That’s life lately. Life is moving fast and wonderfully. I shifted gears in a weird way, and did some things I said I would never, could never. But I can. I must. We all do things that surprise us once in a while, I guess.

Like riding a bus, I’m shifting side to side and swaying along a path that, no matter hard I try to define, is completely obstructed. Passengers block my view. So I trust. I brace myself. And when necessary I lean on supports.

It’s taking me on a journey, and you know I’m a fearless adventurer.

Buddhists encourage us to find harmony within without ground beneath our feet. I can’t say it comes naturally, but I’ve felt this peace, and I know it’s not out there, but rather, in here for me. And you.

I love how these tiny moments come back to bite you in the toukas.

The sun beat down on my shoulders through the sun roof today as I waited for the light to turn green and I sunk deep into my seat. It feels like this last year I’ve trudged through sticky mud. Uphill.

Thankfully the sunshine peeked through the clouds this past week and the murky soot gave way to lush green landscapes welcoming me to take a long deep breath and reflect.

{Sigh} I’ve tried.

I’ve never been more proud than reading books like Oh! The Places You’ll Go! and The Lorax with my children. Afterward they always say, “Mom, that’s your favorite, isn’t it?” and I just beam. Yes, they are all my favorites.

It’s true that movies made from books often disappoint so that point is not lost on me, but in this case it breaks my heart a little. When I saw the commercial the other day for The Lorax Movie I juggled feelings of sadness, disbelief, outrage, disappointment and fury like hot potatoes, and I only saw a brief part of the commercial!

“You wouldn’t hit a woman…” a person says to the Lorax who appears to be having a disagreement with someone.

“That’s a woman!!??” the Lorax shouts while gesturing to a person looking at him.

I’m offended and disgusted on so many levels I can’t see straight, but I’ll list some of my grievances in no particular order…

1. Dr. Seuss created the Lorax as an advocate for living creatures, not a prejudiced hater.

2. What studio exec thought this type of “humor” was funny?

3. How many people are saying this exact line right now? How does this close people’s minds in the face of so much gender positive media lately? It clouds a very important awakening to say the least.

4. How many kids/adults think that this is what can get them a laugh in school/work right now? One of the hardest places for kids (trans or not) is school. Do we really need another suggestion for ammunition? Do we need to raise the level of bullying?????

5. How many people are on the receiving end of this hateful “joke” right now? How many people are with struggling with classmates/ co workers/ family members/ neighbors, etc. because of the harassment this type of “joke” encourages?

How many people is this hurting because it certainly isn’t helping anyone? It is hate-filled, gratuitous and disgusting.

Do you really want to buy into that kind of disease in our society? If not, use your voice and tell Universal Studios that you are boycotting this movie because of its hateful message.

Dr. Seuss shared a world of inclusion and respect for ALL people, that’s why I love him. Think Sneeches. Think Gertrude McFuzz. Think of all of his characters that felt/looked/sounded a little different, but deserved to be treated equally. Universal Studios don’t deserve to use his name, message or renderings.

As a long time fan of Dr. Seuss and a parent of a gender diverse child and a woman and a compassionate person, I’d like an official apology. Now.

These kids aren’t lab rats. His accusation insinuates

that we (parents and supportive physicians) are “dosing” our kids (with hormone blockers and hormones) the same sterile way a clinical researcher would administer drugs to a helpless lab animal and then sit back, take notes and see what happens. If this test fails, no problem. Move on to the next insignificant test trial, right? Wrong.

These are our lives, not experiments. Not meaningless little tests. Our parents aren’t the “Let’s inject them and see what happens!” type of folks either. Our children’s lives aren’t things we take lightly. We labor over every single decision. We lose sleep. We lose our friends and families. We listen to our kids beg not to go through the wrong puberty. We hear them crying at night in their beds after they have a nightmare about waking up as the wrong person. We die inside when we see our children struggle with having a body that doesn’t match their brain. We break our hearts (and our banks) to make sure our children can grow as healthy, safe and happy individuals. None of these decisions are made with a cold, detached motivation like an experiment. I find it incredibly insensitive to even suggest it, especially from someone who suggests they try to “help” families like ours.

Dr. Zucker intimated that some “boys” (aka assigned the male gender at birth based on sex organs) just see the color pink and think, “I’m a girl if I like pink!” when in fact he knows that it’s never that simple. It’s not just the dress, or the color, or the clothes. It’s the child’s deep identification with who they are, not what society traditionally refers to as “boy” or “girl”. In my opinion he consistently blurred the lines between gender identity and gender expression and as an “expert” he shouldn’t have as it confuses, not educates the listeners.

I wonder if any of the families who went to Dr. Zucker for help with gender identity would like to talk with me about their child’s sense of well-being afterward. What about his so-called 85% of kids who “changed their mind” and “wanted to live” in the gender assigned at birth? Did his strict and rigid reparative therapy produce happy, healthy, fully functioning individuals? How many of his patients went off the grid (and weren’t counted in his stats) because they were damaged by his methods and went on to identify in a way that didn’t fit the outcome of his own little experiment? How many of his patients killed themselves?

I envision a world with 100% healthy, safe and happy individuals. That’s not an experiment, that’s a feeling in my heart. I’m not a subculture of the population. I’m a mom. I’m not calling for a social movement. I’m encouraging everyone to have loving compassion for one another as we all stand in our truth whatever that looks like.

This is not a test. This is real life.

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!

*Updated the link… let’s see if this works! Thanks for your patience! If it doesn’t you can search YouTube.com under “Ik ben een meisje!”

I asked to speak to a manager.

As my neck started to kink on one side, I quickly switched the phone to my less dominant left side and stared ahead in obedience. I know, I know… but the last time I opted for speakerphone I actually ended the call. Tragic. I had to call back and start over. Nope, this time I was holding old-school.

By the time the person who identified themselves as the manager got on the phone I forgot who I was. Gone was the supple yogi who sends bright white energy to irritating people. Au revoir logic and reason. A livid tyrant left the gate on this one fueled by a host of stressful situations over the past few weeks. My voice deep and demanding, words spilling out so fast and with such fury melting commas and periods into one long run-on… I couldn’t stop myself and unleashed the frustration with not only the problem at hand, but the principle that the company marketed a feature as theirs, when in fact it wasn’t throwing in a bunch of “your consumer” this and “your consumer” that. I threw accusations like scouts for the Majors watched my every move and this was my last-ditch effort at a life. In a nutshell, I let go and let my fury flag fly.

And fly, it did. Flashbacks of staring at my father’s red, sweating forehead as he raged against us. I know I was carefully instructed to look in his eyes at all times, but when his disease reached the crescendo I couldn’t endure looking into his pools of madness, seeing my reflection in the darkness. I never wanted to see myself like this, and yet, sometimes I find myself there.

Like when the school told me Hope couldn’t attend Kindergarten if her birth certificate said male, or when a parent at the school threatened to out us. Hell no. In those moments I loosened the reins of my vengeful beasts and let them do their job. Cleaning up the mess and making things right. There’s a reason my mother calls me a junkyard dog.

And you know what? Couple minutes of my manic unpleasantness and magically they fixed the problem right then and right there. Huh? Normally when it comes to everyday life I’m not that person, that squeaky wheel who rants and raves and gets exactly what they want. Sure, I want what’s fair, but I can’t slip into a frenzied rage every time I need to find a solution. I don’t want to.

Once Ms. Hyde took a nap I politely ended the call and exhausted, collapsed back into my chair pondering what it took and what it meant to “get things done” in this day and age. Has my steady, calm demeanor held me back from getting what I paid for, so to speak? Have I been cheated by my breath? Or have I reached a point in my life where I choose to remain blissful in the serene waters knowing that if and when I need it, I can call a storm.

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.

I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal.”

I’m still dreaming of a day when we’re all just accepted as people, no matter what our differences in appearance, expression, sexual preference or gender identity. Equal people.

Today it starts with me, my actions, my behavior. I sit here in wonder asking myself what I can do to live in truth, and remain present to this goal.

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.