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!

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.

My Brownie uniform

“True, all-girl experience,” those were the words of the teen named Taylor who is part of a group trying to get people to boycott Girl Scout cookies because the Girl Scouts allowed a transgender child to belong to a troop as reported by CNN Living, on January 13, 2012.

There’s so many things that I find bewildering… where to start? First, I think it’s bizarre that we have to segregate boys and girls in groups. I was a Brownie, and even 30 years ago I thought it wasn’t fair. Why couldn’t there just be Scouts so that everyone could join?

The tv show Parks & Recreation did a spoof on this recently where the boys wanted to join the girls group because it was way more fun, and an expected upset followed. Finally, Ron Swanson created a group for all kids who want to learn about survival in the wilderness. And isn’t that the bottom-line? Learning, not gender or segregation.

So where does that leave me? Yes, the group that wants to boycott the GSA and their cookies because the GS allowed a transgender child to belong. Has anyone given this group proper education about gender identity, expression and diversity? They sound like a large majority of the world that don’t understand transgender issues and discriminate against gender diverse adults and children, and isn’t that just a cry for more education?

Maybe that’s where our dollars could be going, toward gender diversity education so that our communities locally and globally have a better understanding of what our kids and their families are all about and the importance of inclusion for all people.

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.

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.

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.