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.

I felt myself go over the edge as I quizzed Hope this morning, yet I couldn’t bring myself to stop. Her life literally depends on this information and yet the more I pound in the who-what-where she peacefully glances out the window daydreaming about fairies and princesses and the next Judy Moody book. My panic is all mine.

Once the field trip form popped into my inbox, the gravity of the situation came into clear focus as though never before; she could potentially be in danger and not have anyone know how to help her. Like many children these days, Hope has a peanut allergy and carries a medicine bag with her 24/7. Allergies, and so much more.

After 7 years of epipens, inhalers and Benadryl I should be a pro, right? But still, some days we forget the bag, drop what we’re doing to turn around and head home. One trip to the ER running with your lifeless child’s body in your arms as you scream for help and you take this seriously. You breathe in the gravity of one simple mistake.

The school was lovely when I grilled them and said and did everything right; I’m not complaining. Yet I can’t help but question what would happen if she needed to go to the ER, and I’m not there. How would they respond a gender diverse child? How would my extremely shy daughter respond to inquiries about her gender? Would the Department of Child and Family Services get involved? Should I carry a copy of the Safe File in my car? What else can I be doing to protect her? What haven’t I thought of?

Tears filled my eyes once the kids stepped through the threshold to the school. I can’t protect Hope all the time. Wiping my face with the back of my hand, the road in front of me morphed into a fast moving river complete with rock obstacles and shattered tree branches. Anything can happen.

Rather than succumb to my natural instincts and attempt to fight my way upstream toward a safe haven that isn’t on the map, I’m letting the river catapult me on the journey. There isn’t any rescue from this, and it’s not over. This is it – my journey.

Many days we’re blessed with beautiful scenery, and playful adventures. Other times we’re tested on how far into the darkness we’ll explore before we cling to the shore. Either way, we’re in it.

I’d like to say I don’t fear this path. I’d like to say I respect it and honor it for the lessons learned, but that’s a lie. I’m like the new kid in school too shy to make friends just yet, so I hang back when I need to and stand in the light when it feels safe. I’m still taking baby steps.

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.

Before I knew it Will was consoling me as I choked back reluctant sobs. Just then Hope walked into the kitchen and stopped abruptly when she saw that I was crying.

“Why are you crying Mom?” she asked standing uncharacteristically still.

“I just saw a clip about Jason McElwain, a young student with autism,” I shared, “and I’m so happy for him.” I rambled a bit about how the student brought the players water and towels emphasizing the boy had never played with the team before this game, but that he was really passionate about the game. Without saying a word, Will kept his hand on my back listening intently to what I was saying like a wise old man.

“Mom, what’s autism?” Hope chimed in. Once she said it I realized although I was friends with a brilliant autism activist, I’d never really discussed autism with the kids, and I wasn’t sure I had the exact terminology straight in my head. Nevertheless, I jumped in leading with my heart.

“Kids with autism have brains that are wired in a unique way,” I wasn’t sure I was on the right track, but I continued, “their brain affects the way they experience the world and the way they express themselves.”

“Why couldn’t he play basketball with autism?” her questions although incredibly simple, cut to the complicated core.

“I’m not sure in this case Sweetheart, but sometimes someone with autism might not respond to an organized sport the way the rules of the game allows. I think some people with autism might not like the noise of the stadium or relate to the sequence of the game the same way as the other players. We could research it and figure it out, but that’s just from what little I know. It could be a lot of things. Not everyone can play sports for lots of reasons.”

“The boy with autism has a different brain,” she stated. And then it dawned on me.

“Yes, he does. Lots of people have different brains,” and this made her first look down at her feet, then catch my stare and smile. My daughter has a different brain, too. Her brain is wired as a girl’s brain and it is in conflict with her body. Maybe not the same way as autism, but it’s still a significant hurdle for a little person to deal with and embrace.

After watching the video I was inspired and conflicted. Obviously I was elated that Jason had the chance to play the sport he adores, and that he let his light shine out there scoring 20 points in the last 4 minutes. I loved the way he confirmed to the reporter that he was “hot as a pistol” out there on the court. My heart soared when everyone ran out on the court and cheered for him. That’s a moment everyone will remember. Everyone should have such a victory!

At the same time I felt this twinge when the reporter ended the segment saying, “he (Jason) was used to feeling different… but never this wonderful.” Jason didn’t have to score those points to be a hero. Let’s face it. He is a devoted member of that team, and that is enough right there. Don’t get me wrong, the fact that Jason had this opportunity was divinely right. Perhaps it was the only way for people to properly celebrate him in such a grand way. I guess what I’m trying to say is that he didn’t have to make the baskets, but that was beautiful icing on the cake.

Here’s my difficulty, the article explained that this child is a boy (who was born a boy) who presents as a girl. Then they labeled the child a “transgender boy”. In my world a “transgender boy” means a natal female child who identifies and presents as a male. The child in the Girl Scouts controversy appears to be the opposite, a boy who presents as a girl. How did the transgender term get so mixed up here?

From the way the article depicted the child and the family, this child doesn’t have a problem being described as a boy, using his original name or using the “he” pronoun. Tell me if I’m missing something, but most recently the media has latched on to the label “Princess Boy” in similar situations, not “transgender boy”. Why was the term “transgender” used in this way? Should we go back to The Transgender Child and brush up on our terms?

Trust me, I’m not a fan of labels for this very reason. This kind of ambiguity that confuses the media (and therefore the community) is one of the reasons that I use the term “gender diversity”, so that all identifications and expressions are represented and respected. It’s this type of transgender labeling, especially when it doesn’t accurately reflect the reality of the child, that makes parenting a gender diverse child more difficult.

I wish the best outcome for the child and the family. Unfortunately I know firsthand how hard it is to stand up for what you believe in, and have people misunderstand both the situation, and your motives. I think we all agree that all children should have the right to express themselves genuinely and freely, no matter what label you try to attach to them.

“when i was a child, I was stubborn about many things, and didn’t really know what I want. I thought I was a girl in a boy’s body, and constantly dressed up. I wanted to be a girl, even going into high school, and would dream of it all the time. Nowadays, i’m a man, a 30 year old man, and those feelings have completely left. I’m glad my mother and father, who caught me doing this were ashamed. I’m glad I found out that though I wanted to be a girl, I would always be a boy. I have a penis, and I had to deal with that, and now i’m thankful I was born the way I was. I have a Y chromosome and I will not ignore that. It’s shameful that you don’t remind your child of the same thing I had to face about myself. You let your child live as they want, yet THEY ARE A CHILD, and children are the ones to learn, not the other way around. Your boy is a boy, will be a man, and you cannot, nor can he change that. You’re a parent that, though has faced much through this whole ordeal, have given in to the demands of someone much younger than you, as if they knew better than you. I agree with Lady Gaga about her one hit song, “I was born this way”- fess up to the fact that your boy was born this way-a boy.”

Of course, the reader and I have different belief systems and will have to agree to disagree on this. There doesn’t seem to be any room for change or awareness, but this message that I should be ashamed of myself (much like the reader said his parents were ashamed of him) makes me understand why people go into hiding figuratively and literally as they steep in denial when their feelings don’t match what society traditionally deems as “normal”, whatever “normal” is. And I’m not just talking about trans issues, I’m talking about anything that seemingly goes against the grain.

In my comment back to the reader I admitted I no longer believe in shame. When I grew up I knew what shame was and over the years I started to dismantle that notion that I wasn’t good enough just the way I was bit by bit. The last piece of shame faded when my daughter started living genuinely and I began to understand the power of loving ourselves just the way we are in the present moment.

I don’t believe in the purpose of shame. I do believe in love and truth; however, and I will follow that path without hesitation.

As the flutter of little ballerinas swarmed the waiting area a few days ago my daughter briskly shoved a note in my hand then floated back to her friends who are always more focused on their arabesque or plie than their parents asking for them to put on their street shoes and skedaddle. The day seemed like any other. Don’t forget the case for her shoes. Did we bring a jacket? The usual.

Once we got home the kids hopped on their bikes and scurried out of the garage, eager to play with their friends in our close little neighborhood. My social butterflies, I love it. It wasn’t until I looked down at the reminder from the ballet studio that I realized that our typical day going to ballet would most likely be our last of its kind. Things were about to come to a screeching halt.

“No skirts allowed” leapt off the page and slapped me across the face. How would this ever work for us? My daughter is absolutely glued to that sheer ballet skirt for obvious reasons. My mind went full throttle for a moment imagining her ostracized from her beloved group either by taking off or leaving on the skirt. Imagining her pain when she learns that she would no longer enjoy the class as effortlessly as we have in the past. Imagining the confrontation I must have with the studio who knows nothing about my daughter’s gender diversity. The thoughts kept popping up like unwanted ads on your favorite website and then I simply took a deep breath aaaaaannnnndddd I slowed myself down enough to ask what is happening here?

Mid-way through a session and they choose to come up with a new rule about uniforms now? That seems odd, especially when they’ve allowed kids of all ages to wear pretty much whatever style of ballet outfit. My daughter’s outfit came from the most expensive ballet specialty store in the city so we felt that we were right in line with the expectations of any studio, seeing as though the folks at the Joffrey shopped there as well. Why the big change all of a sudden?

Immediately my mind zoned in on one particular mom who has a daughter in Hope’s ballet class. I think she’s aware of my daughter living stealth. I can’t be sure, but her actions speak volumes. One day we were having play dates (even though the kids went to separate schools after Kindergarten ended) and being very friendly chatting while the kids were in class and the next week she could not bring herself to look at me. She abruptly shunned my greetings and whisked her daughter away from my child as Hope said hello. She seems visibly spooked in my presence and Hope’s dad agreed that this mom went from very warm to freezing cold overnight. This was about five months ago.

One of the moms from Kindergarten class was aware of Hope’s gender identity, and as it seems she probably told people after we left the school. Coincidentally the informant is the mother of the child who tormented and bullied Hope for a solid year and when I complained to the school the mother threatened to out my daughter to whole school. Nice.

Still, when the ballet mom started avoiding us like the plague I didn’t get crazy or pull Hope out of the class. I just observed and remained open for anyone to say anything to me. Then about three weeks ago this mom, huddled together with Hope’s ballet teacher, jumped sky-high covering her mouth when she saw me walk down the back hall. Correct me if I’m wrong, but that’s the international signal for “I was just talking about you!” Their conversation ended as I approached. They both stared at me as if I was carrying several dismembered human heads with me and began to whisper when the restroom door slowly closed behind me. Even then I thought, “If anyone wants to say something to me they are welcome to,” and I went about my merry way like normal.

Then the note. Is it a coincidence that the studio wants to rip all the skirts off little girls when this has never been their policy? Are they suddenly taking “the uniform very seriously? Why? Are we prepping girls for Juilliard here? Not even close. Still, it’s possible, right? Probable, no. So I did a little research about what other ballet teachers and studios expect. All of them agree they want to see the lines of the body so they require sheer skirts if any.

Okay, sheer skirts are completely doable in the ballet world, yet the studio is demanding no skirts whatsoever. Why? As I wait for the owner to return my call my mind wanders… Is this a thoughtless decree to make their studio look more “serious” in the dance community? Is this in response to teachers saying that kids are wearing pretty much any old thing to class and it’s distracting from the work they are doing? Or is this the quick fix so they don’t have to listen to angry, fearful parents complaining about having a transgender child in their midst? If they require all kids to come in a leotard alone (exposing what everyone is so focused on – genitals) gender diverse kids would never feel comfortable and therefore, not come to class.  Problem solved for them.

So what is the reality? Will I ever truly know the answer even if I’m given one?

What I do know is that we aren’t going down without a fight. We’re not going into hiding because of this. At first it will be friendly fact-finding mission, of course. I’ll ask about their policy, see if they will amend their rules to include a sheer skirt for body sensitive children like mine. I’ll go the high road, for sure.

Perhaps they will tell me a reason for the rule that I’ve never thought of. Okay, I’m open to that. Just maybe they’ll confess that this mother complained and they need to “handle” it in some way. In that case I can use the opportunity to educate and hopefully we’ll come to a common ground where all parties are better for it. These kids deserve to go to class just like everyone else. Let’s make that happen.

Whatever happens, an answer or a smokescreen, I will speak my truth, stand up for my child’s right to participate and still feel comfortable in the class and hopefully plant a seed of awareness.

On the flip side, this is another chance for Hope to learn how to handle challenges around her gender diversity that will come up now and again in her life. Clothes, particularly uniforms, kids and even sometimes even parents will be a problem. Life includes some modifications for all of us, and that’s okay. At least she sees her parents protecting her, standing up for what they believe in and working to create change for everyone’s sake.

It’s a life lesson for me, too. At first I slipped into my old reactive pattern of panic, and then I realized what I was doing and changed my mind. This situation is what I make it, what I bring to it. This journey can be about truth or it can be about fear. Only I make that choice.