If you haven’t seen this, check it out. Look past the subtitles for an artistic, upbeat and informative piece about a gender diverse teen. She’s adorable!

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.

Fiddling with the adaptors for the sound I commented to a person helping to organize the event that I hardly wore my glasses anymore when speaking. After I said it I felt an immediate sense of hiding I felt uncomfortable with back then, and now.

“What’s changed,” she asked.

“I guess I get less threats now…” I replied, and then the gravity of what I said sunk

deep into me like a coin soaring into the air before slipping into a fountain only to plunk when it hits the bottom. Less threats. I paused before adding, “When you work under a pseudonym you have a foot in two worlds, so to speak. Today I’m more integrated.” It was true, and it wasn’t, all at the same time.

When your child asks you to keep their birth gender private, you encounter a host of unique challenges. Some are just a nuisance, like cryptically explaining insurance coverage to a medical provider’s receptionist, although that could be irritating as well depending on the person. Other challenges are downright heartbreaking, like bumping into an old friend and their parent on the street. First come the confused double takes  before the parent clutches their child’s hand tightly, whisking them away from us as if we are highly contagious. For me, it means that the work I do is kept hidden from the folks she doesn’t want to discuss her gender identity with. Often it doesn’t matter. Other days I struggle with hiding what I do for a living.

Don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t change a thing. Not me, or my child. I’ll live the rest of my days knowing that this is the important work of my life, my work on behalf of my child and all gender diverse kids and their families, even if I have to use a pen name to do it. I am whole; I’m just not providing all the details of my life with everyone. Removing my glasses was one step to coming to terms, and when I’m ready I’ll take next.

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.

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.

Finally! A show that reflects the reality of a transgender child’s experience and doesn’t go over the edge with their questions and comments. It will be the first tv show depicting a gender diverse child that I will actually show my daughter. Big.

Jazz is an eloquent and courageous little girl, and I believe her message can actually reach people’s hearts, first with her groundbreaking 20/20 Special and now the new documentary. Hopefully this will inspire others to share their truths, and feel even more comfortable in their own skin.

“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.

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.