road I started to believe it would lead me there. I saw other people rising to internet quasi-stardom and I began thinking that was where I had to be too. They all went to conferences and made actually money off their blogs and got pretty big and got flown places and pretty much made other blogs, like mine, look like little anthills in their bloggy Disneyland. I figured I needed to join them.

But why?

Some people do it because it's their job. They've made a genuine career out of it. But that wasn't it for me. It's never been about the money.

The thing about this crazy year and the period of depletion I now find myself in, is that I've had to have a good look at my priorities; not just look at them, but ask myself why they're priorities in the first place.  And this "becoming a well-known blogger" thing? I dissected it over the last few months like a frog in a grade eight science class.  And, just like the insides of that frog, I really didn't like what I saw.

Look, I love to write. It's my passion. It fuels me like Archie fuels his jalopy (that's a name for an old car from the Cretaceous period). When I'm feeling at one with the creative process, the words flow out of me. Writing shit is healing. It helps me stitch up an old wound, or put the fire in my soul into print. Words are a little like oxygen to me, and when I go without sharing them for a while, I feel like that dude in Total Recall with the bulging eyes.

This dude.

But somewhere along the way, my love for writing became intertwined with my desire to escape getting hurt ever again. Being well known felt like it could be a pretty sweet personal shield. The idea that writing could be my ticket to something bigger excited my ego. At which point, my ego started trying to dry-hump my creativity in his acid wash jeans, hoping that would get the juices flowing.

My creativity hates acid washed jeans. And dry humping.

The more I thought about SEO content and blog stats and unique page hits (the mullets of the internet), the less turned on my creativity became. It just sat uncomfortably on the opposite end of the couch, looking really grossed out. And there it sat for a good, long while.

As it turns out, when the ego is making the moves, nobody wants to put out.

Besides, the more I followed the thought through, the more it didn't make sense. Being well-known doesn't protect you from mean people; it just makes you easier to spot. Trolls love big bloggers, and celebrity gossip sites are the unfortunate proof that people love to cut down those who are at the top. And once you've "made it," what then? Do you scramble for ways to stay up there? Do you worry about becoming obsolete or wait to be replaced by the next big name? It's not a utopia, and the grass isn't as green as little kid me used to think. 

Also, I'm way too much of a spaz to have to think of all that stuff and what to make for dinner. Do I look like Wonder Woman? 

Finding out my kid is transgender was a game changer in many ways. And it was nearly the end of this blog. We found ourselves in an interesting situation because I had been writing about our family online for years. What now? I realized I would either have to shut down the blog completely so she could transition quietly, or we would need to come out on it; there was no in-between.

I know I'm a biased mom, but believe me when I say Gutsy is wise beyond her years. She's quite familiar with social media and the consequences many trans people face when coming out. We discussed the pros and cons, and ultimately she decided it was in her best interest - and ours as a family - if we were transparent (get it? get it?) about the whole thing. And so that's what we did.

But it was the moment I realized I would shut down my blog - my pride and joy, my years of chronicled experiences, without hesitation - that I realized wounded little Amanda wasn't in charge anymore. She didn't need to hide behind anything. My ego had gone home, and creativity had made some room for love on that couch.

Love isn't flashy and doesn't wear acid wash jeans (thank goodness.) She has an understated beauty about her. She doesn't care who you are or what you look like or how quickly you come up in a Google search. She's a great companion to creativity because she's not pushy. She's not trying to hide or run from anything. She's doesn't care if you're a somebody. You're her somebody.  You don't have to be extraordinary; you just have to be.

And so I find myself, once again, valuing the love of writing above all else.

Last week, I wrote my first post in years that didn't get a single comment. Not one. And you know what? It didn't wreck me. Not even a little bit. Sure, Ego came knocking at the door, a sock stuffed in his groin and looking for some action. I turned him away because the couch was full.

It didn't bother me that the post wasn't a big read. It didn't bother me. It's not about that. It's not about getting read or getting discovered or "going somewhere" or signing a deal or becoming the next big thing. That's someone else's definition of success, and there's nothing wrong with that for them. But for me, success in writing is about telling my story - our story - and telling it well. Developing my craft. Loving what I do. Seeing where that takes me - or doesn't.

It's about growing as a writer.

Leaving a legacy in words and memories for my family.

Reaching just one reader, not one million readers.

Healing a wound.

Touching a nerve.

Having a laugh.

Being unapologetically me.

And while I'm very happy to share that journey with whoever wants to come along, I don't need any kind of fame to validate what I'm doing.

I'm pretty fucking ordinary in the best of ways. I'm a mom and a spouse and friend and a daughter. I also happen to be just one little writer telling her tale in a big sea of Internet. That's it.

And I'm surprisingly okay with it.