Changing the World, One Love Story at a Time

“OMG Zoe! We need to take a picture of you!” I call up the stairs, morning coffee in hand.

“Um, why?” she calls down from the bathroom.

“Because it’s your one year out-a-versary, obviously.” I roll my eyes for dramatic effect, but she doesn’t see it because I’m, like, yelling up the stairs still. “One year of living 24/7 as beautiful you!”

And it is, by the way. A whole year now.

One year and one week ago, Zoe sent a message to hundreds of coworkers, saying, “Hey, I’m trans and these are my new names and pronouns, but I’m just as awesome as ever, so you may continue to think so.” (I might be paraphrasing a little.)

The result was overwhelming support. Replies started to flood her inbox within a few minutes. When she returned back to work exactly one year ago today, her closest coworkers lovingly decorated her cubicle, left heartfelt gifts on her desk, then fooled her into thinking she was walking into an emergency meeting in a conference room but - surprise! - it was one incredible coming out party.

It had cupcakes, you guys. Cupcakes and hugs. And probably some other stuff too, but they’re all secondary to sugar and love.

All my fears of how she was going to navigate the same job with the same people while living as a different gender vanished. Those 15 years of history didn’t make it harder for her to be accepted as her true self, they made it easier. In the end, the people she works with don’t care what Zoe’s pronouns are, they just care about Zoe.

Yes, it really can be that simple.

If you’ve been following my family’s journey for a while – the story of our child’s transition, followed by my spouse’s transition a few months later – then you know how big my little post about Zoe’s work party became. It was one of the biggest on this blog, and was featured in publications in several countries on 5 different continents. We heard from people all over the world, including several HR departments who shared that post as an example of how do things right.

So yeah, we needed a picture this morning, ok?

“Ok, sure. I’ll get my eyeliner on,” Zoe replies from upstairs.

My wife is hot. She doesn’t need eyeliner. But she might argue everyone needs eyeliner before 8 a.m. And she might be on to something. She's not just hot, but smart, too. I totally lucked out. 

***

This morning, I woke up in fear. The last whispers of an ominous dream hanging over me.  

In it, the political climate in Canada had changed to match the one in the US. Bill C-16, the trans rights bill that is this close to passing into law, was snuffed out of existence. A new government came in, and their goal of oppressing everyone who wasn’t like them was wrapped into tidy ideas like “safety” and “family values” and “religious freedom.”

In the dream, I was panicked. Hate had been let loose, claws out and teeth bared, and my family was trapped in the proverbial arena, exposed and vulnerable. All the steps our country had made to protect my same-sex marriage, to protect the people I love more than anything, were gone. Would our family become illegal under new laws? Would discrimination prevent us from living the beautiful life we had before?

I woke up, still panicked, and wrapped my arms around my sleeping wife until my heart slowed down.

And then I grabbed my sword and shield.

***

My family lives in a bubble.

We have good friends, extended family, coworkers, schools, neighbours and medical support. Nearly everyone we knew before we began this journey has chosen to walk alongside us and learn with us and love us. Some have left, but their spaces have been filled with the kind of people everyone wants to have in their lives: compassionate, open-minded, understanding and protective. We may live in a bubble, but its casing is pretty tough because of the people who created it for us.

It’s a good life inside this bubble.

But I know what it’s like outside of it, and I know not everyone has what we do. Just the other day, a local trans child took her own life, and my limited understanding of that situation is that she wasn’t getting the support she needed from the people she needed it from the most. Just outside of our bubble, there are people hurting and people dying.

They need bubbles, too. And fast.

***

Sometimes, the fear creeps up on me, as it did this morning. It’s a reminder that all the progress we’ve made can turn on a dime. Families like mine could lose everything. My wife could work in a place that doesn’t accept her, or lose her job and never work again. My daughter could be too scared to go to school, unable to be herself without serious repercussions.

These are the things that can happen if hate takes hold. Because make no mistake: hate does live here. It’s just not very loud right now.

Whenever I feel that way, and the panic starts to well up inside me, I stop. I take a few belly breaths, as my speaking coach, Mary, insists I do whenever I’m about to go on stage. It helps the adrenaline burn off so rational thoughts can return.

And once I can think rationally again, there’s really only one thing that comes to mind when I contemplate hate taking over and all the bad that would bring with it: 

Well, guess I can’t let that happen, then.

That is literally my thought. It’s grandiose to the point of laughter, but that’s exactly what pops into my head. I can’t let that happen, so I won’t.

Not alone, obviously. There are plenty of people doing this work. There are folks hounding politicians and training school staff and helping religious congregations become more inclusive and insisting on better support at every level for the LGBTQ community. They’re doing big, important work.

And I? Well, I will continue to tell stories.

Like that time Zoe went to work and everyone celebrated her, so I wrote about.

And the time I got a message from a scared woman in Finland who had been terrified to come out to her partner and little girl until she read our story in a Finnish newspaper. And how they came to Canada and stayed with us all summer, and now live 10 minutes down the road and have become our family.   

And the local woman who had never breathed a word about her true self until she read about Zoe’s coming out at work story - a workplace that resembles her own. And how she reached out to me, met with us, came out to her spouse, told her kids, transitioned at work, is living as her gorgeous self these days, and makes me smile wide every time I see her.

And so many more stories just like these. Too many to list here. (It’s a good thing I’m writing a book.)

Stories. They’re powerful. They connect us. They stay in our hearts. They shape our world. They make us see things in a new light.

Stories stay with us when we go to the polls and vote in a new government. They whisper to us when we’re in a position to stand up for someone else. They tap us on the shoulder when someone we love says, “Hey, I have something important I need to tell you, and I hope you’ll still love me when I'm done.”

I will keep telling stories; beautiful, empowering, painful, angry, enchanting, real stories. That’s how I’m going to make sure hate doesn’t take hold. It is both my sword and my shield.

We will change the world, one beautiful love story at a time.  

***

One year later. Just as dreamy!

I mean professional. Just as professional. 

One year of Zoe’s life lived to the fullest. One year of my life seeing the person I love finally be herself and falling in love all over again. One year of our kids being able to say “my moms” to everyone they meet. One year of a journey we’ve just begun.

Hope you have more eyeliner ready, my beautiful wife. We’re not done yet. We have a whole world to change.

All Aboard the Bigot Bus!

It's 2017, and you're leading the fight with your organization against the wrongs perpetrated by the left. Your oddly orange candidate has won the election. The White House is looking pretty white, indeed, and your president is keeping a spare toothbrush in Fox News’ apartment because things are getting that serious between them.

The gays are scared, the Muslims are panicked, and your giant wall might actually become a reality.

Yes, the months you spent campaigning for the big winner have paid off. You can put away your "Get off your rump and vote for Trump!” shirt for at least another three years and just bask in the glory of being an American.

But you can only bask for so long. There’s work to do! Lots of it. Sure, the best guy – the very best; you’ve never seen a better guy – is in office, but those snowflake Liberals are being so whiny about it. They’re taking to the streets in numbers far higher than were seen at your president’s inauguration.

(I mean, if you listen to those fake news agencies, which you don’t because Fox is your bae.)

But even though it was only a very small, annoying group of protesters in, like, a couple of cities, they still got a lot of attention. Liberal media loves to blow things up like that, don’t they?

The problem with these protestors – women, mostly, because they just don’t know when to let things go, amiright? – is that they’re trying to dismantle all the fine work the Great Lea—sorry, the President – is doing.

Don’t they get it? All he wants is to save America!

Well, most of America.

Not the gays. If you give them too much, they’ll take it all. I mean, just look at Fashion Week.

But especially not those transgender people. You don’t even think they’re real. Why don’t folks understand that?

Hey! Maybe that’s what you could do. You could, like, get together with a bunch of organizations who also don’t support trans people and you can make sure everyone knows that!

By… by… Hang on… Oh! There’s the idea! (Thank you, Jesus!)

You and your buddies from various “Christian” (we're going to use that term loosely) organizations can acquire and paint a bus. Yes. A giant orange bus, because orange is the colour of the man you elected, and orange is the colour of free speech. Well, it is now, because that’s what you’ve decided.

Beep beep! Move aside, progress! 

Credit: National Organization for Marriage

So you take this giant orange bus, and you write some spiffy information on it like “Boys are boys… and always will be” and “Girls are girls… and always will be” and then you can prove that trans people are giant fakers. That trans kids are just confused and/or want to upset you by using the bathroom you don’t want them to use at Target because it matters to you for some reason.

You’re tired of that damn community having a voice and getting help from the rest of the snowflakes! You’re tired of them whining about wanting the same rights as everyone else, when clearly your right to decide they’re not real is more important! You’re tired of having to share the world with people who are different than you! It’s so hard. It's so complicated. 

This bus, with its flashy Hansel & Gretel cut-outs and its hashtag about free speech is going to fix everything as it drives around your great country.

It’s totally worth the money, because the overly simplistic messaging will undoubtedly spark an important conversation about gender identity. When they see it, everyone who once believed trans people by talking to actual trans people and learning actual science from real scientists doing credible studies are going to tear off their Bernie Sanders bracelets in shame and immediately unfollow Laverne Cox’s Instagram account.  

And because you’re making free speech a part of the campaign, you can’t go wrong. Who doesn’t love free speech?

Yeah, the Cheetomobile is going to crush it.

Once the Bigot Bus reaches its final destination, you can go back to your nice, simple life, where you understood everyone because they are exactly like you. Isn’t that the best? When you don’t have to consider the feelings of others? That’s the way God wanted it. That’s why He made busses and orange paint.

Except…. Oh, dear. There’s a little problem.

That stuff about "biology" and the "chromosomes"? Unfortunately, there’s a fair bit of science to shut down your outdated arguments. And that stuff doesn't have to do with gender, anyway, which has been well established in the scientific community for a good while, now. But maybe if you get a big megaphone and shout over the facts, that might work. I know a certain politician who does that all the time. 

Oh, and I know more than a few trans people who've told me they are who they are... and they can't change that. That's why they came out in the first place, so they could live as who they really are. They're not "switching" genders.

If your aim is to discredit the trans community, I have some bad news for you. Between your shoddy science and iffy slogan, this campaign could have used a little more work. Too bad the bus has already left the depot, eh?

But hey, don’t let me stop you from enjoying your nationwide bigotry tour. This is your moment to really shine! In many years from now, your grandkids will look at history books and see your proud face as you rally around that bus, actively denying other people’s existence and refusing them rights in the name of making America great again.

You, in the history books! Just like those people who protested when schools were no longer segregated and water fountains became something everyone could use. Except you get a flashy bus that your future grandchildren can be embarrassed about. And a hashtag to commemorate the hate!

So have fun. And If you don’t know where to put that bus when you’re done with it, I have a suggestion for you.

Happy trails.

Hey, Allies? You Can Make Mistakes Around Me. It's Okay.

I had a conversation this weekend that left me itching to write this post. It also left me a little scared to write it, because I know it’s going to ruffle some feathers. Not everyone is going to feel the same way, and I’m going to hear about it – perhaps quite harshly. But that’s exactly why I feel I need to write this post in the first place (OMG so meta!).

I won’t get into details about the conversation itself, to protect the anonymity of the person I had it with. But essentially, they were chastised for being a poor ally to the LGBTQ community because they expressed hurt over being aggressively called out – and then they were promptly eye-rolled at, told off, and unfriended.

This type of thing has happened to me, too. But first, a little backstory for those who are reading my blog for the first time: I’m a lesbian who is married to a trans woman and raising three kids, including a trans child. There’s a rainbow over our little suburban home 24/7, but you can only see it if you’re gay enough. (It’s a test. Since everyone’s wearing plaid these days, we needed a more precise detection system.)

Both my wife and child came out within the last three years. This means I’m a member of the greater LGBTQ community, and a close ally to the trans community (one of my trans friends jokingly calls me “honorary trans” because you can’t get much closer to the cause.)

But I’m also relatively new to being an active ally to the trans community. I’m still learning some of the deeper concepts, and because language is always evolving, I’m constantly working on getting it right. To complicate things further, as in many communities, there are disagreements within it about how to discuss certain topics and what narratives are valid. This makes sense, since community members are human beings with their own beliefs and personal stories.

But what all of this means is, I’m going to screw up. I just am. It’s inevitable. Thankfully, it doesn’t seem to happen all that often. I’m careful about the language I use because the last thing I want to do is hurt anyone. I’m also a writer, which helps on the communication front. But every now and then, I will epically botch something.

One time, when I failed miserably at explaining the difference between gender and sex to a troll who was trying to invalidate the existence of trans people, I was called out very publicly and harshly by a trans person. It wasn’t just an education in where I went wrong, it felt like an attack. I was told I was contributing to the death toll of trans people with my language. If the Obama administration could get it right, why couldn’t I? My mistake was several levels of fucked up. It went on, despite my apologies and my promise to learn and do better. I had never felt so ashamed as an ally.

I called my wife over and had her read what I said. She explained, in a kind way, where I went wrong in my language. But by that point, I was sobbing. Not because I made a mistake, but because I was so shaken by the response to my mistake. It was like being screamed at by your boss in front of all your coworkers, rather than called in for a private discussion.

Now, this is where people are going to group into two camps:

Camp 1: The oppressed party has every right to say what they need to say to the person who is oppressing them (which would be me, in this case, with the language I used.) They do not need to educate kindly, they do not need to be gentle with the person who screwed up. A true ally will develop a thick skin and learn to take the lumps because it’s not about them.  

Camp 2: The oppressed party should remember the ally is a human being with actual feelings, and deal with them as such. Sure, they made a mistake, but how do you keep your allies if you treat them this way?

So, you’re either going to think I was wrong for being upset about being called out in that manner, or you’re going to be upset I was called out like that in the first place.

I’m not really upset by either at this point, because all that sadness lead me to the Ottawa Humane Society that week, where I adopted the Cutest. Kitten. On. Earth. as a form of therapy. (#worthit)

Kitten therapy is the best therapy.

But if this has taught me anything, it’s that we don’t need two camps. We need to start camping together, instead of glaring at each other from across the field, trying to argue who’s right. There are valid points in both cases.  

This experience got me thinking about allies, and how we treat them. Not because of what happened to me – honestly, I can take it and I have an adorable cat to show for it – but because of what happened after. When people saw what had transpired, I started to receive dozens of messages.

Some of these messages were from trans people, telling me they didn’t think I deserved the tongue lashing I had received (again, this goes to show how individuals make up a community.) But most were from folks I consider to be kind, compassionate, relatively privileged, straight, cisgender (AKA not trans) people - people with a fair amount of influence, as far as helping create change go -  and the message from all of them was the same:

“What happened to you is exactly why I don’t speak out. I’m terrified of having the same thing happen to me. Because if an ally like you can be attacked like that, what chance do I have?“

Message after message, comment after comment, all the same. These kind, compassionate, relatively privileged, straight, cisgender people are not speaking out – not because they’re afraid of the bigots, but because they’re afraid of the communities they would otherwise support. That’s not good.

I didn’t write about this back then because it was still too raw. I didn’t want to come across as whiny and hurt, because the bigger hurt was done to the trans community that day. I messed up. And you know what? The person who called me on it did have every right to do it as they saw fit.

However, there are consequences to our actions. And the conversation I had this weekend reminded me of that.

If I didn’t have two trans people in my nuclear family, I likely would have gone silent after that day. If not for unconditional love, why would I speak out in support of a cause when the people in that cause might kick me when I get it wrong? What’s my incentive?

For many people, there is no incentive strong enough to keep going once that happens a few times. They’ll just go quiet. And then we lose allies.

So let me take off my trans ally hat and put on my lesbian hat for a minute so I can say this with complete authority to everyone I know and everyone reading this:

If you are a good person who makes a mistake around me when discussing sexual orientation, I will not attack you. I will gently correct you, but I will not chastise you. I will educate you, but I will do it with love. Always.

I will do this because I don’t want to scare off the people who wish to stand beside me. I don’t want you running in the opposite direction because I shamed you for doing a very human thing and making a mistake.

Yes, there will undoubtedly be times when it’s harder to be nice, particularly if people have made the same mistake you have countless times before you did. My energy might be running low that day, that week, or that year. But that’s not your fault, and I won’t make it your fault.

I also won’t suggest you educate yourself without providing you with at least a starting point or two. I see people say, “It’s not my job to educate you” a fair bit. Totally true. It’s not their job or my job. But I’ll give you some guidelines so you don’t go off into the scary, scary internet and find sites that will tell you the gay agenda controls children’s minds through radio waves emanating from Elton John’s basement. (It’s actually true, but I’m not allowed to talk about it.)

I want you walking beside my family. I want you here. I don’t want you to be uncomfortable or outright afraid around me. The last thing I need is for you to give up and decide you can’t do anything right, so what’s the point? That just breeds animosity rather than connection. It creates a divide between us. That’s the opposite of how to build an army of support.

I can’t guarantee that everyone else will treat you the same way. People walk their own paths, and some won’t consider kindness in their responses to be as important. But if you have questions, you can ask me. If you make a mistake, we’re still cool. I promise.

That’s how I want to be treated, and so that’s how I will treat you. Full stop.

Ok, back to the ally hat. I will continue to make mistakes. That’s a given. Thankfully, I have two great teachers in my own family and many wonderful trans friends to learn from. I’m fortunate that way.

We are all still learning, and there is far more to connect us than to divide us. I'll harness the power of that connection over creating a bigger divide any day. 

Must go call Elton on the sparkle phone. We need to set up a North American commlink to increase signal strength.

I’m thinking Lady Gaga's house...

And the Mountains Brought Me Back

You're supposed to be strong in my line of work. Sometimes, I feel anything but. 

A few days ago, I wanted to quit. Quit advocating for LGBTQ rights, quit writing, quit speaking and interviews and interfacing with people. Quit the Twitter trolls and the middle-of-the-night hate-filled emails and the occasional-but-nonetheless-disturbing threats to my family's safety.

Quit the whole damn thing. Walk away. Done.

I was frustrated; I couldn't see the progress anymore. I thought we were getting somewhere, until Trump got elected. I thought we were getting somewhere, as a people who see people as people, until the mosque shooting in Quebec city and the bomb threats that followed. I thought we were getting somewhere as a society, until I saw sensible people I know stand up for a transphobic speaker being hosted at the National Art Gallery, under the name of free speech. 

I thought we were getting somewhere, and then I didn't. It's like a light went out.

I've only been advocating strongly for about three years, since my first family member came out as trans. I'm not someone who's been fighting her entire life. Yes, I was a giant closeted lesbian for a lifetime, but being closeted and being married to someone the world perceived as a dude (until she became the hottest wife who ever hotted *ahem*) afforded me certain comforts. I could fight for people or not fight for people. I had a choice.

That is, until those people became my people. And then I no longer had a choice, and I fought like a dragon, breathing fire.

I hit the ground running three years ago, and I haven't stopped - not nearly enough, anyway. Not enough breaks, not enough breaths. And it all came to a head two weeks ago, when, between writing, interviews, email and talk prep, I was pulling 16-hour days.

I became the monosyllabic mom who would grunt and point to the boxes of Kraft Dinner when the kids said they were hungry, then grab her coffee and shuffle back to her desk. At night, I would fall into bed next to my wife without saying a word, my energy stores completely spent, and pass out with a book on my chest. 

Truth be told, I was afraid to stop working that week. Because, while I was rapidly burning the candle at both ends, a little voice was saying, 'Why are you doing this? What good is it? Have you seen the comments you're getting on social media? Have you seen the rolling back of rights for trans people? Have you seen the support for Conservative leaders who condone bigotry? You think you're helping, Amanda, but you're not. You're just banging your head against a wall. You're a fool to think you can change anything."

You are a fool.  

I started daydreaming about what life would be like if I just walked away.

Goodbye, advocacy that doesn't seem to make a difference.

Goodbye, pain in the ass trolls who ruin Twitter for everyone.

Goodbye, futile attempts to change the world.

Goodbye.

There are other people who do this work, and they could keep doing it without me. Maybe they're stronger than I am.

Hey, I could just go work in a coffee shop, where I would still deal with bigots, but I wouldn't know they're bigots; I'd only know how many pumps of pumpkin spice they want in their lattes. Bliss. 

I had always wondered what complete burnout looked like, and now I knew. It was ugly and it was mean. It made me forget any of the good I was doing.

But before making the switch to full-time barista, I had a commitment I needed to honour. The YWCA Banff had asked me to be their keynote speaker at the Change Makers event, held on International Women's Day. They do incredible work, from empowering women in many ways to providing social housing in an area that really needs it. Having spent some time getting to know the people there and the work they do, they have a very special place in my heart. (You can make a donation to them here.)

I promised myself I would hold off on making any big decisions until I went out West for that talk. Maybe something would change. Maybe Amanda would get her groove back. 

I had never been to Alberta before. I had never been in the Rocky Mountains, had never soaked in their majesty. 

My biggest accomplishment last week wasn't the keynote address, it was coming home alive because I didn't get hit by a truck as I stood gaping at the mountains all around me. I also didn't get eaten by any wildlife when I walked out of town to find some unobstructed views. It was just like I was on an episode of Naked and Afraid, except I wasn't naked or afraid and I had a hotel room with survival fudge in it. But otherwise? Exactly the same. 

The trip was beautiful, from the vast mountains to the vast amounts of time I spent alone, walking quiet paths or sitting in Evelyn's Coffee Shop not trying to guesstimate the calories in my mocha with whipped cream and extra chocolate sprinkles.

Photo credit: Liz Nelson, who takes great pictures (which is why I stole this one.)

But the real beauty happened the night of the talk. I got up on stage and spent an hour telling my story, as passionately and honestly as I could, hoping to reach at least one person in the audience that night. My goal is always that one person who needs to hear what I have to say. If I know I've reached them, I've done a good job. 

That night,  at the wine reception that followed, I received more positive feedback than I have ever received after a talk.

There was a church official looking at how to best support a transitioning parishioner.

There was a woman who is going through her own coming out process and wanted to know how I speak my truth without shame.

A man who has a recently out non-binary child approached me, and said, after listening to me speak about the importance of parental support, he's going to fully embrace his child, even if he doesn't yet fully understand. 

A woman with a trans child in her family promised to send my blog to her family members, as she feels they could use an example of "how to do it right." 

And another woman came up to me, held my hands, had me look her in the eyes and said, "You, my dear, are a woman of distinction." Because apparently my makeup was too nice and she needed me to cry it off. 

It just went on. Person after person, handshake after handshake, hug after meaningful hug. And, before long, that bitter little voice inside me was replaced with one that said, "See? This is why you do this."

I came home last week with renewed purpose. At the Calgary airport, I shared a dinner table in  a busy restaurant with two men on the corporate side of a large national grocery chain, and I asked about their inclusion policies and ways they could improve upon them. "Keep telling your story," one of them said as they were running off to catch their flight. "It's important."  

On the plane ride home, I sat with two women who were off on an Ottawa adventure for a milestone birthday. We chatted for a good two hours about my family's story, and the many ways all of us can focus on inclusion and acceptance. We hit it off so well that I drove them from the airport to where they were staying, and we shared hugs and contact information. I just got a smile-inducing email from them last night. 

I wanted to reach one person, and ended up I reaching many. It was a reminder that my work isn't futile, it's just slow. But all those connections are important; they weave a web of understanding that eventually envelops the globe. 

I'd like to think I'm entirely bad ass now. (Please play along.)

They day after I got home, I had "Lead with love" tattooed on my right arm - the one I shake everyone's hand with. It's been something I've wanted for a while, and it seemed like a fitting moment; a commitment to my work, to my life, and to the love that guides it.

"The mountains are magical," my friend said to me before I left. She was right; they brought me back to my purpose.

Maybe one day, I'll go make coffee for a living. But for now, I'll just keep drinking way too much of it while I do this incredible, overwhelming, meaningful, frustrating and beautiful work.

Lead with love. Always. 

The Delicate Art of Asking for Help

It was a chilly morning in March when I first stepped into the social worker’s office. We sat down on opposite comfortable chairs, and she pulled a side table a little closer to me so I could put my coffee down if I wanted to.

Not that I wanted to. 

Coffee is my comfort drink. She seemed to sense that immediately – likely because I was clutching it in my hands for dear life like an eagle holds a rabbit. I pick up a coffee to take with me whenever I’m anxious; It’s a habit I have yet to grow out of. And that day, I was certainly anxious.

“I’m here to talk about what’s going on in my family,” I said. And slowly, like a timidly blooming flower, I began to reveal what was going on inside me. “So, here's the thing: Our child came out as transgender a few days ago. I’m trying to be supportive and to understand what h—sorry, she’s—going through. I'm still getting used to the pronouns. And everything else."

"It's okay," she said. "I'm sure it takes time."

"Yeah, but I want to get it right all the time, you know? For her. I have to put on a brave face 24/7, and do and say the right things, and I’m going to have to talk to the school and our family and our neighbours and everyone else. I have to be a mama bear. But inside, I’m falling apart.”

As the story unraveled, the tears began to flow. I don’t think I put my coffee down on the table even once; I held it tightly and took small sips to soothe the lump in my throat. The social worker listened patiently and attentively, quietly passing the tissue box when I needed it.

This was the beginning of a working relationship that would span several months. Every week or so, I would find myself in her office, holding a warm coffee cup, and let loose. It was my safe spot where I could just be Amanda. Not Amanda the mom. Not Amanda the wife. Not Amanda the unprepared advocate. Just Amanda.

And in that space, Amanda could feel all her feels. She could drink her coffee or just hold it until it got too cold and gross to drink. (It still served its purpose in my talon-hands, though, trust me.)  She could say what she wanted without worrying about hurting anyone’s feelings. She could just be.

Truthfully, it became the most important hour of my week. It made me a better parent to a child who really needed me at my best.

This isn’t the first time therapy has improved my situation even more than clutching a coffee cup does. So, when the Ontario Association of Social Workers (OASW) asked me to write about my personal experiences for Social Work Week, I was all over it. I don’t normally do these kinds of plugs, because I'm careful about what I put on my site. But this fits perfectly. It's a cause I can get behind.

Mental health is often discussed in hushed tones. We’ll lower our voices whenever we talk about it. A look around the room. A pause. And then a near-whisper, like an admittance of guilt: “So…" *shifty eyes* "I met with someone today about my anxiety…”

I don’t know why we do this. Why are we so ashamed? We’re not kicking puppies, we’re taking care of ourselves. The fact many of us do feel ashamed speaks volumes (pun intended) to the stigma that still surrounds mental health.

Let's contrast this with another good thing we do for ourselves: When is the last time you whispered about going to the gym? I’m guessing never. (And if you’re like me, you might actually raise your voice when bringing up your current squat weight in a crowded room. Yes, I'm that obnoxious.)

It’s almost like we believe taking care of our bodies is something strong people do, while taking care of our minds is something weak people have to do.

Well, if that’s true, you’re reading something by a glorious walking (and *ahem* squatting) contradiction. I prioritize my emotional health alongside my physical health. My mind, like my body, needs to be maintained. Sometimes that maintenance requires therapy, and I don’t think that makes me weak in the slightest.

I’ve worked with therapists of all stripes for a good part of my life. I have an anxiety disorder, and I've dealt with more than one bout of depression. Therapy has been a lifeline for me. 

But I owe a great deal to social workers, specifically. When I was 16 and homeless, it was a social worker who helped me manage the intense stress I was under, and connected me with the resources I needed to get off the street. Today, in large part thanks to that help, I’m a homeowner, engaged community member, and in a position to advocate for other struggling youth by doing a job I love.

Years later, it would be a social worker, one passionate about LGBTQ issues, who would explain gender identity to me in a way I could understand. And yet another social worker would connect me with a support group for parents of trans kids, where I would meet other families like mine on what can otherwise be a lonely journey. 

It's so easy to feel alone in our struggles, and yet we never have to be. 

This week, March 6-12, 2017, the OASW will be addressing the many issues facing people today. They'll have a theme on their Facebook page each day, and invite people to ask questions. Here's a list of this week's themes: 

Monday, March 6: Addictions and Mental Health

Tuesday, March 7: Bullying

Wednesday, March 8: Relationship Problems

Thursday, March 9: Stress Management

Friday, March 10: Caregiving and the "Sandwich Generation."

And, my guess is you can ask about LGBTQ-specific issues any day of the week. I know the OASW stands behind trans issues, because they presented me with an award in 2014 for a piece I wrote on raising trans kids. A progressive move on their part, believe me. Their compassion for trans youth is a big reason why I was happy to take part in this campaign.

Three years after that first tear-filled appointment, I'm still clutching a cup of coffee in my hands anytime I'm anxious. But life has become less anxiety-producing with the right supports. Progress, not perfection. 

No shame for this girl - ever. I'll keep embracing my squat weight and my mental health. And if you're struggling with your own shame in asking for help, I hope you'll learn to do the same. Let's stop stigmatizing what can help make our lives better.

Disclaimer: While I was compensated for this post, all views remain my own. My integrity towards any subject is always my top priority.

When You're Still That Scared Little Girl in the Schoolyard

It's 9:30 p.m., and I'm just stepping off the anxiety train for the first time today. All aboard the panic caboose!

I have an anxiety disorder, in case you didn't know. Also, in case you didn't know, anxiety disorders are balls.

It's been with me for a lifetime, and has manifested itself in different ways, from hypochondria (I think the newer term is "health anxiety") to OCD ("Did I turn the oven off? Let's get out of bed and check again! More steps on the FitBit!"). Lately, however, it's just good ol' fashioned Generalized Anxiety Disorder, or GAD. I keep it at bay with exercise and deep breathing, a decent diet and coffee with friends.

But not today. Today, it was a beast. A lion. It backed me into a corner and dug its claws in. That's because I had to do some unexpected advocacy. Frankly, unexpected anything is enough to send the lion running straight at me across the Savannah. But advocacy carries a certain weight, a responsibility that makes it a really big lion. 

The National Gallery of Canada has invited a known transphobe to give a talk. It's surprising to exactly no one that I would take big issue with this, not only because I have two trans family members and many friends I love dearly, but also because the queer community has historically found the art world to be one of the few safe and accepting places for us. To have someone who regularly speaks out against trans people and their rights giving a talk at our national art gallery is harmful and a slap in the face to queer Canadian artists. Why they would invite someone so hateful is beyond me, but I'm not going to stay silent about it. 

So I wrote a Facebook post about the whole thing, and it was shared a few times. Then came interview requests from various media agencies. Before long, there were cameras at my place and a trans friend and I were doing our best to explain why the National Gallery is all wrong about this. 

I'm no stranger to media. I've worked with them plenty of times. I wouldn't say I ever get comfortable being interviewed, but it's not as terrifying as it used to be. It's a necessary part of the advocacy work I do. But I never look forward to what happens once the cameras are off, the phone call ends, or I wrap up a radio interview, and I find myself on the other side of the chaos. Generally, I silently go into a panic. 

Here's the thing: I'm pretty confident most of the time. But advocacy requires me to give a lot of myself. It's like saying, "Here, take my carefully articulated thoughts, my mass amounts of adrenaline, all the research I could pull together, and all the passion I feel for this topic because it directly affects the people I love." I place it in front of them with a piece of my heart and a piece of my mind, desperately hoping it does some good. It's vulnerability at its finest.

By the time it's all over, I'm raw. I have no reserves left. The anxiety swells. And in that moment, the messages I've spent a lifetime holding at bay will come flooding through.

"You probably screwed that up. Said the wrong thing," the lion will whisper. 

"They should have asked someone else to do this. You should have said no," it will taunt, claws digging deeper.

"You are the most uneducated person. Did you hear yourself?" it will ask, fangs exposed.

"Who do you think you are?" it will roar.

Who do I think I am? Good question. In that moment, I am a younger Amanda, somewhere between the age of 5 and 15, and I'm being repeatedly told I'm worthless. I'm being shoved and kicked and, at one point, as I've mentioned before, even set on fire. I am the girl who was mocked when she used her voice until she felt she couldn't use it at all. I am the girl who hid who she was, because being openly gay would put me in danger. So I am nobody, and nobody cares what I have to say.

This is the place I can so quickly go to when I'm feeling vulnerable. It's dark and ugly and I hate it, because Logical Amanda is trying to reason with Emotional Amanda. Logical Amanda gets angry about being back there. "We're forty now!" Logical Amanda will yell. "We are not that person anymore! We have children and a wife and a wonderful life filled with incredible experiences and so much love. Don't you see that?"

And now Logical Amanda is yelling and that jerk lion is roaring and I am definitely not having a gay ol' time, thanks.

The problem is Emotional Amanda is a slow learner. She's not quick to budge. She lingers in the schoolyard a little while longer, looking back. Sometimes for hours, sometimes for more than a day, before she makes her way into the present again.

I am still that lonely girl in the schoolyard. And I don't know if I'll ever truly graduate.

Our formative years create the foundation of who we are. I gave a talk on that very thing last year, and I compared a solid childhood foundation to one filled with cracks. My foundation is definitely leaky because of the experience I've had, from an absent biological father to being the joke of an entire high school, from depression to substance abuse to homelessness. I've spent a lifetime repairing that foundation, but it will never be perfect. 

But, you know, maybe that's okay.

Maybe part of what makes me a half-decent advocate is that I've lived through some of my own profound pain. I know what it's like to be at the bottom, to feel alone, to wish someone would speak up for me.

Maybe being able to relate on that level breeds compassion, which is the driving force behind everything I do. I might not be the smartest or most educated person, but that compassion gives me fierce drive. It comes from that place deep within me that says, "Be the voice you once needed. Don't let anyone else feel that alone." It makes me talk into cameras and go on live radio. It makes me write these blog posts. It gets me through the panic. It makes me love what I do and never want to stop doing it, even on the hard days.

Maybe I wouldn't be able to do what I do if I didn't have that cracked foundation. It's an imperfect system, but what's perfect, anyway? Aren't we all a little broken in our own ways?

I'll keep trying to silence those voices. It's getting a little better these days. Today, I put in a mayday call to a friend and she came running for coffee and cookies therapy. Tomorrow, I'll work the rest of it out at the gym, and then spend the day preparing for a talk I'm giving in Alberta next week - yet another out-of-my-comfort-zone moment. Yet another moment when I get to use the voice I finally found again through speaking up alongside my daughter, my wife, and the incredible trans community they belong to. 

The schoolyard isn't where I'd like to linger, but it could be going back there from time to time allows me to keep moving forward. And one day, I'll tame that lion.

Until then, there are cookies.

Supporting My Trans Child Has Helped me Embrace Change

I grew up hearing people tell me that having a child would change my life. And I would think, "Well, duh. They do that. They're a lot of work and a lot of love." That change is epic, even in the most typical of circumstances.

So, my question is: what's beyond epic? Because in our family, the transformation has been that. I wasn't quite expecting it.

Dudes, seriously. If you've been reading my blog for a while (or are one of the growing number of people who incoherently email me at 4 a.m. to tell me you discovered it a few hours ago and have wasted the night away reading every single post and it's all my fault), you know why I'm writing a book about it all.

But today marks a special occasion. 

On this day three years ago, our child came out to us as transgender. And it's changed all our lives for the better.

She was 11 back then, and terrified to tell us. The world wasn't quite ready to fully embrace her, and I'd argue, given the political climate and the ugly rise of bigotry, it's not quite ready today, either. 

Still, we've come a long way since then, and I've learned a few things that I hope to share with those who still aren't quite ready to embrace LGBTQ families. This post is dedicated to you.

Alexis, Age 12, January 2015

Over the last three years, we've watched the person we knew as a sad and hurting little boy transform outwardly into the glorious and gutsy girl she kept locked inside for too many years. The forced, pained smiles we would see on our child's face have grown into real ones (now with added braces). The child we once greatly feared for is now someone I admire for her strength.

She was in grade 6 when she came out; she's in grade 9 now. The doctors blocked her puberty a few months into her transition so she wouldn't experience any further testosterone-fueled changes. This eased much of her discomfort. This past November, once she turned 14, she started taking estrogen, and the changes are now happening in the right direction. She's never been happier or more comfortable in her own skin. She also gives me these incredible teenage girl eye rolls and "Gaaaawwwwwwd, mom!" moments. Super impressive.

But the impact her transition has had didn't end with her. She's helped both her parents become better versions of themselves.

Because of Alexis' courage to live outwardly, my spouse was able to come out as a woman the following year, and our family now has two happy moms in it.

Zoe and me, Fall 2016 - Happy because we're not being eye-rolled at.

And because I had to explore my feelings about my wife Zoe's transition, I dug deep enough to outwardly admit what I never felt safe saying to anyone before: I'm a lesbian. Our family had a pretty big closet.

Throughout all these changes, our extended family, friends and community embraced us. We still live in the same house. My wife still has the same job. Our kids still go to the same schools. While we did lose a handful of people, most folks have been all, "Hey, you be you guys and I'll love you through it." No big deal. 

If you're someone who doesn't like trans or gay people, you're probably throwing up into the nearest garbage can right now. "What? A trans kid?" *Barf* "And then the parent comes out as trans, too?" *Gag* "And then the other parent says she's a lesbian?" *Heave* "And people are OKAY WITH THIS?!" *Breathing into paper bag*

I'm sorry. That's probably a lot to handle all at once. Let's sit down together. Here, have a tissue. You pull it out of the box though, so I don't touch it and inadvertently smear my gay all over your face. 

The fam celebrating a very gay Christmas

Listen, hater-friend, I know what this looks like to people who see it through a certain lens. It looks like we were overly-permissive parents who would have let a child who thought they were a unicorn live as a unicorn if they said so because we don't know how to say "no" and we're brainwashed by the left/the trans agenda/fake news/Satan/vaccines/MSG. And then we all caught whatever's on that tissue I just gave you and now our family has reached maximum levels of dirty, sinful queerness.

Let's just get this out of the way: If there was any possible way I could live as a unicorn, I would totally do that. But they're not real. LGBTQ people are real, however. We're almost as cool as unicorns, too. But we don't have that magnificent stabby horn, which is probably why you think you can be jerks and deny us rights.

Over the last three years, I've tried to figure out what your problem is. Why you gotta be like that? After reading a lot of your manifestos and troll-y twitter comments, I think I've come up with the answer:

Families like ours scare you because we represent the future.

And deep down, you know it.

Your attempts at making laws allowing companies to discriminate against gay people and states to dictate where trans people pee are like putting Band-Aids on a bursting dam. The glitter flood is coming, my throw-uppy friend, and you can either ride the wave or be buried in it.

All the positive stories out of there, like that of my daughter and the authenticity she's brought to our family, are the canaries in the bigot coalmine. It's time to get out of that dark hole and embrace the rainbow. Your way of thinking is old and dusty. It belongs in a museum. And one day, just like segregated water fountains, it will be in history books for young kids to read and say, "Wow, I can't believe people used to think like that."

I get your fear. When Alexis first told me, I was afraid, too. I was afraid of what supporting that change would look like. Three years later, I'm here to tell you it looks awesome. Awesome on her, on us, on our community. 

Awesome.

No open pits to Hell. No demons running through the streets. Just a family living more authentically and with a lot more happiness. How is that bad or offensive or dangerous? How does the way my family lives affect the way your family lives?

(Coles notes: It doesn't. At all. Zero percent.)

And yet, you are afraid. Sure, you hide it behind anger or judgment and maybe throw a few bible verses in there for good measure. But it all comes down to fear and a lack of education on LGBTQ issues fueling that fear.

Look, if you and your family members are straight and cisgender (AKA not trans), then you will remain that way no matter who comes out around you. If you're not straight or cis, then stories like ours will make you think. That can be scary, but also good. (Trust me, I know.) 

If you let a trans kid use the bathroom they're most comfortable in, it will not change anything for you, but will make a big difference for them. If you make a wedding cake for a lesbian couple, you're helping love flourish, and that's something every religion can agree is a good thing. (You can still make wedding cakes for straight people, too. )

Three years ago, my daughter taught me to embrace change. She's since taught millions of others through telling her story and allowing me to share it through my writing. We've spoken to live audiences ranging from 18 to 18,000, and our message is always the same: Find yourself. Be yourself. Love yourself. And let others do that, too. 

If this brave girl can do it, we can all do it. Even you, if you step beyond your fear. We're happy to help you do that.

Happy third transiversary, Alexis. Thank you for helping us all learn to be better people. Your moms love you more than we probably show when you roll your eyes at us.

How You Can Help Save a Trans Child's Life

It's the news no parent wants to hear, and yet I am one of the most likely to hear it. 

This past weekend, another trans child took his own life. Another mother's heart broke in the most unthinkable way. Another deep wound was carved into a family that will never fully heal. 

Every time this happens - and it happens far too often - our global community of trans people and the affirming families who love them goes into mourning. We share the hurt, the anger, the shock of another young light gone dim. We reach out to the family, if we can. We change our profile pictures, use hashtags, and post statuses of compassion and awareness in solidarity.

And I don't know for sure, because I've never asked, but I bet a lot of parents do exactly what I do: check in on their own trans child. I will find her in her room, or meet her as she's coming home from school. I'll try to act casual, but she'll be able to read it all over me. 

"What's wrong, mom?" she'll ask. "You look upset." I look at my mostly happy, mostly free of depression, mostly okay-these-days daughter. A world away from where she was before she came out and shortly thereafter. But as I'm learning, never really out of the woods.

"Just seeing how you're doing," I'll say, as casually as I can. "How are things? How are you feeling?"

"I'm fine. Why?" 

"Just because... Well... It's just... I just read about another kid who took their life. A trans kid."

"That's awful," she'll say, lowering her gaze and shaking her head. She feels it, too. "I'm sorry." 

"Yeah, me too. And I just want to know how you're doing, you know? You'd tell me if you were unhappy, right? We would find help together if you weren't?"

"Of course." 

"Promise?"

"I promise," she'll say. And I will hug her, knowing full well there's another family aching to hold their child. It's so unfair and it's so scary. Because, really, it could be any of our children. It could be mine just as easily someone else's.

It could be mine. I, and just about every other parent of a trans child, carries this knowledge with them every day.  

I get so angry when I see politicians drawing up bathroom bills and stalling human rights laws in the name of "safety." Want to talk safety? How about the attempted suicide rate in trans youth? In some places, it's as high as 50%.

The numbers are highest in youth who live with the following obstacles:  

• Families who will not affirm the youth's true gender ("Get over it! You're a boy! You were born with a penis. That makes you a boy.")
• Communities that do not support their trans community members. ("Sorry, you can't join the boy's basketball team because you're not really a boy." "Dad, why are the neighbours still using my old name and calling me 'she', even though we've told them not to?")
• Schools environments that will not embrace a child's true gender. ("They won't let me use the girl's bathroom." "The teacher won't respect my pronouns." "The kids are bullying me on my way to school every day.")
• Political climates where trans people are treated as second class citizens. (Bathroom bills, religious freedom acts, countries where violence against trans people is not considered a hate crime, etc.)
• Medical environments where youth cannot access the life-saving affirming care they need and are sometimes given conversion therapy instead, where they are forced to try and live as the person they're not.

In those environments, our children suffer. Imagine carrying the weight of not being seen for who you are every. single. day. As parents, we try. We love and nurture and affirm and support and advocate. And we wait for society to catch up.

Please, we beg, please catch up before it's too late. We can't do this alone.

Because as politicians posture righteously at desks with hateful bills before them, our children fall. As people who have likely never loved a trans person stand in front of cameras touting religious freedom and women's safety above all, we bury our kids.

So if we're talking safety, let's talk about how unsafe these laws are for our children. Let's talk about how people's ignorant comments all over the internet eat at our youth's self-esteem and erode their joy until there's nothing left. Let's talk about how schools and school boards will sometimes still turn a blind eye to harassment, or refuse to implement trans-inclusive policies because they fear backlash. 

Want to talk religion? Every major religion in the world preaches peace and love for your fellow human being. Denying someone basic human rights and treating them as lesser beings goes directly against those teachings. What would Jesus do? Not that. 

Safety? Religious freedom? No. This is oppression. This is hatred. And it's killing our children.  

In the three years we've been on this journey with Alexis, I've watched too many children fall. I've lost count of how many, which really tells you how bad it is.

I know a lot of you read my blog for the happy stuff; you love seeing how my family of five is thriving with two trans people and a finally-out lesbian in it. But if I don't talk about this stuff, I'm not telling you the whole story. Because we are the fortunate ones. We are the ones who haven't lost someone - yet. 

Yet.

Because it's the news no parent wants to hear, and yet I am one of the most likely to hear it.

We need to stop the hemorrhaging in this community. And the only way to stop it is to get help from outside of it. Help from YOU.

So if you want to save lives with us, here are some concrete steps to help:

1. Educate yourself. The best place to do that is direct from the source. Find some trans writers, bloggers, activists and politicians. Follow their feeds, read their books, and watch their videos. Nobody knows trans issues like trans people themselves.
2. Write to your political representatives. In Canada, Bill C-16, the trans rights bill, is being stalled by Conservative members of the senate. The bill could die in the senate if we don't urge it along. Please write your senator. If you want a form letter, you can find one here. In the US, new discriminatory laws are being drawn up and old ones are being repealed that protected trans youth and adults. Get active and let your representative know this is unacceptable. 
3. Stop transphobia in action. You are likely in situations where people will say things they would never say around a trans person or their family member. If you hear hateful language, stand up where we cannot. Those ideas need to be challenged because they trickle into schools, workplaces and voting polls.
4. Be a safe space by being an ally. Once you've educated yourself, let people know you're a safe person. If you have an office or cubicle at work, put up a rainbow sticker. I have a rainbow sticker on my car. If I'm in a parking lot and someone is feeling unsafe, they know they can approach me. We have a sticker on our front door, letting everyone who visits know our home is welcoming. Some of my kids' friends have less-than-supportive parents; they know when they come through our door, we'll be using their proper name and pronouns and respecting their sexual orientation.
5. Plant the seed. Ask your child's school if they have a good policy in place for supporting trans students. Ask your doctor or child's pediatrician if they've received training in how to medically support trans people. Get people thinking about how they can be better allies.
6. Donate. Give to causes that fight for LGBTQ rights, big and small. There is benefit in supporting large organization as well as local ones. National and international ones help get laws passed, while local ones work on the ground to make our communities better. (Need some ideas? Here's a link to several in Canada, and some in America. I have not checked out every organization on these lists and therefore can't endorse them. You'll have to do your own research into them before making a donation.)

These are all things we can do to help save vulnerable kids. Let's stop feeling helpless and start doing something. Anything.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go check in with my daughter, and hug her fiercely.

Tonight, I Will Hold My Wife's Hand.

My wife and I spent a lifetime hiding. No big deal, really.

For 42 years, she hid that she is a woman.

For 40 years, I hid that I'm a lesbian.

(Like I said, just some small stuff.)

For over 20 of those years, we kept these secrets from each other and the world. She thought she would lose everything if she told me who she really is, so she lived as a man. I thought I was married to a man, so saying "Can you grab some milk while you're out, honey? Oh, and P.S., I'm gay as all get out" might not go over so well.  

It's hard to wrap my head around. Over two decades of living together, loving one another, raising a family and building a life, and yet we felt compelled to keep these fundamental truths from one another. A lifetime of living lies.

In many ways, we are a product of what I hope is a dying point of view in our society: This idea that everyone must conform to an expected standard of identity and love. That standard insisted the body my wife was born into dictates her gender, and the one I was born into dictates who I love. We were born before the mighty words of Janet Mock, the bold proclamations of Ellen Degeneres, before the creators of the Matrix Trilogy were known as the "Wachowski Sisters." 

It was not safe. Still, some people came out anyway. The trailblazers, the brave ones, the ones who couldn't or wouldn't hide any longer. They paved the way for me and Zoe to outwardly be who we are: both of us women who love women. We owe them a huge debt. 

And so, here we are, far too many years later. It's our first Valentine's Day as an out and proud couple. Around this time last year, Zoe was awaiting her ID change with her new name and proper gender marker. With that, she would make the final switch at work, send an email to everyone, take a few days off and then finally be able to live as herself full-time. We were in a stressful holding pattern, and it made for a very unromantic day of love.

I feel like we've wasted a whole lot of time trying to be people we're not. But rather than live in regret, we're simply trying to live. Now. Today. 

Because it's the day of love, I made plans for us at a nice restaurant in our Ottawa, Canada suburb. This part of town is historically conservative: middle to upper-middle class, straight as I pretended to be, white as the first Disney princess, with enough privilege to vote on conservative tax policies without giving much thought to the oppressive social policies that often come with that platform.

For nearly an entire year, I have been afraid to hold my wife's hand in public. We used to do it all the time when we were pretending to be normies. Nobody thinks twice when they see a straight couple showing some PDA. But as soon as Zoe started living outwardly as Zoe, I let go of her hand. And with that, I let go of a familiar and special part of our love.

Sadly, my fears surrounding gay PDA are founded: We are much more likely to be victims of harassment and violence. And as a trans woman, Zoe has a much larger target painted on her back than I do. I worry that drawing too much attention could put her at risk. Maybe the rowdy group of guys standing outside the pub will take notice if we don't just look like friends. Maybe the drunk girls at the next table will take a second look if we're too cozy in our booth.

And it's even scarier now. With the rise of Trump and the bigots who support him, hate crime rates have been increasing. Hate is emboldened and bubbling to the surface in terrifying ways. In Canada, we saw our first mass shooting in ages, directed at the Muslim community. How long before we see ones targeting other marginalized communities, too? None of us are safe.

So I haven't been holding Zoe's hand, or kissing her if we're parting ways in public. 

I have flinched when she reaches across the restaurant table to touch my arm affectionately. I recoil and my eyes scan the room. 

"It's fine," she'll say to me. She wants so desperately to have what we used to have.

"It's not fine," I'll tell her. "I wish it was."

I am afraid. 

And I am fucking tired of it.

As it turns out, I don't do well with letting fear dictate my life. I let it do that for far too long. Not only in the past year, but for all of my 40 years. What will people think? What will happen if I let the world know who I am? What will they do?

Well, we're about to find out. Because tonight, at the fancy restaurant full of normies, I will reach across the table and

hold.

my.

wife's.

hand.

We are going to behave like every other couple there. Because our love deserves space, too. Our love is just as valid, just as special, and arguably worthy of some serious celebration, given everything we've gone through to get here. We've come a long way, and we're going to honour that.

Visibility is scary, but it's also important. That restaurant - and any other public space we occupy - will be full of people who vote. The next time they go to the polls, I want them to vote with all families in mind, and not just the ones that most resemble them.

Many will likely have kids at home. I want to spark conversations in their living rooms and on the way to hockey practice about how people should be allowed to love who they love and be who they are. Maybe the parents won't be the ones doing the teaching, either. Our kids are living with far fewer hangups than we are; we should start listening to them. 

Many of these folks will be going to work tomorrow. I want to normalize what should be entirely normal: two people in love. And that way, when a co-worker transitions or brings his boyfriend to the Christmas party, it'll be no big thang. "There are gay couples everywhere, you know. And trans people, too. Just saw a really sweet couple in the restaurant last night, actually."

But mostly, I just want to hold her hand. Because I love her. And I miss her. And I want that part of our life back. 

So tonight, my valentine, I will be the one reaching across the table. The muggles be damned.