We Fall and We Get Back Up. Depression, One Month Later.

Obnoxious selfies are clearly a sign of me feeling better.

Sometimes, in life, we fall.

We fall fast and hard and sudden, the proverbial impact knocking the wind out of us. And as we look up from the place where gravity took us, we ask, "How did I get here?"

How we got here is a different story for everyone. But we all fall, eventually; onto our knees, our hands, or flat on our back, our head spinning, eyes watering, with bruised pride and swollen shame. 

One month ago, I found myself in my doctor's office in tears. The world had become too heavy for me to carry. I was doing all the right things—all the things they tell you to do when you feel depressed. I exercise, I eat and sleep well, I have a great circle of supportive friends and an attentive therapist. 

But I have a lot going on in my life. Some things I talk about openly, like raising and fighting for my trans daughter, and some things I don't because they're not my stories to tell. Suffice it to say I felt inundated by life, awash in its responsibility and buried in its complexity. I was suffocating in grey, enveloped by hopelessness. 

Luckily for me, falling is only half the story. Getting back up is the other.

I saw my doctor this morning for a follow-up appointment to see how my medication is working. I smiled as he entered the room. I cracked a joke before he event sat down. 

He's all about getting me to fill out questionnaires. It's like an autobiography workshop at every visit.

One month ago, I scored 20 on the depression questionnaire and 17 on the anxiety one. The higher the scores, the more depressed and/or anxious you are. I was a whole lot of both.

Today I scored 4 on the depression questionnaire and 3 on the anxiety one. Anything below a 5 is considered not depressed or anxious. You know, "typical." 

You guys, I am typical. Let that sink in for a minute. That doesn't happen very often.

"Amanda, you're in remission," he told me. I've never heard that term used to describe mental health disorders, but I dig it. It sounds party-worthy. "Everything about you is more positive. I could tell the minute I walked in the room that things had changed. You seem like you again." 

You bet I'm me again, doctor man. And it feels great. I'm laughing again, writing again, going out again, taking an obnoxious amount of selfies again. It's good to be back.

I would have left the office with a spring in my step and party planning in my head, but it was also pap test day. 

Nobody wants to throw a party on pap test day.

I don't want to sound like a walking pharmaceutical pusher. It's not all about the drugs. Different things work for different people. But meds were my missing piece of the mental health puzzle, and I am not ashamed of it. I'm doing what I need to do right now to be well for me and my family. 

I deserve to live my life without feeling like the walls are closing in. 

My partner deserves someone who isn't shut down all the time. 

My daughter deserves a mom who can go to bat for her and stand strong in the face of adversity. 

All my kids deserve a mom who is happy enough to embarrass them by dancing to 90's jock jams in the kitchen when their friends are over. 

(Especially that last one. It's super important.)

We all fall, in our own ways and for different reasons. Some of us need help getting back up. I fell hard, and today I can say that I am standing tall again. My knees might be scuffed, my palms scraped, but I'm still here to tell the tale and mortify my children with the help of Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch. 

I can guarantee I won't be the only one in my family to need therapy in their lifetime. 

Game on, life. Game on. 

I Am What Strong Looks Like. A Post About Depression

Image credit: HopelessLavender via DeviantArt

I found myself in my doctor's office not too long ago.

It took everything I had to make that phone call and book an appointment. It took even more to go in and tell him what's been going on.

"I'm not okay," I said quietly when he came into the room and shut the door.

"How so?" he asked.

"First, I want you to know I've been taking good care of myself. So much care of myself. I'm eating well—ok, I still love chocolate in a bad way and that will never change—but I'm also trying to get enough sleep, I'm running, circuit training and doing yoga. I have biceps to die for. Asking you to touch them would probably be inappropriate, wouldn't it? But you can see them from here, I'm sure. Epic buffness! And I have a therapist, I do meditation and I have a great circle of friends. I've lost nearly 50 pounds this year, which has been no small feat, I'll have you know. Because did I mention I love chocolate?"

I'm all about the jokes until I'm not. I took a breath to try and hold the tears at bay. It didn't work. They started to run hot down my face.

"But I'm struggling," I said. "And I hate that I'm struggling despite all the hard work I'm doing to keep myself afloat. It's maddening. I'm not down all the time. There are things I'm still passionate about, like my advocacy work. That's the stuff that keeps me going. But so many things in my life are just... grey. They're all grey." I sighed. "I miss colour."

They have been. Grey, I mean. There's a blanket of fog over my life, and it's been getting heavier. It's a million little things weighing me down and it's also none of them.

It's the overwhelmingness of my life, and it's not that at all.

Depression slowly wraps its tendrils around everything, squeezing the joy out, suffocating the light, until you don't remember what it used to be like before. You think it's always been this way, even when it hasn't.

Little things become big things, big things become too big to even look at or deal with. You avoid stuff. You become scattered and forgetful. Everything gets harder. Relationships suffer. But when it's this slow and insidious, it's so hard to notice until those tendrils are wrapped around you so tightly you can hardly breathe.

"I need your help," I said, taking my glasses off and wiping my eyes. I should not have worn mascara to this appointment. "And I hate that I need your help right now. I hate that I can't be stronger and manage this on my own. I'm really angry with myself."

"Amanda," he replied gently, "This isn't a question of being strong or not. You're plenty strong. Look, I have a checklist on my screen in front of me of all the things I should recommend my patients do when dealing with depression. You are doing everything on this list. Your brain just needs a boost right now to get you over a hump. Let's give it some help so you can feel better."

So for the first time since I had postpartum depression 18 years ago, I was given a prescription for an anti-depressant.

I walked out of that office feeling a sense of defeat. But I filled the prescription and have been taking my meds every day.

I contemplated not saying anything publicly. I know I don't have to. It's really not anyone else's business. And that little toxic voice screams at me not to share. It says that as an advocate, I need to be strong, and you won't think I'm strong after reading this.

But here's the thing, little voice: I am strong. I'm strong enough to take very good care of myself despite having a whole lot going on in my life.

I'm strong enough to know when all of that is not enough.

And I'm strong enough to ask for help rather than continue suffering.

I'm not going to be ashamed of having an illness, recognizing it, and treating it. 

I am what strong looks like.

I'm sharing this here because there is still a stigma wrapped around mental illness, and that's total balls. People still speak about it in hushed tones when we shouldn't. We hide it from each other and pretend everything's okay. Nothing to see here but my smile, everybody, move on.

But we're human and we have brain chemistry and we have lives and seasons and traumas that can affect us. It's natural when things aren't ok all the time. That's called living. We should ask for help when we need it, and we should see this as an act of courage, not weakness.

The drugs I was so hesitant to ask for are working. It's early yet, but there's a noticeable difference. Depression's tendrils are retreating. The fog is lifting, and life is becoming more manageable again. I'm laughing more awesome laughs. I'm enjoying going out more and seeing people. I'm remembering what balance feels like. Even chocolate tastes better, although the jury's still out on whether or not that's a good thing.

Depression sucks, you guys. It's the hair on life's sac. But it can get better, and don't you forget it. Fight your way out of that darkness, ok?

There's chocolate out here in the light, and it's fucking delicious.

Happy 13th Birthday, Alexis!

No one announced, "It's a girl!" when my baby came into the world.

But a girl she is, nevertheless.

"How do you know you're a girl?" a reporter once asked her.

"How do you know you're a guy?" she replied, coyly.

She has a bit of attitude. No idea where she gets it from.

My daughter turns 13 today. She was our miracle baby after several years of secondary infertility and pregnancy losses. I was smitten and so grateful the first time I laid eyes on her. And when I held her in my arms all those years ago, I had no idea just how much of a gift she would be to our family.

You know, when she's not stomping upstairs angrily and slamming her door and yelling, "OHMYGODYOUDONTGETMEATALL!"

Oh yes, I most certainly have a teen daughter.

And so, happy birthday to the person who can make my blood boil faster than anyone else in the house.

Happy birthday to the Minecraft-loving, mall-running, laugh-having person with such enviable hair.

Happy birthday to the girl who risked everything to be herself.

Happy birthday to my teacher and inspiration.

Happy birthday to my daughter, through and through.

Maybe I don't get you at all, Alexis, but I love you tremendously.

A Conversation in the Car (With my Hero)

I got to be the cool mom for exactly 5 hours. AMAZING.

I took Alexis to WE Day in Ottawa today, which was every bit as incredible and motivating as one would expect if they've ever been to a WE Day.

16,000 inspirational kids who earned their ticket through volunteer work.

Dedicated educators who ignite the spark in those kids.

Enthusiastic change-makers from all walks of life.

Our new Prime Minister, Justin Trudeau, was there with his wife, Sophie. (I didn't get a chance to meet him, but if I had, I would have talked to him about this letter.)

And we even got to meet and hang out with Hannah Alper, who is one heck of a great human being.

Hannah and Alexis. Two young ladies I admire.

After we left, Alexis said to me, wistfully, "I really wish I could help change the world. I just don't know how..."

"Do you not think you make a difference?" I asked her, incredulously.

"Not really," she said. "I'm just me."

It dawned on me then that my daughter might share her story (and let me share it, too), but she doesn't always read the emails people send me about how that story impacted their lives. I don't always tell her about the trans person who writes to say they feel more hopeful because there are families like ours out there, or the dad who sends me a message saying, "I didn't get it, but now I do. If one of my kids comes out, I'll know to let them be who they are."

She hasn't been there the handful of times I've been approached by mothers who tearfully tell me about their own children and the struggle they're having coming to terms with it all. For some, I'm the first person they've ever told, and I can feel a bit of the weight being lifted off their tired shoulders.

But that's okay. I don't want Alexis' whole world to be trans this and trans that. It's just a part of her, not the whole of her. I want her to be a typical kid most of the time, with school and friends and trips to the mall, with a little advocacy work sprinkled here and there when it suits her.

But she doesn't know, I realized. She really doesn't know. And again, most of the time that's probably a good thing.

But today, on a day filled with inspirational people, I wanted her to understand that she's pretty inspirational, too.

We pulled into a grocery store parking lot and I turned off the engine. I wanted to get her full attention.

"Alexis," I said, and made sure she was looking at me. "You being you is exactly how you're making a difference."

"You think?" she asked.

"I know," I replied, trying not to tear up and be the super lame mom. "Now let's go inside and get some cookies."

She might drive me crazy some days (and eat all my cookies), but that kid is my damn hero.

Speaking up doesn't scare me. Losing my child does.

I have this message written on a post-it note on my desk.

I look at it every time I see something transphobic written online (which is a lot of the time, unfortunately) and ask myself, "Should I say something?"

The answer is different each time, depending on the circumstances. But the reason behind it is always the same.

Do it for her, the yellow post-it note beckons.

See, it's not about ego. I don't want to be right. I don't want the other person to be wrong. I don't want someone to feel bad as a result of my words. So if that's all I'm arguing for, it's just not worth it. Who cares if I tell off someone I've never met? What does that prove?

Advocacy is challenging work. It's lonely work. It's tiring, frustrating, tearfully maddening work. You have to have a purpose, a fire in your belly, something or someone who makes it worthwhile.

I have a 12-year-old someone, and I do it for her.

Whenever I walk away from a situation because my gut tells me it will only lead to more hate, I do it for her.

Whenever I momentarily step away to gather my thoughts, so that I can breathe and come back to educate with more kindness and less venom, I do it for her.

Whenever I know I might burn a bridge or two, but speak up anyway because it's the right thing to do, I do it for her.

Do I come across as a righteous asshole sometimes? I'm sure I do. Absolutely. But I'm not trying to be righteous or an asshole. I'm not trying to win. I'm trying to get the message out that we need to stop judging what we don't personally understand. I'm trying to educate and show support for a very marginalized population.  

I'm trying to say, "Hey, fellow writers, when you write things about someone like Caitlyn Jenner and how she's not really a woman, you probably don't understand the power of your words.

You probably aren't thinking of the heartbroken trans person who stumbles across that page after an already brutal day of discrimination.

You're not thinking of the youth who wants desperately to come out and sees not only the post you wrote, but also the hateful comments below it in support of that post, calling trans people 'it' and 'freak.'

You're not thinking of the nearly 50% attempted suicide rate, largely due to feeling so incredibly alone and misunderstood."

No, you're just thinking of your opinion, and comments, and page hits, and ad revenue. Hey, I'm a writer, too. I get it.

But I'm thinking of all of those things that didn't cross your mind. I'm thinking of my trans daughter, and someone else's trans son, and the gender queer kid who is feeling like the world is against them. I'm thinking they need to be supported, not have their gender invalidated.

We all need someone to have our back, and I want them to know I have theirs when they see my words. Always. 

And writers, I want us to think before we write. Our words have power. Let's do some good with that power.

So when I do speak out, that's why.

Do it for her, the little post-it note whispers.

Always for her.

Dear Mr. Trudeau: Please Protect My Trans Daughter

Dear Prime Minister-designate Trudeau,

My name is Amanda. I'm a writer and mother from the suburbs of Ottawa who hopes you can take five minutes from your busy schedule to hear her out.

I want to introduce you to my amazing daughter, Alexis.

At nearly 13 years old, Alexis is a pretty typical teenager. She's in grade 8, has some good friends, plays drums in the school band, loves Minecraft and can roll her eyes at her mother like it's nobody's business. (Trust me.) 

She's the middle child of our family, sandwiched between two "very annoying" brothers named Aerik and Jackson. Despite some of us driving her crazy, we all love her dearly.

Alexis is transgender. She came out to us nearly 2 years ago, at 11 years old. Since then, she has become a powerful advocate for trans rights, marching, celebrating, protesting and speaking out in the name of raising awareness.

Coming out as trans at such a young age and living her truth makes her the bravest human being I know. Unfortunately, it also means her chances of being discriminated against, assaulted and murdered are now astronomically high.

And we still don't have federal laws in place to protect her.

I know you realize this. You made transgender rights a part of your platform. It's a big reason why I voted for you.

Alexis knows this, too.  She cheered from the sidelines as you marched in the Toronto Pride parade last summer. She listened to the reasons behind my decision to vote for your party. She stayed up late and watched the election results with excitement, then went to sleep, feeling hopeful that our new leader has her back.

Alexis believes in you, so I need you to believe in her. I need your party to draft a new transgender rights bill as soon as possible so it can be passed during your time in office.

As it stands, my only daughter does not have the same basic human rights you and I do.

As it stands, if someone were to threaten, attack or murder her because she's trans, it would not be considered a hate crime. This needs to change. Yesterday.

Raising a transgender child is one of the most rewarding things I have ever done. It's also one of the most terrifying.

Knowing there are people who would purposely hurt my daughter? Terrifying.

Fighting so openly for her rights? Terrifying.

Urging the new leader of our country to keep his promises to her community? Way out of my comfort zone, Mr. Trudeau.

But I hold myself accountable to promises, too. And I promised Alexis that I would do whatever needs to be done to make the world safer for her.

So here we are, Canadian to Canadian, parent to parent. I know you would do anything for your children, as I will do anything for mine.

So please, help me keep my promise to Alexis.

Let's protect my child together.

How (and Why) I Finally Started Taking Care of Me

This is me after running (okay, mostly walking) my first 10k last month.

I look a lot better than I felt, believe me. It took three days for my hips and ankles to forgive me, and I practically had to buy them flowers to make that happen.

But the fact that I could run at all amazed me.

A few months ago, I wrote a post about how I was about to embark on a journey to reclaim my health. I have been doing just that. I haven't been posting publicly about it very much, because that journey needed to be really personal for a while. I wanted to make sure it became entrenched in my everyday before talking about it too much. The idea of starting something - again - and letting it go - again - was a worry for me. Doing so publicly would have been an extra kick in the shins.

But I'm ready to talk about it now. I want to share why it is so damn important for me - and, frankly, everyone - to make self-care a priority.

It's no secret I have a lot going on these days; three kids, raising a trans youth, lots of advocacy work, my day job as writer and editor, volunteering, and all the other pieces that make up my highly rewarding - yet busy and often challenging - life.

For a lot of people, including me, busy is the new black. I'm not trying to glorify it, It's just a reality. But busy can lead to tired, and tired can lead to overwhelmed. And what does overwhelmed lead to? Stress. Heaping, steaming piles of it.

Stress. It has spread its little tendrils all over my life. In the last two years, I have clenched my teeth so hard in my sleep that I've cracked one, chipped two, and literally crushed the side of one in way my dentist is fascinated with. "I've never seen this before," he said when I was in his office yesterday. "I shared a picture of it with hundreds of other dentists, and nobody has a clue as to how you managed to do that."

So my teeth, just like my life, are atypical. That's how I roll.

Stress. I was eating it. I don't drink, smoke or do drugs. But I ate my feelings on the regular. I have an anxiety disorder that hasn't been managed well. So every emotion went on my plate. Big stress? Big portions.

I'm not someone who is fixated on a dress size or needs to be under a certain number on the scale to feel good. That's never been me. BMI charts are bullshit, as far as I'm concerned. 

But this Spring, I started realizing just how uncomfortable my body was. My joints hurt, I had major digestive issues, worrisome blood pressure, an overworked heart, and no energy.

When I did eventually get on the scale (my lifelong nemesis), I realized I was the heaviest I had ever been. Ever.

And I got angry. Angry at life and angry at the scale and especially angry with me. Because what I suspected had just been confirmed by a means of measurement: For years, I had stopped taking care of myself to take care of everyone else. Like many parents do, I had put my own needs aside. And when you have a child with extra challenges, it feels like all the more reason to do that. 

Unfortunately, I was paying the price for that self-neglect with pain and sickness and out-of-control anxiety.

Enough.

Stress. Ok, so my body was screaming at me and a change had to be made. Got it. But I have a lot of responsibility. Whenever I've tried to carve out time to take care of myself, one of the reasons I'm not successful long-term is I inevitably drop what I was doing to take care of everything else.

But Amanda, you can't take care of everything else if you're not alive to do it. Duh.

That totally dramatic and yet completely accurate statement was what came through this time, loud and clear.

I have a lot of responsibility on my plate, but I won't be able to manage that responsibility without my health. Period. And therefore, my health has to be the priority, not the other responsibilities.

As a parent who has always prioritized the little people in my life, that sounded both insane and impossible. But it's not. Not if I incorporate small changes over time. Yes, my days are full. My calendar already has so much red ink on it that it looks like a murder scene. But I hoped, like all habits, that once I learned these ones, they would become second nature.

And so I started working with professionals: a supportive team including a bariatric doctor, nutritionist and trainer. I started seeing a psychologist to learn the tools to better manage my anxiety, as I know how big a role in plays in my physical health.

I had tried diets and fads before, and they never lasted. I love fat. I love carbs. I want them to have a place in my life. So I adopted an anti-diet approach: no off-limit foods, no shame, no fitspiration memes, and no quick fixes. 

I would eat for nutrition and taste. I would only do exercise I enjoy. I would follow my body's cues each day and treat it accordingly. I am not a machine, and will not treat my body like a machine. Some days I would have more energy, and some days I would be a raging hormone queen who needs ALL THE SALTY THINGS. That's reality. This was going to be maintainable and enjoyable or it wasn't going to work.

Instead of removing foods from my diet, I focus on what I can add in. Am I getting enough protein to stay satiated longer? Did I eat enough fiber today?

I journal all my food and portions in an app, which made me want to pull out my hair at first and has now become something I don't even have to think about doing anymore; I just do it. As of this post, I have recorded every meal and snack for the last 188 consecutive days. Most days I stay within the goals I've set with my nutritionist, and occasionally I don't. But I'm aware of what's going into my body, and that is so much better than the mindless eating I was doing before.

In those 188 days, I also learned how to walk long distances and run short ones. I started circuit training 2-3 times each week, and I do yoga nearly every evening for both stress-reduction and flexibility.

You know what else I do nearly ever evening? Eat some chocolate because chocolate is life. I weigh out a portion on my kitchen scale and I enjoy that bad boy like it's Brad Pitt in the 90's.

In these 188 days, I have over 40 pounds. That's like removing four 10lb bags of potatoes from my body, and then some. My weight loss has slowed in the last couple of months, but I don't mind at all. Because I have no weight goal and don't make weight itself the priority, plateaus do not frustrate me. I'm providing a healthy environment, and my body will do what it does with that. How I feel is so much more important than what the scale says.

No more joint pain. No more foot pain. No more gallbladder attacks or heartburn. Better stress management. No guilt or shame. Muscles I keep making people touch because I'm so amazed they're on arms. My life has changed so much in the last few months, and I couldn't be happier about it. 

Stress. Self-care is my number one tool against it. And it's hopefully going to keep me from crushing more teeth in a weird way and turning me into some kind of dental celebrity.

I want to be around as long as I can. I have children to raise, words to write, human rights to fight for, and so many people to love. I have a daughter who will face many challenges. If I can model self-care for her, she stands a far better chance of being able to ride those inevitable waves with resilience.

But most of all, the person I'm doing this for is me. I'm worth it.

So keep watching this space, folks. I'm not done yet. Actually, I feel like I'm just getting started.

What This Mom of a Trans Child Learned from Hate and Ignorance on the Internet

As far as families with a trans person in them go, mine is pretty damn lucky. Despite being out there in the news and on social media telling our story, we haven't encountered a whole lot of ignorance, discrimination or hate.

That is, until last week.

Last week saw the news of Lila Perry, a 17-year-old trans girl in Missouri who wanted to use the girls' washrooms and change rooms in her high school, only to painfully watch over 100 of her fellow students stage a walkout in protest. They were worried about the safety and comfort of cisgender girls with a "boy" in their midst.

I said something on Twitter in Lila's defense, which must have ruffled some extreme right wing feathers. Within hours, my feed was flooded with everything from simple disagreement (which is fine by me - I love a good discussion) to anti-LGBT slurs and name-calling (which is never fine.)

I was called names I won't repeat, and so was my child. I was told I would burn in hell. I was sent really hateful memes. I used the "block" and "mute" buttons liberally for several days until the chaos died down a little. It was pretty intense.

Meanwhile, a post I had written about our family for a large online publication went live. This isn't the first time we've told our story and certainly not the first time people have disagreed with our decision to support Alexis' transition. But I had a good feeling about this one. I assumed the readership was largely liberal and open-minded, so things should go fairly well.

In keeping with the week I was having, things did not go fairly well. It's nice when the universe aims for consistency.

To put it simply, we were torn to shreds several times over.

My daughter was repeatedly misgendered, called a "confused little boy" and "severely mentally ill," among other lovely comments.

Meanwhile, I was a terrible mother for supporting her, I should have taken her to get assessed to make sure she's really trans and not just looking for attention (?!), don't I understand biology at all, puberty blockers are too dangerous, and I'm screwing her up for life by following the latest overly-permissive parenting craze.

I'll admit it: while this shit doesn't normally bother me very much, having it all happen at once became overwhelming. I wanted to crawl in a hole where the Wi-Fi reception is horrible and never see the internet again. People are cruel, I hate the world, I just want to hug my kids, leave me alone and let's order a large pizza so you guys can watch me eat the whole thing.

And that's pretty much how I spent my weekend.

Look, I'm not stupid. I know this is a hot button issue. It's still very misunderstood, and by putting ourselves out there in the media, we become targets for hate and ignorance. We could have taken the quieter route, but we chose not to. This reaction is one of the consequences of that.

But if we want the world to be a safe and accepting place for Alexis, we need to help make it that way. This is why I write for publications, give interviews and do presentations. It's why I often shut up and just listen to a community that was largely mocked and silenced up until recently. I want to learn from them, and I want to take what I learn and teach it. This is important, life-saving stuff.

So I had my little pity party, thought about quitting this advocacy business and running off to an island with a large chocolate supply, had myself a really good cry or two, accepted hugs and love from family and friends, and then I got back up.

Here I am.

But if there's one thing I didn't do even once, it was question if supporting Alexis' transition is the right thing to do. And here's why.

If my child had been diagnosed with an illness like cancer or diabetes, and we followed the medical guidelines set out by professionals with years of experience in the treatment of said illness, how many people would tell us we were wrong for doing so - even if some of those treatments carry risks?

Very few, if any. Why? Because we know those treatments save lives.

My child was diagnosed with gender dysphoria. Look it up; it's a real thing.

Medical specialists who work extensively in the field of gender issues made that diagnosis.

The treatment my child receives (puberty blockers only at this time) is in line with the worldwide medical guidelines for the treatment of juvenile gender dysphoria.

Like most medical treatments, these do carry a certain amount of risk.

But not treating those children leads to the very real risk of self-harm. The suicide rate is astronomical in unsupported and untreated transgender youth and adults (estimated 20-30%). Trans people are much more likely to die when they do not get the help they need from their families and the medical community.

But despite all of these facts, people still feel the need to question the diagnosis, question the doctors, question the therapists, question the parents, and - worst of all - question, belittle and mock the children who are already dealing with so much.

So basically, if it's new to people and makes them uncomfortable, it's not real. Seems legit.

The recent data is clear as day, and it keeps coming in:

Emotionally and medically supporting transgender children SAVES LIVES.

Telling them they're confused, sending them to therapy to "fix them" and refusing them medical treatment TAKES LIVES.

Period.

If a child has type 1 diabetes, you give them insulin to keep them alive and happy.

If a child is transgender, you support them to live as the gender they identify as to keep them alive and happy. It's really that simple.

But until people stop seeing trans as a lifestyle choice, they will keep thinking they know more than the families and experts who support those children.

So to the naysayers who continue to tell us we're wrong, I say the following:

Having an opinion on something does NOT make you a medical expert.

Reading some internet articles does NOT make you a medical expert.

Having strong religious beliefs does NOT make you a medical expert.

And if you are not standing with trans people, their allies and the experts in this field, learning along with us and doing your best to understand, your opinion isn't going to be very valid to me. I will not let your views muddy the waters of the good we're trying to do here.

So you can keep shouting them at me, but they won't change my mind. Instead, I encourage you to listen to our stories, ask questions, ask for good resources, and learn something.

If you could stop trying to drown her out with hateful words, you would see my daughter has a lot to teach you.

So to those who object, thank you for reminding me that there is still so much work to do, and to take care of myself so I can do it. You have strengthened my resolve, and reminded me that I am one kick ass mom to one kick ass girl.

I owe you one.

The Night I Graduated High School

Graduaaaation night! Thursday, June 18, 2015. Photo credit: www.katietrinque.com

The girl in line behind me - #42 - was freaking out. 

"I'm starting to get nervous. Really nervous," she admitted to me. She sounded shaky. 

We were moments from the stage, caps and gowns on, all lined up by number. I was #41 of about 80. Right in the middle, and apparently in the perfect place to talk someone down from an escalating panic attack. It was serendipitous. I can't find my keys half the time, but I manage anxiety like a boss. 

I reassuringly rubbed #42's shoulder. We had only just met a few minutes before, but when you're about to accomplish a life goal with someone, you tend to bond pretty fast. In the time we creeped up the line, we had done all but swapped spit and Christmas lists. I knew her story, she knew mine. And we both knew how important this was to each of us.

"It's okay" I said. "I'm nervous, too. That's why I have this on my wrist. I looked at it right before my last exam. I look at it when whenever I'm worried about my daughter. And I think we need to look at it right now." 

I lifted up the cuff of my gown to reveal the wrist tattoo I got last year. 

Breathe. 

Now, shine.

"Perfect," she said with a weak smile, and took a breath. I did, too. Others turned around in line to see what we were doing, looked down at my arm and spontaneously did the same. We all had a nervous laugh and faced forward again. It was almost time. People filed ahead of me one by one. 

And then, "Amanda Jetté!" they called from the stage. 

Breathe. 

They didn't even botch my French name. Impressive. Everyone in English Canada gets it wrong. I wouldn't have cared, but it was a nice bonus.

"Good luck!" said #42. I walked forward and the lights hit me. Shine.

***

The earlier part of the day was fraught with mixed emotions. I had gone for a hike a few hours before to sort them out, and pondered what it all meant with a rather tame deer who was grazing peacefully beside the trail.

"I'm feeling an odd mix of pride and embarrassment. How does that make sense?" I asked the doe. She looked up from the tall grass she was munching on and gave me a quizzical look before going back to eating.

"It's like I'm ashamed that I didn't finish this a lot sooner and I feel silly about being so excited for my grad at 38 years old. And yet I'm also so proud of me for sticking it out and finally getting it done. Did you know it took me eight different high schools to do this? Eight!"

The doe gave zero fucks.

"The funny thing is that I wouldn't rate this as my biggest accomplishment this year. But it feels so important. It feels like I needed to get this out of the way, like it was psychologically blocking me from moving forward. So yeah, tonight is pretty huge."

The doe walked behind a bush and disappeared. 

When it comes to therapy, you get what you pay for. 

***

"THAT'S MY MOTHER!" my eldest yelled from the audience as I walked across the stage in heels I was sure were going to be my downfall. They were not, but it was close.

There was so much clapping, but what I heard most were the cheers of my children. And when I won the English award a few minutes later, they cheered even louder. 

They're usually telling me they hate what I'm making for dinner, so I soaked that shit in. 

I could have done it quietly, but I graduated this transparently for them. I never want my kids to live in shame for being different or making mistakes. I want them to know it's never too late to do what's important to you. I want them to understand that you don't have to walk the same path as everyone else to live a wonderful life. My life is incredible, in large part because I took the road less travelled. 

It was never my plan, but it's been a great journey so far. 

***

#42 and I got up and danced on stage at the end of the ceremony. It was her idea, and I'm nothing if not an excellent accomplice. I figured if I didn't go up there that night of all nights, I would regret it - and I'm tired of living with regrets. 

You only get one life - unless you believe in reincarnation. And then you might just come back as a deer who has to listen to emotionally conflicted hikers. That's so shitty.

So here's to accomplishments, both big and small. And to last Thursday, when I wore heels on stage and didn't even fall on my face. 

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to dust my English award. Again.