One of the milestones in my daughter’s life will be the day she changed her name.

Although she’ll never speak of it, and I’m guessing it would take Will years before he tries to discuss it with his sister, her name remains with us. Years ago, soon after she changed it, we’d hear the name as we moved through the world and you could feel the collective wince. All of our faces frozen as if the longer we remained motionless and silent, the quicker the hurt would simply blow away, like a stray balloon from a party where no one showed up.

Some of her friends already had gender neutral names, and therefore, didn’t need to change their names. I’m not even sure if having a gender neutral name helps necessarily, considering the grand scheme of things, but you know what they say about the grass looking greener.

Above all, I know nothing comes without a price. If a child keeps their birth name, there are ramifications. If they don’t, there are a whole new set of challenges. I’m past thinking there is any free ride along this road so we are where we are.

My path’s roadblock takes form in a more permanent-ish decision – a legal name change. Part of me put it off for a while because I thought Hope should be older and have a bigger say in the matter. Part of me wanted to get it done sooner rather than later to protect her, and her privacy. Today I feel like I’m sitting on a fence just observing. Maybe I’ve hung out here for a while.

In the meantime Will wanted to leave the country as a special treat around his birthday. I knew this couldn’t happen because a passport would have to be in Hope’s new legal name, and that would require me to get off my precious perch and put the legal wheels in motion.

I couldn’t do it. The timing didn’t feel right. I could name a dozen reasons that it couldn’t happen, and so I dashed his dreams using bureaucracy as an excuse. My guilt no doubt met my confusion and the joined forces quickly invaded my conscience.

I needed to make a plan. This observing thing went on too long. I’m a do-er, a fixer, a planner, a cleaner. Some days I feel like the character in the mobster movies who glides in and “takes care of things” as a last resort. I’m responsible for the trash no one has the stomach to take out. That’s me.

If it were as simple as a mess, I could handle it. This whole name change is more like a game of chess, a delicate dance of strategy, positioning and timing, and even though I’ve made several grand attempts over the years, I’ve never been disciplined enough to learn. I know ultimately it’s not my life that’s at stake so how do I make the first move?

I know what Hope says she wants, but she’s still young, and sees her future in terms of spring break and summer. How do I put that responsibility on a child her age?

Ultimately what am I afraid of? Am I waiting to see if things change? Do I think that’s possible? Probable? Could she feel differently down the line or feel that I forced or pigeonholed her into a gender doesn’t feel genuine? I never wanted to be that parent that pushed their child to define their gender or assumed that it was my job as a parent. Up till now I have stood in my truth and followed her lead.

Somehow my modus operandi doesn’t seem to apply when faced with gender identity within the legal system. Things are changing. As she gets older she needs real identification that speaks to her truth. So why do I fear this step? Why do I hesitate? All these questions feel like my internal playlist that someone accidentally left on repeat.

Where is my crystal ball?

 

All is calm. All is bright.

For a while I felt so guilty for not writing as frequently as my conscience thought necessary. I silently imposed a variety of requirements as if I was in some sort of training, and failing.

Then something unexpected unfolded. Like a beautiful bunch of new snapdragons, tight and coiled, one by one my realizations opened showing me that I am merely observing now.

And that’s ok.

Slowly I’m cultivated the garden that is the next book.

 

Recently a colleague connected me via email with a family (staying near my city for a few weeks) who wanted to find a gender diverse play group so their child could meet other kids who felt similarly. I was crushed to inform the folks that an open group doesn’t exist here (to my knowledge) like it does in Portland (thanks to TransActive) or in Berkley (thanks to Gender Spectrum). It doesn’t formally exist… but it should.

For years I’ve attended meetings and forums and guest speaker event and coffee chats and every group and conference under the sun to organize a consistent and accessible play group for gender diverse kids that is appropriately open to the public near where I live. No dice.

Well established LGBT organizations won’t even talk with me about it. When I offer my help in the effort to connect gender diverse kids and their families you’d think by the looks on their faces that I’m asking for a private plane to a free chalet in France with three bags of unmarked bills. Not responsive. To say the least.

Years ago I actually started a play group for gender diverse kids without any clear indication of where it was headed, and what I found was that the Universe connected me and my child with some of the most loving individuals I will ever know in this lifetime. They’ve saved my life, challenged me to think and question my own belief systems in a healthy and productive way, and opened my eyes to the beautiful spectrum of life. And not just the gender spectrum. We’re talking the whole gamut of life. These are true blue friends, a support system that I cherish, and now it’s more like seeing family than just friends. You can see why the kids want to keep our little group private.

Would we all have met if our kids weren’t in similar places at similar times? I don’t know. But its safe to say that had I never known these parents and kids, I would have lost out on the complexity of gender diversity, and the beauty. You heard me say it, beauty. Not that seeing therapists and doctors is a glamorous endeavor, or that watching your child struggle is all “worth it”, but it is, in my opinion, divinely right. Take that for what it is.

Our kids and families have significant challenges, but so do other families. Maybe we are more loving now that we know how hard life can be? Maybe our kids have more compassion for others because of their journey? I can’t fit everything into a nice, neat, little box, I’m done with that endeavor, but I know that this journey opened my eyes to truth and love and community in a way that was never possible before.

Am I seeing the glass half full? You bet. And for all the things I still long to achieve… another book, a local play group, a way for schools to embrace gender diversity (the list goes on), I still have so much to be grateful for.

Thank you for reading these words. Thank you for following our lives, and for sending us your love and good wishes. (We are stronger because of your good energy!) Thank you to the thousands of people who email me the stories of their lives. Your courage has been the beacon guiding my next step along this (sometimes dark) path. Your wisdom has talked me off the ledge more times than I could count. And your sheer devotion to the truth continues to be a gift that heals me day after day. If you ever knew how much it all means to me.

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

Who said growing up was easy?

 

 

 

 

 

Truth be told, I’m still finding my way.

Truth can be a funny thing, can’t it? In some ways I feel like a withered sage that’s been to hell and back, or an old boxer with brittle war stories and the scars to prove it. Other moments I’m still that little girl in the dungeon, scared to breathe lest someone knew I was still alive down there. Will I always be down there? 

Our family discussions have been wrought with the triumphs and the pitfalls of truth lately. A week ago Hope’s best friend abruptly informed her that she was not only a “bad best friend”, but that she was no longer her BFF at all.

My daughter was admittedly crushed by the unsuspecting blow to the chin that left her spinning as if she was forever prepping for Pin the Tail on the Donkey, blindfold and all. Afterwards we talked about using our voice. We ruminated about naming our feelings. We reminded each other to tell others what we need. In the end my daughter confided, “I just want the courage to talk with her… and tell her that she hurt me.”

Now who is the wise old sage?

Why is to hard for all of us to extend beyond our comfort zones and go there? You know the there that we all avoid sometimes (or most times)… different place for each of us, but equally as terrifying. The truth.

The next time the former BFF saw Hope she quickly shoved a fairy toy in my daughter’s face muttering some mundane, but cheery form of hello. Hope reminded her of the former decision. You know, the one about not being BFFs anymore?

To Hope’s shock, the girl told her that she said no such thing and acted as if nothing happened. The second, more painful, right cross. Hope emotionally sank to her knees. Her opponent was clearly hoping that Hope would concede and let her run the show and dictate what id and didn’t happen in the world. Take a dive of sorts, you know the kind. But instead of throwing in the towel, my daughter became uncharacteristically angry.

“I want an apology, Mom, not some toy.”

The words lingered in the air as if written in fluffy white smoke letters by some passing biplane with time to spare. An insane smile invaded my face driving that furrowed brow deep into hiding. I savored hearing the first glimmer of feisty spunk in my daughter’s usually amenable voice. Right on.

“A toy doesn’t fix the problem, does it?” I asked, wondering if she was teetering on the fence between keeping the peace with her bestie of two years or finally taking stock in the one person who knows everything she is going through at home, at school, in her body and mind.

“I’m worth more than that, Mom,” the voice trailed from behind my seat to my ears like incense wafting and spiraling beautifully in ringlets all around me. My eyes flooded, and soon burned with the tears I couldn’t hold back.

“Yes, Darling,” I choked a bit, then cleared my voice, “You are worth so much more.”

 

 

 

 

 

Off in the distance I could hear her call out my name. It wasn’t the usual sing-song “Mmmmahhhmmmm” that I’m used to, but a faint, painful yelp, barely audible behind the whirl of the vacuum.

Nothing can make me feel more helpless than my child collapsing in bed, holding her head, large, dark bags looming beneath her once bright eyes. Push fluids. Cool compress. Get her to rest. Digging deep in my mom arsenal of cure-all remedies, I brought what I know to be the only thing that made me feel better when I was a kid. Gently, I eased her fiery hot shoulders toward me while I cradled her wet forehead against my shoulder. Poor thing is on fire, lost in the depths of rippling pain and fear.

“Shhhhhh… Don’t worry. Everything’s going to be alright,” I whispered faintly, as if the words would fall like an avalanche on her already pounding head. Without noticing I found myself rocking her softly, her eyes falling back into the sockets before falling like a heavy curtain to the stage floor. And she was gone.

Hours passed while I watched her shallow breath. There lies my joy, I thought. Everything I hold most dear. The rest of the world simply melts away.

 

The Universe can gently (or forcibly) wake us up. Like a cosmic slap in the face, we snap out of our dreams and numb slumbers in a sobering instant.

Last weekend I found myself sailing head first down a flight of stairs like I was in an action movie that just went slow motion to highlight my stellar kung fu moves.

As soon as I slipped I recalled every single TV show and movie where people fell down the stairs. It didn’t look so good. They always landed in a heap at the bottom of the stairs with legs pulled tight behind them like a carnival contortionist. An arm outstretched to brace the fall, only for the elbow to be facing inward instead of out. Head cocked unnaturally sideways with a tiny drop of blood escaping their lifeless lips.

Hell no.

I decided it at stair 3.

This is not the way I’m going down.

I tucked and rolled and eventually let go. Once I finished my bumpy descent, I popped up like my name was called on The Price is Right. My arms reaching for the sky. My feet a full foot off the ground.

I made it! I’m here! I’m alive…

After several Advil I spent some time in meditation, open to the message of this terrifying event. Life woke me up.

Over the past few months I’d slowed down to the point that I was carefully walking through jelly, safely daydreaming. I was taking it all for granted. The connectedness of our existence. The magic in these moments. The fragility of a simple bathroom break that led to cracked ribs, a lopsided down dog, and some gasp-worthy bruises poolside.

That feeling of falling lingers with me haunting my summer haziness, forcing me to bring my awareness to the present and really be here. The memory challenges me… to love more than I thought possible, to give everything without question, and sometimes, even fall fearlessly into whatever lies ahead.

 

 

So many mornings I wake to the most beautiful beginning… the sunrise. Life feels full of hope and wonder and beauty. It’s a gift.

Then your toothbrush falls in the sudsy sink and the espresso machine boils over spilling little grinds on the fresh white floor, a little one trails into the foyer making chalky brown footprints… there they go. You snap at the kids, grouse at your co-workers, shake from the way-too-thick cappuccino you got at the chain that you swore you wouldn’t patron, struggle consumes this abundant, blessed and somewhat annoying (for now) life of yours so you ultimately blame the full moon for this unpleasantness.

Some tweet said that if you have a pleasant day on the full moon, you’re in harmony with the Universe. If your day is full of chaos, you have some serious inner work to do. You can see how my emotional to-do list just got a few feet longer.

After I suffered through the day trying to find my way, I sat back and try to find something I was proud of today. It took a while, but I realized I confronted someone I work (an intimidating person at that) with on a few things they do constantly that make me feel dehumanized.

I spoke out. I trusted that I could speak this truth and stand my ground. I’d made some boundaries, and stuck to them without apology.

When I sat in meditation tonight it came to me that today was the perfect opportunity for me to tackle something at the top of my life tasks. Speaking up for myself face-to-face. Sure, I can advocate for another person fiercely, especially my kids, but it’s been hard for me to stick up for me. Always has been.

Today it felt like I broke through, not with them, of course. They ended up blowing me off with their reply that I was overly sensitive and didn’t understand them. In fact, I don’t understand them. That wasn’t my goal. I was trying to understand me.

The storm of chaos brought an opportunity like my morning sunshine breakfasts, and I took it.