To the person who loves them through it

Like a lot of people, I wear a lot of hats in life. I’m a parent, a partner, a writer, an avid coffee-drinker, and a terrible dishwasher-loader, to name a few.

But there is one thing I do, above all else, that comes to mind this time of year, as the days are darker in the northern hemisphere and talk of mental health is pervasive: I’m a person who loves you through it.

If you’re someone who loves people through it – and my guess is, you probably are – then you know exactly what “it” is. It’s hardship. It’s struggle. It’s pain. And it comes in many forms.

In the last few months, I’ve been loving the folks in my life through a host of things, from relationship breakups to scary medical diagnoses, from job losses to schoolyard bullying. Many people are going through many things, and as a support person, I need to be many things to many people. No small task.

And that’s okay. These folks are the same ones who are always there for me and my family when we need them. I mean, they haven’t taught me to load the dishwasher less terribly, which is pretty selfish of them, but they’re great people otherwise. Reciprocating on the support front is the right thing to do, especially when life is handing them lemons and is all, “Here you go, bitch” with a smirk on its face, and I just happen to know how to make some sweet lemonade with that.

xoxo,

Life.

I’ve been through a lot of my own struggles. Situationally, things have really sucked sometimes. I also have a lifelong anxiety disorder that’s exacerbated by bad situations, and have had three diagnosed bouts of depression (that’s just the diagnosed ones.) Each time, I’m caught off guard when life chucks the lemons at me, and each time someone I love will come by and say, “Oh, hey! Are you thirsty? Let me see those.” And whip out a juicer.

Life is a circle, where sometimes you’re the person going through it, and sometimes you’re the person loving someone through it. And I’m cool with being the one lugging around the juicer for others. I really am. But that doesn’t mean it’s easy work. Small appliances are heavy, yo.

At this time of year, there are a lot of kind words out there for those who are going through it, particularly those whose mental health is affected. That’s good, because when you’re in it – whatever it might be – you need those words.

But I want to take a moment to talk to the ones loving others through it. The caretakers. The supporters. The juicer-holders. The assistant lemonade-makers. Because when you’re caring for someone else, it’s easy to forget you need some care, too.

So, I’m going to remind you, as the days are still dark up here in the northern hemisphere, as many of us are dealing with cold and snow, and at the yearly height of mental health talk, to take damn good care of yourself.

This is me, using my best mom voice. Listen closely, caretaker:

Don’t forget to take time for you.

What's that look like? It varies. Some people have weird hobbies like macramé or fantasy dodgeball or watching The Bachelor, and I’m not here to judge.

Okay, except for The Bachelor. I’m judging that.

Do whatever makes you happy. I bathe in Epsom salts and read YA novels and play with the dog and go the gym. Not all at the same time, obviously. I’m not a super mutant. But these are things I carve into my schedule. The more emotional labour I’m putting in, the more I insist on taking that time whenever I can. And if that makes me selfish, so be it. It means that what I can give back to the world of a much higher calibre. So, do your weird hobbies or take a bath. Get sleep and eat good food as much as possible. And don’t feel even a little bit bad about it.

Self-care is paramount. It resets us, makes us stronger, and helps us be far better support people.

Here are some weird hobby ideas for you.

Allow space for your own feelings.

When those we love are in crisis, it’s easy to compare what they’re going through to anything we might be feeling – and then to shove our own feelings way, way down. (I’ve been known to do this with cupcakes; a most delicious avoidance food.)

If your friend is very ill, for example, that’s going to be hard on them and their immediate family members. But that doesn’t mean you’re not having a hard time with it, too. That’s your person, after all. It’s okay to be upset, to feel helpless, to get angry, and to make time to process all those feelings. It’s okay to feel tired and overwhelmed, even if it’s not to the same degree. This is not a competition, it’s merely an acknowledgement of where you’re at.

You can be a good support system and honour your feelings, too. In fact, I’d argue it’s terribly healthy, unlike the cupcakes. (But I still like cupcakes. I will always like cupcakes.)

Cupcakes 4EVAH.

Call in your troops.

No matter how often you go to the gym, that juicer is still going to be heavy. So, while you’re throwing lemons in it for a person in crisis, call another buddy (or a therapist) over to lighten the load. If you’re helping someone who’s struggling, you might need someone else around to help you process it all. Help for the helper is 100% okay.

The best support people have people supporting them. I’m incredibly grateful for mine. Some of them even bake cupcakes.

(Not my therapist, though. Or, at least, she’s not sharing.)

Recognize the early signs of trouble in you.

Yes, you. The person doing all the things for all the people. Don’t burn yourself out. Look for warning signs of depression or anxiety. Mental illness is insidious, wrapping itself around our brains quietly and suffocating out the joy before we even realize it. I’ve been there, done that, and have a drawer full of t-shirts.

Be aware, check in with people, and know where to get help if you need it. Sometimes, we hold ourselves to different standards. We’re supportive of other people getting help for mental illness, but not ourselves. We’re stronger than that. That’s why we’re support people!

No. Don’t be that guy. Treat yourself with the same care, kindness and open-mindedness you show others. You deserve that.

(This looks like a woman who's taking herself on a nice self-care walk through the country or whatever, and I really like her purse.)

I’m a person who loves you through it, and so are you. So, while we’re busy googling the very best lemonade recipes (and, uh, maybe how to load a dishwasher), let’s also take good care of ourselves, okay? Okay.

Here, have a cupcake.

Together in a Place of Togetherness

We went away a few days ago. Like, away away. To a place where other people make the beds for you.

Our family of five packed up and ran off to Prince Edward County, Ontario for the weekend. It's a short drive from Ottawa, made slightly longer by three siblings arguing over who had the take the dreaded middle seat. (There is no window, only squish.)

Thankfully, anticipation quickly won over. Within a few minutes, the backseat squabbles faded to mere grunts as everyone settled in for a drive filled with open highway, blue sky, classic rock, and road coffees.

It's been a challenging Fall. We've had big, unexpected school changes for both Alexis and Jackson, some not-that-unexpected burnout for me, and Zoe has been taking on more than her fair share while I bounce back (which I am doing, thankfully.) The timing of this trip couldn't have been better; we needed this.

It was our first time visiting PEC, and also the first time all five of us were able to get away together in about three years. Due to work and school commitments, Aerik will often hang back when we travel. As a side bonus, this also ensures the pets don't go feral. Thankfully, he managed to get some time off, so we put other anti-feral measures in place, loaded up the SUV full of suitcases and road snacks, and hit the road for what was going to be a memorable weekend.

Why, yes. This is going to be our 2017 holiday card.

Togetherness. Just the five of us. No interruptions.

Just me, my beautiful wife, and the three kids of ours who might have Middle Seat Aversion Syndrome but are otherwise perfect beings. I was so grateful to have this time with all of them.

*****

We were invited down by the Prince Edward County Tourism Department. They had read our family's story and thought it would be great to have us come eat, drink, be merry, and see how the area does when it comes to inclusion. 

Oh, hello. Did someone say 'inclusion'? 

That last part was the clincher for me. That’s what got me excited. 

They wanted us, an out and proud LGBTQ family, to get up close and personal with local businesses, community members and tourist spots. Prince Edward County has recently been recognized for its inclusive marketing to - and overall acceptance of - queer tourists. But what does that look like close up? Was acceptance a deeply held value in the area? Would we be made to feel welcome everywhere we went?

That’s what I wanted to find out. That's why we were going. Because if you’re going to pride yourself on inclusion, I want to see INCLUSION. With glitter on top. 

Let’s do this.

*****

THE ACCOMMODATIONS

Sit right down and get ready.

Ready?

No, you're not. Because nobody can be ready for how adorable this place is. 

I KNOW, RIGHT?!

It’s called the Babylon Log House and it’s one of the many beautiful accommodations at Angeline’s Inn. I love this place. All their rooms are uniquely and exquisitely decorated, their staff is fun and friendly, they cater to every budget (super important thing to know when you're a writer). and it’s a quick walk up the road to downtown Bloomfield, where every shop should be spelled 'shoppe' because they're that cute.

And, uh, no big deal or anything, but this is also the very same log house Prime Minister Justin Trudeau and Sophie Trudeau stayed in this summer. Much to my wife’s dismay, the first couple of hours were spent in conversations like these:

“Hey, Zoe! Guess what? I’m using the same table the Prime Minister used!”

“I know, honey."

“Hey, Zoe! Look! The kids and I are hanging out on the same couch as Justin and Sophie!”

“Not at the same time, honey. But yes.”

“Hey, Zoe! I—”

“You’re walking on the same floorboards? You’re breathing the same air?”

“ALL THOSE THINGS!”

She loves me.

*****

THE FOOD

This brunch was made with local ingredients, lots of love, and a significant amount of caffeine in my bloodstream because I had to wake up earlier than everyone else - but it's okay because I got to eat extra bacon.

Our first morning was spent having brunch in the log house, because who doesn't want to have brunch in a log house?!

(That is rhetorical, as we all know the answer is 'no one.')

Things just gloriously snowballed from there, resulting in a caloric avalanche of awesome. Our 48 hours in the County were largely spent gorging ourselves at incredible eateries, which is just about the best way I can think of to spend my free time. From eggs benny and coffee to chicken flautas and beer, we feasted until we could feast no more.

And then feasted again.

Lunch at Parsons Brewing Company. I salivate just looking at this photo.

Brunch at the Agrarian Bistro (yes, another brunch picture. It is a well-known fact gays love brunch, ok?)

I was going to write more about the food because we ate a lot of it, but the visuals do it justice in a way that my write-y fingers simply cannot.

Instead, here's a picture of all five of us the first night we got there, enjoying a meal and one another's company without even one sibling fight! (In large part, I believe, because Zoe took the middle seat.)

Dinner at The Hubb, enjoying their Countylicious menu. (It totally earned the 'licious' part of its name.) Also enjoying NO FIGHTING.

*****

THE SIGHTS

Shockingly enough, "I'm bored" did not leave the lips of a single Knox family member all weekend. Our schedule was packed with things to do that kept everyone happy and busy.  We saw a play. We walked along the beach. We skipped stones. We visited a holiday market. We saw a lighthouse. We found butter tarts (for me - we found them for me.) We went antiquing at a place appropriately named Dead People's Stuff and bought crates (also for me.) The kids hung out with a rescue dog at Three Dog Winery, which made sampling so much more pleasant for the grownups in the family.

Most importantly, we did this all together. That's what made it so perfect. 

The Holiday Market at Midtown Brewing Co. in Wellington. Beer AND crafts = perfect afternoon.

An impressive harvest from the County Bounty Farm. (This was right around the time Zoe tried to convince me we should move to the area and become organic beet farmers. She's clearly never seen me try to keep an indoor basil plant alive.)

GOOD Place has some good people who own it. I wish they were my neighbours. ("They could be if we owned an organic beet farm!" said my wife, as we were leaving. It's been two weeks and she's still trying to wear me down.)

This is Mount Tabor Playhouse, which is a gorgeous converted church. I now want to do everything in a converted church. Live in one, shop in one, maybe even grow some organic beets in one (but don't tell Zoe.) We saw "A Tomb With a View" put on by The Marysburg Mummers. It was dark and witty and terrific.

*****

THE PEOPLE

I could go on about the sights, the eats (oh, the eats!) and all the great places to spend a moment, a morning, or most of a day. But what I want to emphasize about our trip – what impacted us the most – is how wonderful the people of The County are.

Outside of this blog and other advocacy purposes, our family doesn’t make a point of showcasing our queerness. We don’t hide it, but we don’t go out of our way to promote it in our daily dealings with people, either. But for this trip, we put all that gayness on display. We wanted to see just how inclusive folks would be if they knew.

Within two hours of our arrival, Zoe and I held hands during the Santa Claus parade, surrounded by people we didn’t know. It was us and who I assume were hundreds of mostly local folks out watching their hometown parade. 

The result: We were smiled at a lot and were handed candy.

If I knew holding hands could get you candy, I would do it all the time. 

Zoe and I made a point of saying we’re married moms on many occasions.

The result: Absolutely nothing. No dropping jaws, no sneers, no flashes of judgment across the faces of shopkeepers, servers or other community members. No over-the-top uncomfortable affirmations about how "great it is" that we're married and we have kids. Frankly, It was massively anticlimactic. We were treated just like any other couple, any other family. Our kids were treated like regular kids.

You know, the way it should be. 

There were a handful of times we went even further, and shared our story with the folks we met; how our family has two trans people in it, how our daughter came out first, followed by my spouse, and how we're all better people for it.

The result: we were met with tears, hugs, smiles, and sometimes a combination of all three. There was no judgment or confusion, no bigotry, only true happiness for a family that gets to live a more honest life.

The people made this trip, and they are why I would recommend it. From the folks who booked us into our lodgings to the ones who served us food, sold us their wares, or smiled as we walked down their streets, we were included. And I thank them for it. 

Because when you're a family like ours, that means everything. It means comfort, safety and truly being able to enjoy your time away. To enjoy your togetherness.

*****

Togetherness. I used to take that for granted. I don't anymore. I try to breathe in every moment we're together. This weekend away let me do that without worry or distraction. 

We've had a lot of big change in our lives over the last three years, but the amount of love we have for each other - backseat squabbles excluded - remains a steady guiding force in our lives.

Love. Together. With sparkles. 

(Note: I was not monetarily compensated for this post. However, my family's accommodations, food and activities were provided to us free of charge on our weekend away.)

Strong Lungs and a Mighty Heart

It’s not every day someone can say they gave birth to one of their heroes. But I did, 15 years ago today.

On November 13, 2002, I became a mom for the second time.

The labour was long – not as long as my first by nearly a day, but long enough that I still wince when I remember those 27 hours, half of them augmented by contraction-inducing medicine and none of them dulled by an epidural, so that I could still move around because the baby wasn’t budging. (I don’t necessarily recommend my birth plan.)

We had been trying for five years to have a second baby. Doctors, specialists, a diagnosis of PCOS, tears, frustration, nearly giving up. We had had a couple of heartbreaking losses in those years, when I had managed to get pregnant at all. I honestly never thought we’d see this moment again. To be pregnant this time, to carry, to birth, was miraculous in a way I had never fully realized. I both appreciated and feared it in a way I hadn’t with our first. I now knew what could go wrong.

I was exhausted by the time they took the baby out by c-section. The cord was wrapped tightly around its torso in what seemed like a reluctance to budge from the warmth of my womb (a sign of things to come; just replace “womb” with “bed” and that is the following 15 years. I was screaming that day and sometimes I still am.)

When this miraculous 10-pound infant finally came into the world, with cheeks for days and blue eyes as striking as a cold winter sky, the doctors looked between the legs and said, “Congratulations! It’s a boy!”

They were wrong, of course. We know that now. But that’s okay – we all were. How could we have known? Every person in her life made an assumption of gender until the day she could tell us we were mistaken. She did just that, at eleven years old, and none of us have looked back since.

That is how my daughter, Alexis, made her way into the world. With a cry for air followed by a cry for help a few years later. She has both strong lungs and a mighty heart. She was born and then, in a way, reborn, shedding an ill-fitting identity to become a better self. A new name, new pronouns, and a new light in her sky blue eyes we had never seen before. She has moved mountains to be who she is, and has guided many of us through the pass she created so we could become our better selves, too.

And today is that mighty girl’s birthday, which has me reminiscing about all she’s done (and not done, like clean her room this week.)

Alexis and her other, slightly less naggy mom.

How do I properly thank the kid who let me be a parent to the person she was meant to be?

How do I fully acknowledge the significance of her courage, and how it created space for her other mom to come out and transition, too?

How do I state the impact she’s had on me as a parent, a partner, and a once-closeted-but-yay-I-totally-don’t-have-to-do-that-anymore-because-hey-it-turns-out-I-have-a-wife lesbian?

I don’t know. I’m a writer, and I just don’t know. I tried to come up with some good birthday words to put in a card, but nothing is descriptive enough – nor strong enough – for that.  

So instead, she got a hug, some gifts, and a cake.

Alexis, you have changed my world in so many ways: in the way I parent, the way I live, and the way I love. You gave me a whole new life, and all I gave you was a hoodie with thumb holes and some earbuds you can put on to ignore me trying to wake you up in the morning. (Do other people nag their heroes? Asking for a friend.)

The further we go down this path, the bigger your smile gets and the bigger my heart gets. And every so often, I still look over at you and think, “Wow. I have a daughter. Who knew?”

You knew. And now we know. Thanks for keeping us in the loop.

Happy 15th birthday, sweetheart. We love you.

And because putting earbuds on doesn’t cancel out my words on a screen, don’t forget to clean your room tomorrow.

I Talked About You Today

I talked about you today.

I got up at 5 a.m. and did my makeup in dim light. I wore jeans and a blazer that always make me feel like I can take on the world. My black ankle boots with the heels look best with this killer outfit. I normally reach for them without a second thought.

But today, I hesitated.

You were front and center on my mind, and I was going downtown, you see. It would be early morning, still dark, with only a hint of dawn reflecting off the office buildings, a tired few people beginning to shuffle off busses and auto-piloting their way to the nearest coffee shop. Who else would be there? Would I be walking alone? How far did I have to go from the parking garage to the studio? Would anyone notice if I ran into trouble?

Could I run in those heels if I had to?

These are the things you make me think about. This is the legacy you left for me.

Of course, we both know you weren’t a stranger walking a few paces behind me on a dark street. I knew you. I invited you into my home. I thought I could trust you to take things slow like I had asked. Slow and steady, going at the pace I was comfortable with, because I was 14 and you were 19 and this was all new to me. So, not this night. Not this time. Not yet. We can just hang out and watch TV, ok?

But you made the decision without me, and not only robbed me of what should have been a sacred moment, but also of my trust and any semblance of confidence I held onto as a 14-year-old girl. For the next six months, I would fall, and continue to fall, emotionally, mentally, physically, until I was a shell of the girl I once was. I nearly lost everything, including my life.

For 27 years, I have thought of what you did every time I take my dog for a walk in the park, before I head out on a trail, and anytime I go downtown when the sun isn’t up. I walk to my car with a key between my knuckles. I always know where my phone is. I am always aware of my surroundings.

Because you introduced me to the idea of men like you, and you did it in a terrible way.

It wasn’t until I saw the #MeToo hashtags that I started to realize how much power you still held over me. Just typing #MeToo brought up an immense amount of shame.

Shame that I had you over that night in the first place.

Shame that the minute I smelled alcohol on your breath, I didn’t send you home.

Shame that maybe I didn’t make it clear enough. How many times did I say “no”?

Shame in trying to remember what I was wearing.

Shame in wondering if I somehow brought this upon myself.

Shame in not reaching out for help after it happened.

Shame in not reporting you.

Shame in knowing you did this to at least one other person after me.
 

In that moment, I finally recognized the weight of that burden. For nearly three decades, I’ve been carrying your shame. Yours. What you should be carrying. It’s not mine to lug around.

You did this to me. You were predatory. You committed a crime. You victimized me. You nearly destroyed me.

Nearly.

This morning I wore my blazer, my jeans, and my delicious fucking heels. I walked tall out of that parking garage – keys firmly in hand – and made my way to the radio studio with my head high.

And I talked about you. Oh, did I talk about you.

I told thousands of people what happened to me. I even told them about all that shame, and how it never should have been mine to feel.

I talked about prevention, about how good men can step up and help stop men like you when they see or hear something that perpetuates this kind of violence. I presented action items to society, because I am determined to live in a world where no woman should be afraid to walk to her car, to go on a date, or have to decide between a great pair of shoes and personal safety.

I let it all go. I shed that shame like a cumbersome winter coat and left it on the floor of the morning show.

If you want it, let me know. I’ll happily send you the address.

*****

I got about six blocks towards home in the car when the tears started falling in front of half a dozen cyclists and a concerned construction worker. It’s okay, I waved at them. I’m okay. I’m more than okay.

The final unburdening. Sweet relief. Goodbye, Shame. We were never meant to be together. I will no longer take responsibility for someone else’s horrific actions.

I wiped my tears and headed back to a wife who loves me, a home I feel safe in, and three kids I hope to make the world better for.

*****

So yes, I talked about you.

I talked about you for my daughter, so she may hopefully grow up in a world with less fear than I’ve had.

I did it for other victims, who can’t speak up for a variety of reasons.

But mostly, I did it for 14-year-old me, to show her you didn’t break us.

Because you didn’t. Now watch me thrive.

No regrets here, thanks.

I had a moment this week.

Just a little moment. Don’t judge.

It was just a typical morning. I dropped my daughter off at the bus stop so she could head downtown for a robotics class. (Why yes, she is a lot smarter than me. Thanks for noticing.)

As I drove away, I caught sight of her having just settled down on the bench, legs crossed, phone in her hand, long hair blowing in the unseasonably warm autumn air.

And for just a second, I saw her like anyone else would see her. Not as my daughter, who told us three years ago that she’s trans and has been living in a way that honours who she is ever since. No. Not as that powerhouse of a girl who impresses the hell out of me every day.

For that split second, I saw her as an average teenager – albeit an exceptionally lovely one (I will never not be a biased parent, ok?) – sitting at a bus stop with a backpack slung over her shoulder, looking and behaving like many other girls her age.

And my breath caught.

“She’s beautiful,” I said to myself out loud. My eyes filled with tears, my heart filled with joy, the light turned green, and I drove off captivated by the image of Alexis in her typicality.

She just is. And that simply being, that blending, that averageness after all she’s been through, might be the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

***

“Have you talked to your child about ‘sex change regret’?”

This was a question I was asked recently in a discussion on a friend’s Facebook post after saying I support my trans child. It’s also a question I – and countless other parents of trans kids – get asked all the damn time. Like, all the time. To the point where I want to get “Yes, I have probably been asked this question before” t-shirts made for all of us.

We call it “concern trolling,” because it’s essentially a very judgmental comment wrapped up in a concerned tone. The person isn’t usually concerned, but they are usually douchey.

“Sex change regret” or “transition regret” are terms used to describe a feeling trans people might experience once transitioning from living as the gender they were assigned at birth (in my daughter’s case, male) to the gender they identify as (again in her case, female).

And it is exceedingly, exceptionally, extraordinarily rare.

In most cases, we get asked about transition regret because there’s a belief amongst transphobic groups and some right-wing media outlets that over 80% of trans children “desist,” or “grow out of” their declaration of a different gender identity.

An argument is then made that if parents affirm the child’s declared identity, they are creating confusion or putting pressure on children stay the course, even if it was simply a “phase.” “Just let your boy wear pink!” or “just let your girl play with tools!” are commonly thrown our way, like we saw little Sally pick up a hammer one day and decided to get her a haircut and call her Simon for the rest of her life.

The Steensma study this 84% number is based on is faulty. While it’s true the majority of the children in this study went on to live life as the gender they were assigned at birth, not all the children met the criteria for gender dysphoria, which means they didn’t meet the criteria for actually being transgender. People who aren't trans don't grow up to be trans, obviously.

A review of that same study by Dr. Steensma in 2013 found kids who actually met the criteria generally grew up to live as transgender adults. Duh. 

But what about trans adults? There are cases where people have gone through medical transition of some kind and speak out about the regrets they’ve had. Concerned citizens like to tell us about those stories, too. I have a few links in my inbox. My next t-shirt will say, “Someone has probably already emailed that link to me, thanks.”

Photo credit: Trans Student Educational Resources

Again, this experience is rare. So rare, in fact, that the same handful of media stories are shared, over and over, with very few new ones cropping up. And when you dig deeper into some of these stories, like Amber Roberts did for VICE in 2015, you discover the need to de-transition can sometimes be attributed to society’s intolerance of trans people more than anything else. It can be harder to live, to find work, to find love, to be seen as the gender you really are. Those are huge barriers to happiness.

When people ask me if I think my child will regret transitioning – changing her name and gender marker, taking blockers to stop the damage (yes, damage) testosterone was doing to her body, taking estrogen to create the right changes, and anything else she might do down the line – my concern never lies with her, but with how cruel society can be to people who are just trying to be themselves.

Do I think she’ll regret it? No. But I think, like many trans people, she’ll pay a price for living as herself until society wakes the hell up and stops thinking it knows more about trans people than actual trans people. And that's unbelievably unfair.

***

“Alexis,” I asked her a few days ago as she was sitting across from me. “Someone on the internet wants to know if I ever talked to you about ‘sex change regret.’”

She paused and put her sandwich down. Her eyes went wide.

“Uh, no,” She said. “I had no idea. Oh my God, this changes everything!”

She cracked a smile. We both burst out laughing.

At least I can say we had the talk now. There you go, internet. Parenting gold star.

***

She is a girl. Our beautiful girl.

Sitting on a bench at a bus stop, checking Quora on her phone with a backpack slung over her shoulder and her beautiful hair falling half over her face. I can’t tell if she’s smiling from this angle, but I want to imagine she is. I love her smile. We didn’t see enough of it before she came out.

She is a girl who loves shopping and robots, who loves her dogs and her video games. But if she had to pick, she’d always choose the dogs.

She knows who she is, and you can see it in everything she does. In her daily life, she blends in, like any other teen girl. Because she is like any other teen girl. It’s as simple as that. This isn't rocket science (or robotics).

Regrets? I don’t think so. Not for her or for us.

If she had not come out to us when she did and spent another few years in pain, that would undoubtedly be a regret.

If we had shut her down when she came out to us, that would be a regret.

If we had tried to convince her she isn’t who she says she is, putting her through harmful conversion therapy or simply refusing to help her access the medical care she needs, that would be a regret.

If I listened to people who told us our “son” was just “confused” and would grow out of it, that would be a regret.

If we lost our beautiful child because she felt unsupported and hopeless, that would be the biggest regret of my life.

But loving my child for who she is, standing by her, affirming her, honouring her, and watching her thrive? That is not a regret.

Alexis living as herself, taking steps to help her body align with who she is, coming home to a supportive family, and knowing she’s loved unconditionally? There are no regrets there.

There’s just a beautiful girl sitting on a bench, quietly thriving.

The Magical Moment We Said "I do." Again.

There's still love in the world. There's still hope, too.

I know, because I feasted on both this past Saturday.

This weekend, I married my best friend all over again.

She looks a little different than she did 20 years ago, but then again, so do I. Back then, I had fewer wrinkles. Back then, and she wore a suit and tie.

All pics in this post, except that first selfie, were taken by our talented photographer and friend Dani Donders. You can find more of her incredible work on her website.

She had a different name back then, too. A masculine one attached to a person who is anything but masculine. When I think back to our first wedding, it feels like I'm watching someone else's. There was someone who looked like a guy there, standing with groomsmen, wearing a tux, and I was walking towards that person, and saying vows to that person, and none of it feels real anymore.

Because the person I married this weekend, the person I love, is a woman. And she looks far more fetching in a dress than she ever did in a suit. 

Thanks to our friend Jennifer Mae Bennett, face goddess extraordinaire, for doing our makeup way better than we ever could.

I cried reading my vows. You know, the ones on the piece of paper I whipped out of my bra, beneath an arch decorated in flowers, in front of all our guests, so I wouldn't forget the important things I wanted to say (I might be too sentimental, but I've never been accused of being too classy.) 

I don't remember crying the first time. Maybe I did. Who knows? But I will never forget crying this time, as I told my love she's the roots that ground me, the light I can always find in the darkness, and the rainbow awaiting me each time a storm passes. I promised to be all the things you normally promise a spouse, including the person who sits with her on the couch in yoga pants watching TV at the end of a long day (#goals).

I meant every word, and I will forever be grateful for waterproof mascara.

I know a vow renewal doesn't change anything from a legal standpoint. We were married before, and we are no more married today. But I would be lying if I said nothing is different. Something did change, and we both felt it when we woke up the next morning, still exhausted, curled up in bed together, fingers interlaced with new matching silver bands. 

"Good morning, wife," she said to me. 

"Good morning, wife" I replied.

We both smiled.

Basically my favourite wedding photo of all time.

Whether we fully realized it or not, this ceremony was the new beginning we needed. No more hiding. No more trying to be something we're not. We are two women in love, and that's what we need to be celebrating.

And this is why both Zoe and I feel a real shift in our relationship since this weekend. A validation, a solidification, a deeper love than we've ever had.

We feel whole.

We feel right.

Everything clicks just slightly better into place.

This is what love looks like. Right here. 

It doesn't have to be in the typical package of boy meets girl. Sometimes it's girl meets girl, except one girl doesn't know the other girl is a girl because the girl is hiding from a society that wasn't welcoming to anything but what it could see on the surface, but when that girl finds out the first girl is a girl, she's over-the-moon happy because she loves girls! 

Hey, nobody said love isn't messy.

But their families? Well, they love them all the same. 

Our niece, Alexa, was the world's best flower girl.

How many people get new beginnings 20 years after their nuptials? Not many, which is why I count myself lucky. This crazy, unpredictable life has been laced with gifts I never knew I needed. I can't imagine it any other way. 

Two years ago, I didn't think we were going to make it through what was the most challenging time of our relationship. Three days ago, I put a ring on it - again - and nothing has ever felt more right.

So here's to new beginnings, to love, and to hope. We have some of it, and the world needs some of it, so we're going to keep sharing it all over the damn place. Let's tell happy stories. Let's share joyful moments. Let's not forget that love is the fuel that pushes away the darkness. 

It was supposed to storm on Saturday afternoon. A 70% chance. I was a total bridezilla about it all day. And yet, the skies parted, the day stayed dry and warm, and we were able to celebrate for hours without a drop of rain. 

If parting the skies for a gay wedding doesn't show support from any Powers That May Be, I don't know what does. Someone else appreciates love in all its forms, too.

Now, if only I could find someone to come take the rest of this wedding cake off our hands so I stop eating it for lunch, snack, after-snack snack and post-dinner delights, I'd be all set.

Burp. Love wins. 

To Our Kids, Before Your Moms Say "I Do" All Over Again

To my kids,

This weekend I say "I do" to your mama all over again. It's going to be a busy few days leading up to our vow renewal, and an even busier Saturday. So before I take a deep breath and dive into the mayhem that is bridezilla prep (Mason jars! Tea lights! More signs to paint!), I want you to know a few things. 

First and most importantly, we love all three of you. Aerik, Alexis and Jackson, you are our light, our hope, our biggest dreams in compact form. You are the glue of this family, the bond that holds tight and reminds us of what's important in the tougher times. And yes, we all know there have been tougher times. Life isn't easy, and life in a transitioning family has its own unique challenges most of us aren't prepared for. 

But you've all chosen to do something so simple, and yet not always achieved, even by those with far more life experience than you: You have actively chosen to put love first.

When the person you knew as your dad told you she was, in fact, your other mom, you all supported her without hesitation or question. Yes, you shed your tears and said goodbye the idea of having a father, but you also wholly embraced her. You rocked it.

No seriously. Guys, you totally rocked it.

The best kids I know and their favourite mom (right? right?!), July 2017.

That act of selfless love is precious and sadly, not always the reality. If you only knew how many families fall apart, how many children of all ages struggle for years when a parent transitions, you would see the significance. Emotions are complicated, but you've managed them with a grace I wish I could bottle and use in case of emergencies (I have many emergencies. Like right now, because the wedding is in FIVE DAYS and I don't have all my mason jars.). 

I couldn't care less about school grades, but I do care about how my little humans treat other humans. And you, my loves, get an A+ in that department. You make me so proud to be one of your moms. 

You've also allowed me to share parts of your lives with the world, despite knowing that privacy is not a genie you can put back in the bottle, and that you risk - and have received - judgment from our community and beyond. I've watched you all step boldly in front of microphones and cameras to tell society that love and acceptance of all people is important. That takes guts.

Your desire to make the planet a better place gives me hope for the future. Because you are the future.

The world is a frightening place right now. Just within the last few days, politicians are threatening nuclear war and alt-right bigots are spewing their hatred in large numbers in the country just south of us. We know that sentiment is growing within our own country too. It feels surreal to be planning a vow renewal with all of this going on, doesn't it? A little frivolous and laced with guilt. Don't think I haven't thought about about that.

Just one of many signs I'm going all Bridezilla on.

But I believe our family's story is more important than ever. The love you show - that we all show one another - is its own act of resistance. We're choosing to push forward and not let fear make our decisions or drive us underground.

We're choosing visibility, despite the risks. Because that display of unconditional love creates a connection with people who might not otherwise feel connected to families like ours. That connection turns into compassion, which is the fuel needed to learn about us. And the more people learn, the more they realize there's nothing to fear or hate, and they start standing beside us, rather than against us.

Connection, compassion and education. That is how we can do our part to push the darkness back into its little corner. That is our form of resistance. My darlings, we are the little queer family that could. And it has everything to do with you. Everything.

When we walk down the aisle in a few days, we're celebrating our family as it is today. It's been a long journey - one that isn't over - but it's taught all of us what's most important in life. Joy is at the top of that list, and we finally have a lot of that in our home, despite the scary, scary, big outside.

Aerik, thank you for agreeing to officiate our ceremony. I know you'll do an amazing job at marrying your moms. (But no pressure.)

Alexis, thank you for being our DJ. I can't wait to hear the music you've picked (PS: I hope it's not all dubstep.)

Jackson, thanks for being our ring bearer. (You have the easiest job, but don't tell your siblings or I'll put you on potluck cleanup duty.)

Thank you for loving your parents for who they are, a simple but indescribably meaningful act. Thanks for being a part of a life I never expected, but one I wouldn't trade for the world. You have two moms who love you very, very much. We can't wait to celebrate our family this weekend.

Now help me find the mason jars before I lose. my. mind. 

Love you to the moon and back, lousy ankle biters,

Mom

Hope and Happiness After Transition? You Bet.

She woke me up yesterday while getting dressed for work. She was wearing the same dress she wore when we met the Prime Minister, and I’d argue it looks even better on her just over a year later. I watched from the bed, smiling, my hair rivaling Medusa’s on PMS week and my face puffy from sleep.

“How do I look?” my wife asked, twirling. She had thrown on a white jean jacket to compliment the dress. Her hair was up, with soft tendrils running down her cheeks. My breath caught in my chest. Beautiful. She looked beautiful.

Before she left, Zoe said something sassy – I can’t quite remember what, because I was still half asleep – and when I frowned at her dramatically, she stuffed a piece of dark chocolate in my mouth, kissed me, and headed to work.

I love this woman. I love everything about her. She’s smart, funny, supportive and can rock a dress in a way that fills me with both envy and pride. She’s the person I go to on my worst days because I know she’ll hug me like no one else. She’s the one who still thinks I’m pretty with my morning Medusa hair and serious lack of mascara (you will never find this look on my Instagram account). She knows nothing makes me happier than chocolate – even before I’m even out of bed.

To sum it up: She’s perfect for me. And I don’t understand why people would question that.

*****

We’ve been together for 24 years. For the first 22, I had no idea she was a woman. When Zoe finally worked up the courage to tell me, she was prepared to lose everything, including me. “This is your free pass,” she said in all sincerity. “I’ll understand if you don’t want to stay.”

I had my walking papers. I could head out the door without questions or animosity. But I didn’t want to.

There were some things I had to work through over the first few months, centering mostly around accepting the idea that I didn’t marry a man (surprise!), that our children don’t have a father (“It’s fine, having two moms is cool these days,” they’ve said to us a few times now), and that our family would no longer blend into suburbia as easily as it had before (“This is my wife” has elicited a few raised eyebrows so far). But staying felt right, and leaving felt wrong. Not out of some sense of obligation, but out of love.

Because when I think of my ideal partner, I think of her. So, I stayed, and we walked through the initial turmoil, the intense gender dysphoria she had early on, my overwhelming fears about what life had in store for us, the chronic stress of waiting for the transition services she desperately needed, the panic-inducing moments when she came out to key people – and then the world.

We held on. And one day, the sun came out again, and I realized holding on was the best thing I had ever done.

*****

The other day, I was on Twitter and saw this tweet from Dr. Ray Blanchard, a psychiatrist who studied sex for a lifetime, but has some very outdated and harmful views on the LGBTQ community he has no issues sharing.

Source (if you *really* want to read his stuff): https://twitter.com/blanchardphd?lang=en

Replying to it got me blocked within seconds (which is why I can’t link to it; feel free to go find it yourself). But I had to say something anyway because it gave me a serious case of the angries.

First of all, morning Medusa hair aside, I would not consider myself “unattractive.”

I've been looking for an excuse to use this photo forever. Thanks, Ray!

But far more importantly, this type of comment – from someone with scholarly clout, no less – serves no purpose. It’s not scientific. It’s not helpful. It’s just mean.

Unfortunately, there is a stigma surrounding trans people – centering heavily on trans women – that they are un-dateable and unlovable. Sadly, this plays out in the lives of many people I know who are overlooked on the dating scene altogether or cast aside the minute they tell a prospective partner they’re trans. There are some good articles (like this one) from trans writers about how challenging (and dangerous) it is out there for them.

All I could think about when I read that tweet was how someone feeling lonely and hopeless might react to it. I felt sick just thinking about it. So, I sent this out into the twitterverse to hopefully counter some of that negativity.

I meant all 140 characters. And so much more. 

*****

What I want people to understand – truly understand, because I think this is the small way I can help push society forward – is that I didn’t stay with Zoe out of some sense of obligation. I’m not with her today simply because we’re married. People get divorced all the time, and for arguably much simpler reasons than a partner coming out.

I’m here because I want to be. Because she’s a great catch. A solid 10. And if I met her today, I would ask her out in a heartbeat and sweat bullets waiting for her to say yes. I’m lucky to have a woman like her love me so much (and feed me chocolate.) The fact that she's trans isn't even on my radar most days. It's a non-issue.

Trans folk who might be struggling today, maybe you don’t need me to tell you this, but I’m going to say it anyway: You are entirely loveable. You are so beautiful. You are resilient and wise and have much to give to the world. And I’m sorry if anyone has ever told you you’re not those things. They’re lying, but it doesn’t make it hurt any less, I’m sure.   

I’m going to keep sharing our love story. I’m going to post more disgustingly adorable couple selfies on social media and I’m going to talk about how amazing my partner is. I’m going to share pictures of our vow renewal ceremony next month because any ceremony with two bridezillas is bound to be spectacular. I’m going to keep shouting from the rooftops how lucky I am to have Zoe in my life.

And hopefully, people who have these outdated ideas about what loving a trans person looks like will start to learn new ideas through our story and others like ours. Attitudes need to change. Because hope, love and joy should all be part of someone's transition.

Let's get there, okay? One story at a time.

Until then, I'm off to find Zoe's chocolate stash.

The Precarious Task of Loving Ourselves

I had a bad body day yesterday.

And I feel bad about having a bad body day. Not only because I’m in the business of actively loving myself, but also because I regularly tout the idea of being who we are, in every way, without apology. This makes sense, since I’m a gay, plus-size, gym-loving, chip-eating, weight-lifting chick and I am okay with all of that – most of the time.

Yesterday just wasn’t most of the time, I guess.

Zoe and I are dress shopping for our 20th anniversary vow renewal in August. You would think I would be all over this. I’m excited to be saying “I do” to the woman of my dreams as the woman of my dreams, and not as the man she was trying so hard to be twenty years ago (the pretend man who was getting married to me, the woman who doesn’t dig dudes but spent most of her life trying to convince herself she did. There’s a movie in here, somewhere, you guys.)

So, uh, yay authenticity! Who doesn’t to celebrate that? Vow renewal! Wedding dresses! Cake! Especially cake!

We’re ordering our dresses online, which means we needed to take our measurements. I’ve been putting this uncomfortable task off without even realizing it was making me uncomfortable. “I’m busy.” "I’ll get to it later.” Yesterday, Zoe finally took out the fabric measuring tape and said, “Okay, let’s do this.”

So, we did it. And I didn’t exactly love the results.

Inches. Pounds. These are pieces of information about our bodies in relation to the rest of the world – nothing more. I know this. And yet, to many people – especially women – they are to be feared or celebrated, hated or lauded. How much you weigh or what your waist size is can bring about pride or shame. In most cases, it’s shame.  

I thought I was pretty much done with the fear-y, hate-y, shame-y part of all that. The nonsense part. After all, hating my waist is a total waste. I’d much rather spend my time celebrating what my body can do, which is a whole lot since I started prioritizing my health a couple of years ago. I have energy to spare. I lift heavy at the gym. I can run up a flight of stairs without getting winded. I can chase my ten-year-old around the park and almost catch him. I can carry in multiple grocery bags from the car without throwing my back out. I am strength and power and health, and 99% of the time, I am damn proud of this.

But when we took those measurements, I wanted to cry. And then I wanted to cry because I wanted to cry. I felt incredible shame in that reaction. How could I get so far ahead in the loving myself game only to fall apart because of what a dollar store measuring tape tells me? Why did this happen?

Because I am conditioned to hate my body, that’s why. As a woman, I have been the recipient – and, I would strongly argue, the victim – of messaging that tells me I am not good enough, will never be good enough, and will never have a body worthy of love.

My body has been systematically pulled apart by marketers aiming to make me spend in the hopes of finding inner peace.

“Jeans to hide every imperfection!” on the cover of a magazine tells me my body is imperfect to begin with.

“The revolutionary plan to help you lose that stubborn belly fat!” tells me the fat on my belly is bad and that I should be aiming to lose it.

“Learn to be confident at any size!” automatically centers size as something that should make me uncomfortable – but maybe not with the right jeans and less belly fat.

Only seeing one specific body type in lead roles on TV and in movies. Only a handful of stores for plus-size women. Having to advertise if you’re a larger body type on dating sites so you don’t “trick” anyone with a flattering photo. Getting disapproving looks at the grocery store if your cart has chips in it. Getting “Good for you!” when you work out, instead of being treated like everyone else who exercise. The list goes on and on.

Having a bigger body means you are told, repeatedly, every day, that you are not enough as you are. That there is something wrong with you, and that it is your fault. If you just tried harder, ate less, moved more, had some willpower, you could stop doing this to yourself.

I battle these messages daily. And most of the time, I’m pretty good at ignoring them. I’ve come a long way to acceptance. But every now and then, I, too, am vulnerable to that messaging. Yesterday, likely for a variety of factors, was one of those days. When I saw those numbers, and looked at the sizing charts online, I started to fell less than.

Gym day, three times per week. Usually early and slightly grouchy, but always worth it.

Thank goodness for my wife. My incredible Zoe, who struggles with the messaging she receives as a trans woman, was quick to notice my reaction to the numbers. She wrapped me up in the biggest hug. “You’re going to look gorgeous on our wedding day, sweetie. You are so beautiful. Remember that. Numbers don’t define you.”

She says this with much authority, because the world tells her she is not a real woman: she is a man “pretending” to be a woman, or a woman who “used to be a man”. That is simply untrue, of course, as she’s every bit as much of a woman as I am. Her battles are bigger than mine; they threaten her very identity and place in society in dangerous ways. But that active struggle to stop feeling less than? That’s something we have in common, which makes her a giver of excellent pep talks.

Love is an action, and therefore, loving myself is an active process. This is why I needn’t feel bad that those numbers almost made me cry. It happens. Loving, like running or sleeping, is harder on some days than others, and yesterday was a harder day. Thank goodness I had someone by my side who gets it. We all need a someone like that.

But the hard work, the internal work, has to come from me. I have to choose to actively love myself, even on the hardest days. I have to choose to fight against the messaging and run towards myself with open arms. That's what I have to do, and that's what I'll keep on doing.

Today? Today I’m back to seeing the numbers for exactly what they are: measurements of my body in relation to the rest of the world, and certainly not measurements of my beauty or self-worth. I bounce back a lot faster these days. That is active self-love.

And I think I’ve found my dress, you guys. It’s adorbs!

And I know, for sure, I’ve found the woman I’m excited to spend another twenty years with. When I struggle to love myself, she helps me remember how worthy I am. You don't get better than that, and I can't wait to walk down the aisle all over again.