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.

“Their child.” 

“But say the kid is grown up, not a child anymore?”

“Our children grow up and become adults, and yet our children will always be our children. Forever.” 

“I like that.” 

In our quiet moments I grab my youngest and cuddle him like I did when he was small as he squirms and squeals for me to let him go. While I shower him with loud smacking kisses on the top of his head he half laughs/ half screams for immediate release. Where did the time go? How did my plump little tot become even more willful and remarkably strong? My baby.

Looking back this has been the wildest and most rewarding challenge of my life – parenting. Having never thought I’d have the opportunity to become a parent, I’m beyond honored for each experience, and the fact that I’ve been blessed with these two amazing little people I get to call my children. How did I ever get so lucky?

As I sit here in the cafe exploring my wonderment and gratitude a child yanks at a parent’s hand as they walk by which evokes a jerking response from the parent lifting the child off their feet. Both faces resemble each other, a look of disgust mixed with tardiness, like they want to be somewhere else, and quick.

The small child’s wild eyes meet mine and I knowingly smile. I was that caged animal, led along the path of what was expected of me, what was “right”. Living in a constant state of panic was just what I did consuming adrenaline for all three square meals and politely thanking my parents for each bite.

Long after my father passed away, I started to explore why I was still so nervous. It was as if he was still standing beside me judging every move, every thought, and he did not approve. Apparently old habits die hard when they are engrained in you, especially as a child. I did what I needed to do: explore, rebel, deny, medicate, forget, blame, reason, starve, react and then I began to cope with what I had and who I’d become.

I am my father’s child, forever. But I don’t have to let my old programming set up shop in my brain. Not now. Not when so many good things were happening and I’ve come so far. I had to evict these old tapes telling me what I should do and who I should become. I was doing just fine for myself.

During this slow process of revising my own internal dialogue I was fortunate enough to have children and as they grew their questions begged me to define my true thoughts about the world and dismiss the script of my past, tearing pages out and redacting the parts not meant for young eyes. I could begin again. I could make it different. I could love more than I thought was possible. And I did.

Each day is a second chance. Another opportunity to be who you are and live in your truth. Take it. Love it. Live it.

“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.

THIS WAY, TOWARDS BRAVERY
WHERE YOUTH ARE EMPOWERED.
THIS WAY, TOWARDS ACCEPTANCE
WHERE HUMANITY IS EMBRACED.
THIS WAY, TOWARDS LOVE
WHERE INDIVIDUALITY IS ENCOURAGED.

Born This Way Foundation launching in 2012. Join us!

When friends asked me to an event last November I couldn’t even vocalize what torment the thought of attending brought me. I felt like every name spoken could be my child, and I simply could not endure that thought. Not with others.

Ever since my father’s sudden and tragic death in 1981, I kept Loss under lock and key like a prisoner fearing it’s strength would consume me. There was a persistent, yet completely hidden darkness in me. Something I couldn’t shake after standing in the doorway watching him die. I never wanted to name it, or own it, like the various self-help books I consumed like snacks instructed me. I couldn’t possibly go near the dungeon where I held Loss in solitary confinement so why go searching for opportunities to allow it’s escape?

Only until my Reiki Master and I started to peel away the layers of understanding did I accept that these are my greatest life lessons, my biggest obstacles to growth, and I had to decide whether I would turn my back yet again or stand in the face of fear with arms wide open. I was done running, I knew it, so I let go.

I let go of the tape forever running in my head that said that everything and everyone will leave me. I let go of my father’s untimely passing. I let go of the abuse that prevented me from feeling. I let go of my programmed personal narrative telling me I could never be enough. I let go of pain, and said my goodbyes. And with all that newfound space I focused on one simple thing – love. Love for me, for you, for all of us.

Love. It’s my mantra. It’s my compass. It’s my fuel. It’s the reason I agreed to run a booth for PFLAG this year for the Transgender Day of Remembrance because I will no longer hide locked behind closed doors. I will go and celebrate every life lived. I’ll honor families and friends who supported their loved ones quest toward truth. I will be present, with my heart and arms open wide.