Lately I’ve listened to this shoulder, yoga practice will do that to you, make friends with your body… and your fears. I’ve started giving more credit to my arm, allowing myself to try asanas, or poses, that I thought were impossible for me. The old reel playing in my head. The ancient whispers from the other room. My mother telling someone that my arm wasn’t going to grow and I’d never use it the same way again. She’s fragile, you know. Even after I consciously started to give my left side 50% (or more) of the work, I still made adjustments out of pure habit. My brain hardwired to protect feeling injured again.

I can almost hear the muscle slowly tearing away from the bone as I snuggle a little tighter around my daughter’s skinny frame, her eyes transfixed on Jazz.

“Tell me if it’s too much, Sweetheart,” my heart couldn’t read her thoughts from her calm eyes, but tense lips, “We can always come back to it at another time.”

“I’ll let you know Mom,” her gaze never left the image on the screen, and it dawned on me that this might be the first child she’d ever encountered saying out loud to everyone, “Hey, I’m transgender. I feel good about myself. I’m happy.” Most of her gender diverse friends don’t communicate like that, at all. This was revolutionary.

About half way through the show those deep eyes of an old soul looked up and me and gently said they needed a break. This signal I could read this loud and clear. Lost in the moment I couldn’t figure out exactly why I wasn’t able to press pause. That is until I glanced down at my newly freed arm as listless as it was after my recovery, but not lost anymore. It has a voice, and a job to do. I get that now.

Every single day we’re recovering, from everything. With every breath we are brand new. Those old tapes saying that we aren’t capable or worthy or equal are absolutely incorrect. We should take a moment to mentally smash and recycle them into gratitude.  It’s our choice.

Yawwwwn

I’d love to share some revelations with you. Some epiphanies are big and need a little explaining. Some are silly. All of them sunk into my psyche in a deep, meaningful way during my vacation and without judging, I had a way of being with this awareness in a completely new way, like being taken to a party where I didn’t know anyone. I had to feel my way around, ask questions, and above all else, I had to listen. So, let’s begin…

Holiday cards aren’t apologies. Years ago I adored rushing home from work and tearing into the holiday card envelopes searching for little treasures. Heartwarming pictures of smiling couples on the beach, children (whose faces you’d recognize but they seem to have sprouted overnight) huddled with their proud parents or sleeping newborns with squished little faces nestled in each envelope. Those were the days. Folks wrote a little something about their year and sent their love, it all felt so personal. So much love.

I was in on the game, too. I loved sending pictures of my beautiful children to all corners of the country and beyond. Like sharing a tiny bit of the joy I felt in my heart with each special person near and far. Then things changed. The year before Hope transitioned we sent our cards with a picture of the kids at their favorite play space; Will clad in a policeman’s costume and my oldest in a princess dress, complete with tiara. You’d think I shot the Pope. The reactions to my son wearing a “girl’s get up” were strong.

One could say it prepared me for what was to come, but it felt like someone had taken a special part of the holiday away from me. I know that sounds silly, but imagine if you had a special holiday feast with your family every single year and looked forward to it with such joy that you started meal planing two months ahead of time, and then someone tells you they’d rather eat at a fast food restaurant than eat at your house. Well, it sobered me right up. I began to see who was really accepting of us, and who wasn’t.

The year after, the kids’ father suggested no cards. And the year after that, and after that. Now my stream of holiday goodness no longer fills my mailbox. The cards just stopped coming. I get some here and there, and don’t get me wrong, I’m truly grateful, but it hasn’t been the same. Just like life, things change, and we shift accordingly.

Imagine my surprise when there on the dining table was a card I’d never expected in a million years given our relationship. My knee jerk reactions was to toss the unopened rectangle in the recycling and start dinner, but I stopped. Maybe she wrote an apology on the back of the card? Something like, “Seasons Greetings! I’m sorry we make gay jokes about your child. Happy 2012!” I ripped open the card with almost the same enthusiasm as I once did, only to find two teens mugging surrounded by a hideous cherry red & kelly green bonanza. Back of card, empty.

I watched myself as I ripped the picture in half, slowly severing those two heads, then turned sideways to keep ripping and ripping until the little chards sprinkled like snow, peacefully falling to the ground. Then I was happy. Little kaleidoscope flecks reflecting from the chandelier like holiday lights. Nope, I didn’t grab the glue gun and repurpose, I scooped it up and dumped it, dusting my hands over the bin, smiling like my Christmas wish came true.

My joy came from one place – truth. This is the first year I embraced my loss, my longing, my fear, my grief, my joy, my rage, my resentment, my inability to change things that will never be changed. They will always talk about us behind our backs. That’s okay. There are people like that everywhere. Doesn’t mean I need to like it, or dislike it. It is what is.

Earlier today someone mentioned that some people are like clouds, when they leave the room the sun begins to shine again. I like that. It’s not the person’s fault. It’s where and who they are, and I can’t change that. The only thing I can control is me, my feelings and my reactions. So my new holiday saying is, “When life gives you shitty holiday cards, make psychedelic snow!”

Every day I begin again. I’m not into New Year’s Eve. Never was. Just like most evenings, I’m in bed around 10, and happy. You don’t need a new year to roll around to have a clean slate each day; each moment offers you that same opportunity. It’s never too late. Buddhists believe that death is like changing your day clothes into pajamas, you simply shed the old and turn toward the new. I like that.

Instead of resolutions that come and go, I savor the intention of being present, and if I can do that, try residing in a place of love. Simple, yet harder than it looks.

Never underestimate the power of Krampus. This was our first year lightheartedly talking about Santas’s less popular sidekick. If you don’t know him, Google. While tucking my kids into bed I had to assure them that he lives in Switzerland, and doesn’t have a work visa.

Each past hurdle & heartache leads us to now, and I don’t want anything else. I’d never trade a moment, even when I’ve fallen to my knees in despair.

So my child is gender diverse. She deals with extra challenges, encounters a world that doesn’t understand her, feels outside the loop on many occasions, and doesn’t understand exactly why this has happened to her. That’s all true, yet somehow you’d never know any of that from knowing her. She is the most brave person I’ve ever known. She stands in truth no matter the result. Her courage inspires the rest of us, like moths to a flame. Still, her greatest quality is her ability to love, and it’s taught me how to finally grow up and be the person I’ve always hoped I could be someday.

Well, today is someday. I’m living my dream. It might not look like it to anyone else. Our lives are messy, and complicated. Most people don’t get us so they stay their distance and judge us on what they think they know. That’s okay, because we are fine. We are loving and strong. We are living in our truth. And that means more than anything else in the world to me. It’s my greatest gift.

My heart swells with enormous gratitude, for the lessons I’ve learned, the people I’ve spent time with, and the for the mere fact that I can wake from a deep, deep sleep and begin again.

Of course, as these things go, I didn’t notice what I had done. I thought I was leisurely checking out site improvements, sampling the bells and whistles, perusing what was out there to make my site faster, easier… better.

When I found out what I’d done it was as if my cat ran out of the house and under the neighbor’s bent wheel. Like the shout that never really came out of your mouth, but it was right there nonetheless. I felt sick. Where were my words? Where was my heart?

As you sit in your (hopefully) cozy chair reading this you can tell it all worked out, but the exercise walked me through a necessary evil. The Universe presented a challenge to me and with diligent faith I reacted. During the whole endeavor it became painfully clear that this place is so special to me that I’d never want to let it go. Or take it for granted.

This space is me. It soothes me like a backrub. It stirs in me like an episode of American Horror Story, too scary to watch so you listen under the warmth of your sofa blanket. It’s not a blog, a thing to visit now and again… well, it may be for you. Not for me. Not at all.

It’s the light streaming from my crown chakra as if I’m being lifted right off the ground. It’s my darkness, memories of my childhood in the Dungeon with the rusty wet stains near the broken metal door missing the screen and the Devil between two locked doors. It’s my eyes as I watch the world around, as I follow my children running in front of me their laughter muffled in their coats and scarves. It’s every wish I ever hoped for. It’s every dream left unfulfilled. My secrets. My failures. My triumphs. My love.

It’s the reminder of what makes world worth living.

A wash of relief spread from the crown of my head and covered me like hot fudge melting down a cold scoop as I recalled the acceptance I felt as I talked about girls who feel like boys and boys who felt like girls. The supportive nods from teachers and the thoughtful questions produced by curious minds. But tell me again how we ended up laying down?

Ding! Ding! My head snapped around while no one seemed to notice. That’s a peculiar (and particularly delicate) school bell in my opinion. Ding! Ding! Maybe if I close my eyes I can determine where it’s coming from?? Ding! Ding!

Darkness registered first, and the crushing silence. Ding! Ding! Without thinking I reached out to find my bedside table only to find my pulsing iPhone indicating someone was texting me. Huh?! I’m in my room. It’s morning. And it was all a dream.

The glowing message told me I was uncharacteristically late so I threw off my fluffy comforter and scrambled to turn on the shower. Shoving the dripping toothbrush into my mouth I glanced at my weary face, sheet marks gracing the edges like I’d been scratched by cats all night. It was a dream. I can’t believe it still.

My first inclination was to tell myself, “It was too good to be true,” meaning the embrace I felt by the group, but that’s not exactly the truth. It is real. That dream signaled what I already know to be true and today I’m going to accept it.

Everything is as it should be. No matter what, we are safe. We are loved. We are accepted. That feeling didn’t come from the nods. It didn’t come from the school or the children. It didn’t come from anyone else. It came from me, and I know it as my own. No one takes it from me, and now I’m sure I’m not giving it away anymore. It’s mine, whenever and wherever I need it.

How many times did I hear this when I was little? After a while I didn’t need it whispered into my ear anymore, I embodied it. I knew there were things I was never expected to say, at home or out in public, like they never happened. Off limits for good, like a dangerous abandoned mine.

It made for an interesting supper time as my family sat around chatting. Never characterized as quiet people by any stretch of the imagination, my parent’s hushed tone signaled an off-subject topic that immediately sank into the family vault. Adoptions, affairs, sickness, rage, runaways, sexuality, abuse, alcoholics, you name it. They called them Family Secrets.

Now as a parent with a lot to explain I finally understand what they were trying to accomplish, walk a very fine line between what’s public and what’s private behind and outside closed doors. What do you share with others? What things do you keep to yourself?

Last week Hope came home in a panic. Not thinking of the consequences (and probably just wanting to make conversation) her brother commented to some friends that Hope named herself. Since she’s stealth at school this information is strictly confidential, and Will knows it. Although she profusely denied the claim to her friends, she retained a look of betrayal several hours later as we sat at the dinner table to discuss.

Looking more like a hungover frat boy than a well-intentioned 5-year-old, Will sat with his head in his hands as he kept saying, “I don’t know why I said it.” I believed him, and yet the question of boundaries was sitting before us like the holiday meal scheduled less than 48 hours away.

“What if Hope talked to your friends about the fact that you sleep with your Lovey at night?” he popped upright looking remarkably alert, and shocked, “Would that make you feel good? Would that be something you’d like your family to share with your classmates?” His answer was clear. And so we talked about what privacy means and why it’s important to us. No threats of retribution. No code of silence like when I was young. Just logic infused with love.

That night I lay in bed thinking of how parenting feels like one long essay question. Every so often there’s a pop quiz that tests your skills. What have you mastered? What needs improvement? It challenges me to use my voice as an individual and a parent instead of mindlessly falling back on the way I was raised.

My children are encouraged to speak their mind and stand in their truth. Most of the time it works out for the best, and other days it becomes crystal clear that we are still learning our boundaries and finding our way. I’m grateful for this. Hope learned how to handle feeling outed. Will learned that his words have consequences, and can hurt people. I learned that I am not so afraid of secrets.

“No one else will be here. Everyone else is going to another house,” she compromised. In her mind I’m sure she thought she was making it better, but to me it made the conversation a hundred times worse. She remained silent when I invited her to our house for the holiday.

Translated everyone else means family that isn’t affirming, or accepting, of us. The last I heard my sister stormed out of a room after one of them made a Brokeback Mountain joke about my then 6-year-old child and all of them laughed. When I heard what happened I got their message loud and clear. Immediately I knew that there wasn’t a snowballs chance that I would let my children go near them. It’s not worth it. It’s not even an opportunity to educate. It’s just toxic.

I’d rather spend Thanksgiving alone instead of watching the door terrified they would pop in unannounced at my mother’s house while my kids played blissfully unaware. I’m not in the space right now to have another discussion with my kids about another group of family members that have different beliefs and value systems and therefore, do not understand or accept Hope’s gender diversity. We’re all still licking our wounds from the last talk like us, especially Will who comes to me every so often with tears in his eyes to remind me that he misses his cousins and his aunt and uncle. I feel it. Abandonment hurts.

This situation with everyone else is somewhat harder to explain because they haven’t confronted me, they’ve just made fun of us behind our back. I’m sure if we ran into them we’d get initial smiles, fake hugs and then a barrage of jokes and inappropriate comments at our expense. I see this clearly based on knowing them for the past 25 years and somehow my mother doesn’t. She clings to the sunny notion that everyone can “get along”, while I see the potential damage to my children as being more important than a Norman Rockwell inspired holiday photograph. Let’s face it, it’s not what it looks like on the outside that counts.

When I step in my mother’s shoes I feel the loss, like you threw a big party and no one showed up. She wishes everyone was back together, just like Will, but that doesn’t change people’s beliefs, and more importantly their actions. At least she knows she is welcome with us. Whether she shows up or not is up to her.

These moments are about gratitude. I’m happier cherishing the love and truth surrounding me, no matter what that looks like. I don’t need to go backward, allowing the past to repeat itself. Rather than dwell in the darkness this holiday season, I’m ready to stand in the light.

Traveling by myself does that to me. Without the pressure of organizing others, mainly the kids, I settle into my Quiet Observer mode, and I like it. People argue at the airport, about lines and regulations. Their words swirl around my peaceful brain like a flock of unhappy migrating birds swooping and dropping, and then they’re gone. I find myself simply smiling and figure I must look lobotomized amidst the chaos, and I don’t care when I’m alone. Everything is going to be alright is my mantra in my silence, like Bob Marley gently whispering in my ear 24/7. Now that’s a good life right there.

So as the sun laid to rest while I was still driving to P-Town I let my anxiety keep napping. Black waves lapping up at me from the side of the road and I resist the urge to ditch the car and jump into the cold darkness. The moon as bright as a floodlight I find my way and then settle into the sweetest room. Alas, I’m alone on this trip, and it makes me wish someone else could see it, enjoy it.

Even eating alone is a treat. Some of my friends detest this quality of mine that can head straight into a lavish four star restaurant all by myself and feast without a care. If I look past the hefty tabs I create, I actually love this about me. I take it all in, luxury in slow motion. Afterwards as I journey back to my tiny palace I meet a group of gals who were sensational and without a single twist of my arm I am back at dinner again, talking, laughing and learning. This WAS a special trip indeed. Effortless. Fluid. Meaningful.

The next morning was filled with adventuring around the town searching for an almond chai latte and the perfect angle for quick Instagram pics. Successful in my search (thanks to Wired Puppy) I floated through the rest of my day including my keynote speech and the following discussion about gender diversity in children’s literature. It was divinely right, each step.

As the Quiet Observer I’m able to let go and live. I give myself permission to craft my moments as I please so why do I give that up when I step back into my life at home? Tension flares. My old stress patterns return. The Quiet Observer is bound and gagged as the adrenaline machine churns more and more, streaming fear into my veins like a fitful transfusion. I’m ready to break this pattern.

Immediately one hand lifted from the steering wheel as the radio began playing this & without looking I gently grabbed her ankle and gave it a squeeze… and I didn’t let go until the very last verse. Thank you Pretenders for giving me a song that said all the things in my heart that I just couldn’t find words for that day. 

Oh, why you look so sad?
Tears are in your eyes
Come on and come to me now
Don’t be ashamed to cry
Let me see you through
’cause I’ve seen the dark side too
When the night falls on you
You don’t know what to do
Nothing you confess
Could make me love you less

I’ll stand by you
I’ll stand by you
Won’t let nobody hurt you
I’ll stand by you

So if you’re mad, get mad
Don’t hold it all inside
Come on and talk to me now
Hey, what you got to hide?
I get angry too
Well I’m a lot like you
When you’re standing at the crossroads
And don’t know which path to choose
Let me come along
’cause even if you’re wrong

I’ll stand by you
I’ll stand by you
Won’t let nobody hurt you
I’ll stand by you
Take me in, into your darkest hour
And I’ll never desert you
I’ll stand by you

And when…
When the night falls on you, baby
You’re feeling all alone
You won’t be on your own

I’ll stand by you
I’ll stand by you
Won’t let nobody hurt you

I’ll stand by you
Take me in, into your darkest hour
And I’ll never desert you
I’ll stand by you
I’ll stand by you
Won’t let nobody hurt you
I’ll stand by you
Won’t let nobody hurt you
I’ll stand by you

Even the workshop I presented on creating local play groups and support systems expressed the gravity of the situation. Beyond needing, we’re craving the genuine connection with people who actually speak our language. Never mind having the same experience, we don’t need it to be exact. Just being in the ballpark is hugely rewarding. Anytime families get together like we did at the conference it’s a good thing. Kids are smiling and playing. Parents are talking and laughing. It’s a win-win and it feels good.

Now how can we find each other without flying half way around the country? My first suggestion is to join the list serves with TYFA & Children’s National Medical Center, start talking and find others in your area. If that doesn’t work, contact your local PFLAG group (or other LGBT organization) and ask what type of support groups they have for parents of transgender individuals and their kids. If they don’t have a kids play group, entertain the idea of creating one. You know you can do it, all it takes is a little effort. Then send your smoke signals out there. Set your intention and watch families come together.

If you already have a group or a solid support group for parents, tell me your thoughts. What’s worked for you? How do you manage your group? What works? What ways can we individualize our groups so they meet our unique needs?

Let’s keep a dialogue going of best practices so that we can ignite a movement across the country. Families connecting in a loving, non-judgmental way to help preserve the safety and well-being of all of our kids and raise gender awareness. It can happen. We need to be ready. Do our homework. And then go for it in a meaningful way. We need to connect with one another and spark awareness in all of our communities. Now.

That’s a first for me. Not the angry part. No, like everyone else on the planet I’ve been fuming lots of times. The new adventure is writing when I’m still stuck in that ticked off space. Usually when I sit in my (unusually uncomfortable) writing chair I’m coping with something that made me joyful, proud, fearful, sad or confused. Sometimes I’ve been mad and I’ve worked it out before coming to write so the post speaks of resolution. Never have I been so fired up that it’s taken me a whole week just to sit and strangle the words out of my throat and pour them on the page. I’m even coughing when I chant lately so you just know I’m keeping something in there that is itching to come out.

Let me jump back and set the scene… It all started a few weeks ago when I took a Forrest Yoga workshop. It was like a tiny firecracker that started me diving head first into an emotional undercurrent. Incredibly sore and newly aware of what I was hiding in my practice, I needed more.

Step 2: my teacher intuitively gave me Ana Forrest’s book Fierce Medicine and I devoured it. The way Ana spoke of her early life, it was so much like mine that it was uncanny, and it spoke to me. Actually, it shouted. And for the first time I was really listening to what was swirling around me like I had taken off my Bose block-out headphones to hear everything loud and clear.

Step 3: The lights went on upstairs during my sweat lodge with a gifted and loving Native American Elder. Fearing someone was hurt during the sweat, I opened my eyes to see why they turned the lights on only to find it was still absolutely dark. Close my eyes and the ceiling was lit. Open them and it was pitch black. Like a cosmic light bulb went on. I quickly caught on that the Universe was joking with me and yet, very serious about connecting. Now my eyes are open.

Step 4: Butterflies show up on the scene as I tell a friend about the caterpillar transformation described in my Wounded Healers workshop. Unlikely, seeing as though they were fluttering at a two-story window that faces the garages, but okay, I’m still listening and watching.

Step 5: While I share the gorgeous sequence of events with my teacher as we wait for our fellow yogis to meet up, even down to the fact that Ana Forrest and I had equestrian life in common, two cops on horses show up behind me. On the beach no less. Signals. Flashing traffic signs. Stop. Yield. Go. I’m paying attention.

So where is this leading? I thought you are pissed Jen? You sound pretty blissed out? And yes, I am. The crazy part is while I was taking this awakening of my senses, this spiritual hiatus I was getting flooded with emails… and they all had two similar themes. As I started to reply I noticed I was basically emailing the same two messages over and over. I’m not a fan of cutting and pasting my personal communications so that was out of the question and yet, I couldn’t help but notice the similarity to my responses.

One group of emails was from parents asking for advice about their kids who do not identify with their assigned gender at birth. Their requests covered the gamut from how to handle dance recitals and school to what to do when the child asks to present outside the home. The similar theme was that the parents needed reassurance on how to move forward. It sounded like they needed someone outside their support system to talk with, and most of them wanted the type of answers that I admit I don’t have. Answers about what is happening, what to call it, how to talk about it, what to plan for, what it looks like. If you boil it down, they all want to know what’s going to happen and what are they going to do about it.

If you know me, you know that my philosophy is being who you are, so much so it’s the title of my book. I was talking with a friend today about it. That message is not just for the kids, but for the parents as well. It’s for all of us. Kids need to express themselves freely in a safe and healthy environment. Well guess that? So do we. The questions are all good. They need to be asked and still there aren’t any easy answers. I will always share my story, but everyone will have their own journey. Everyone lives life differently. No road maps. No quick fixes.

As I pondered these questions in my inbox, I dusted off a manuscript and got to editing. I’ve had a project in the works for years that walks through our story from a parent’s perspective and now it’s time I get the baby ready to go and published. Parents want resources. They want to hear about how other families are handling situations. They don’t need to follow anyone else’s path. Parents don’t have to base their choices on anyone else, but by hearing other stories they vicariously get to walk in their shoes, at least for a while. And then we learn we are not alone in any of this. That’s huge.

The second group of emails was from young people, teenage to young twenties, who asked me to give them advice on helping their parents understand their gender expression. “What can I say to help them understand?” was the recurring request and their honest, respectful desperation quickly drove me to tears. Reading stories of parents who refuse to speak to or even look at their own children. Parents who have demanded that their flesh and blood leave the safe haven of their home because the child dresses in a way that reflects who they know themselves to be. Parents who crush these intelligent minds, these loving souls, these tender young spirits with their spiteful words and ignorant fists.

These parents have no idea that their children are reaching out to me, a stranger. Reaching out even after the parent has turned their back on the child. Their children are continually grasping at straws trying to find some way to communicate with their parents, to get them to understand just a little bit of what they are going through so they don’t lose the only anchors they have in this world since birth. A parent’s love is powerful. We forget that.

Throw acceptance to the side for a minute. Of course, we all want unconditional understanding, but we might not always get it, at least not in the timeframe we want. Doesn’t mean that the person has to stop loving us in the meantime. It doesn’t mean that parents have to draw a line in the sand and release their child into the world alone, physically and emotionally. This is where I go from absolutely weeping to getting downright fiery and pissed.

What makes a parent turn their back on their child? Someone explain that to me.

Here I have these two groups emailing, parents looking for answers and kids searching for the “right words” and the reality is as hard as I try I can’t really help either group. No simple emailed reply can cover the expansive nature of coming to terms with your life not turning out the way you thought it would. And that’s one of the reasons why a lot of people have a hang up with gender diversity. It’s a big change in their eyes.

If only they could turn the situation around and see how their child is pressured to change every day to fit the demands made by our culture. The constant turmoil. The agony of simple things like getting dressed up, going to school or having a birthday party. Enjoyable moments the rest of us take for granted. Rather than think about how the child’s gender diversity affects them as their parents, why can’t they, just for a split second, walk in the child’s shoes and experience that primal disconnect? Are we so hell-bent on looking like “the typical American family” that we can’t just be who we are – loving parents who protect the safety and well-being of our children?

I know one more book in the world doesn’t make a significant difference. I’m not saying that I’m the person who will (or could) write a book to help parents come to terms, even thought that’s exactly what I will try to do. I’m saying that all of us, all the parents who have gender diverse kids and the people that love us, have that story in us that society needs to hear. We don’t need to write it if that’s not our thing. Maybe you draw and someone else sings. Maybe we advocate for our child in a gentle way that educates others. Maybe we answer the next person’s inquiry about our child’s expression with pride and pure love instead of apology and fear. Maybe we share our story with a friend or at a play group. Maybe we ask our child what it feels like to wish for different body parts. Maybe we finally tell Great Grandpa why Billy is wearing a dress… whatever it is. We can all make very large or very small steps towards demystifying gender identity and expression. And if not now, when?