That’s just it- its an outsider’s perspective. We never know what is happening in someone’s brain, in their heart. Nor can we grasp the immense pressure that we sometimes inflict on ourselves, unbeknownst to others.

As a parent I react by questioning how I can help my child to keep talking, keep relating what she needs and what she feels. As she gets older I know that the lines of communication naturally get strained, but how do you keep a child feeling safe enough to share intimate feelings and realities? Love? Stability? Security? Leading by example?

It’s funny… before I logged on I emailed my sister. Earlier this morning I had a little surgery that brought about a revelation. As the flurry of preparation buzzed around me in the cold operating room I slipped into a trance like state (meditating has proven a success in the face of uncertainty here, and the kirtan music didn’t hurt) and went to my happy place. In my email I reassured that I was fine and then I went on a tiny tangent saying that I felt like I must have been a prisoner of war or a hostage or something in another life because I have an uncanny ability to transport myself to another place when I need to endure pain. I did it giving birth. I did it for my marathons. I do it when my back pain ceases to be manageable.

I guess I did it for my emotional pain as well. When my father died I had just survived a near fatal injury months earlier and was, for all purposes, emotionally tapped. I’d been isolated in the hospital and near silent for hours and then days on end. I went inside myself for comfort and reassurance and it worked. I guess.

After his death I was left without words. It wasn’t that I kept my feelings hidden, it was that I could not sort out the shock from the pain from the grief from the fear. “Jenny doesn’t talk,” was what I heard in my bubble, but I felt too overwhelmed to try and piece apart my confusion and despair. Was this what Mike/ Christine experienced in some way? The inability to translate the tornado of emotions inside. The guilt for not being able to bring something to the table, so to speak. The hatred building because I couldn’t make anything better. The fear that if I said a single word I would lose myself completely.

Now thirty years later I have found my voice and my courage. By writing I’ve found a way to unzip my armor, let every emotion spill out into words, expose the most vulnerable parts of me and witness the reality of where I am at with love. It’s not perfect. It’s not logical at times. But it’s real. And it’s out there. I am grateful that this journey leads me to this result. Standing in my truth.

Sat Nam. Truth is my name. It rang through my ears as I laid on the table today and I was peaceful despite pain. It’s all I could hope for. Maybe tonight I will sit with my kids and talk about my experience honestly. I’ll tell them that I didn’t know what to expect, but I took a deep breath with the knowledge that I could face whatever comes my way.

Today I sat in front of the laptop and finally watched and read about the documentary entitled Her Name Was Steven. Incredibly moving. It was sent to me months ago, but for some reason I was ready today. It struck me when she said that she, then he, confided in his wife that he needed to wear women’s clothes. The wife said she “played along” and dressed him up. Giggling, she said, and brought him to the living room to look in the mirror. “There she is,” he said. And his wife said she stopped laughing.

Steven said he battled that person in his life for so long and then that day he tried on the clothes she was released – born. Can you imagine someone having to hide their true feelings for decades? Running away from their truth? Tears fell from my eyes as I watched his anguish.

There was some footage about his, now her, son writing a note to her saying she was the best dad in the world and that no matter what people said or what she looked like, he would love her. The child sat smiling approvingly, but Susan was so emotional she couldn’t continue. All this time she hid from her authentic self because she thought that no one would accept her. And they do. The power of love is astonishing.

I guess we move in a personal timeframe, the path unbeknownst to us. Only divinely right. One day something happens and life is forever changed. Like a snap of your fingers. Perhaps the times when we feel off track, our true path could be around the next corner. Maybe in our running away (or in my procrastinating) we are getting closer every day. Just in our own way.

The two baskets that cradled the photos of my kids in their very early years have literally been shoved in the closet. I could barely see them when I glanced through the out-of-season section of my closet, but I’d quickly turn away when I did. The last physical contact I had with the baskets was when I packed away the school photos of Hope when before she transitioned. At her request I’d taken down her picture down from the foyer, stuffed a new one inside the frame and banished the beautiful photo to “The Baskets”.

Once it was all tucked away I melted to the floor in a heap, sobbing as if she’d just been torn from my arms, never to be seen again. My head knew this to be true. My child was safe, happier than ever and always mine; however, my heart needed more time letting go of that moment frozen in time when my child was just living like any other boy. Free from people’s judgment and ridicule. Free to see the family and friends who have since let us go. Free from the manipulations of life that some gender non-conforming children endure: searching high and low for a discreet clothes for school, swimming and ballet, growing out your hair, seeing acquaintances on the street that call you the wrong name and then stare at your new curls and dress, being called the wrong name by just about every medical professional, wondering why your grandmother or your uncle or your old best friend just doesn’t call anymore, defending yourself and your identity on a regular basis when all you want to do is just be a kid.

Sure, life was admittedly easier, but “he” wasn’t free, was he? Inside she was trapped. Lost. Silenced. Who wants that for their child? My head knows this. My heart still aches when I see pictures. It’s my Achilles heel. Knowing this, I am going to give myself a little more time to just be with the fact that it hurts me. It’s not that I don’t fully accept my child. I do. It’s not that pictures mean more to me. They don’t. This is painful for me and that just is the way it is.

Shortly after I unearthed the baskets, my sister reached out to me. She knew what this activity would do to me. Pain rippling like the tide. Always insightful, she shared a little revelation that “this little boy existed” and we have the opportunity to honor that. Not toss it away. I don’t have to run from the tender memories of holding my child in my arms, dressing him up, whispering his old name in his ear or the shear joy I felt knowing I had a beautiful, healthy son. Those memories do not have to be my enemy, unless I see them that way. Unless I fear the power of my emotion behind those memories. My emotions are love. Pure love.

It all started when we were in the lengthy final edit process for Be Who You Are, my first children’s book to be published this fall, and I started looking at the word “transgender” under a microscope. Backward. Forward. Sideways. These days I have been referring to my child’s gender identity as gender non-conforming or gender variant more than trans. Why?

It could be the natural result of time. It could be that we have some new friends in our lives who have sprinkled a new, more generous way of thinking across my brain. Less rigid and more accepting of other alternative paths. Paths that might not be mine or my daughter’s, but still worthy of respect and understanding. I credit these new friends with expanding my awareness into areas that I wasn’t ready to venture into before. Like removing blinders, I gained peripheral vision.

Perhaps I’m using the term “gender non-conforming” to free my child from labels that she didn’t choose. She’s so young that she just knows who she is and doesn’t bother herself with defining what she or other people are called. (How refreshing, right?) When people hear the word “transgender” their mind defaults to sexuality, sex reassignment surgery, adult transexuals, cross dressers, etc. In my experience they don’t normally consider a child who identifies and presents as something other than their birth gender.

I wonder… is it my right to label my child as transgender when she may feel gender queer, gender fluid or some new term we don’t know yet as she gets older? Does my use of  ”transgender” limit my child’s full potential? Does it impede her self awareness and internal growth?

When Hope first starting presenting as a girl full time I think I needed to wrap my head around what “transgender” meant. Get up close and personal with the reality of the changes that were happening before my eyes. Maybe I needed some constant, some label to rest my head on like a pillow at the end of the long day? If I can be honest with my heart, maybe I needed an answer, a solution. What I realize most as the days turn into months and now years is that there aren’t any answers. Moreover, there isn’t even a need for a solution because we don’t have a problem.

The reality is that my child does not present as a boy at this moment, but as a girl. That is the snapshot of our lives today and I fully embrace it. I won’t ever have answers for what tomorrow brings and as long as we are true to ourselves there isn’t a need to question. My child may feel differently about her gender identity as time passes. She might not. She might feel comfortable with a label. She might not. Only time tells the remainder of the story.

Tonight I rest my head, comforted by the fact that I no longer require a constant. Awareness blankets and warms me like certainty never did.

“Don’t worry… about a thing. Every little thing gonna be all right.”

Can a message get any more perfect than that?

It’s my wake-up call. Every. Single. Word. Whisper it to me first thing in the morning so the dread dissolves with my dreams. Sing with me during the day so the permasmile lingers. Words seem lighter. The sun is brighter. Laughter spills over in my heart and I am hopeful once again. I am where I should be. Let it be my lullaby as the day comes to a close and I drift into what could be the best night of my life.

The path twists again forcing the person to accept that our Hope is just a child who is not at fault. Another twist and they need to decide whether they will be a loving and supportive influence in Hope’s life. Continuing along, the person must choose whether they can handle being with Hope in public and talking to their friends and family honestly about her transition.

The last stretch of road is where most people call it quits and go home. The final mile is where the person walks in our shoes. This means enduring public or private scrutiny for the choices I’ve made as a mother (“allowing” my child to “be” a girl) and for who my child is. Educating when someone is ignorant and speaking up against nasty comments, accusations or jokes at our expense. Stepping in the line of fire when someone tries to attack this helpless child even if it means taking a hit physically, personally or professionally. This last stretch doesn’t happen when I’m around. It happens when no one is watching.

It’s easy to be “on board” when we are standing right there and then turn your back and follow the crowd when no one would know. It’s easy to attempt to keep us in the closet from the rest of the people in your life. It’s much easier to act like it isn’t true or it didn’t happen, brushing our lives under the rug like an old tabloid article from an unreliable source. It’s easy to give up on us and not go all the way.

Thankfully people have made their way toward us. Some even seem to have journeyed effortlessly, though I am sure that’s not the case. Right now we have a circle of love and acceptance surrounding us that continue to make life worth living. They’ve acted as allies and champions for us. They’ve used sheer force to move mountains so that my child can enjoy a loving and healthy life. They didn’t have to do it. They could have taken the easy route.

If I look at my circle today I am inspired by these courageous people who open their hearts to us, comfort us and want to be a part of our lives. I admit, lots of people aren’t in my circle. Some people surprise me with their actions. Maybe some are taking their time on the path and we might see them again. Some have shown that they will never take a step toward us. That is okay. We have enough. This is the balance of life.

“When I dare to be powerful-

to use my strength in the service of my vision,

then it becomes less and less important

whether I am afraid.”

Audre Lorde

__________________________________

As I watched my son in karate yesterday I found myself getting lost in the beautiful Japanese language as they counted from one to ten doing kicks and blocks. Music filled my ears with these little children using their voices, bodies and quiet minds. Like a high pitched harmony.

My head must have been swaying a little to the tune in my head because my peripheral vision caught sight of Audre Lorde standing, arms outstretched, as if reaching for me. Little old me just sitting on a cold metal chair. I stared at the image and then read the quote above.

A thunderbolt ignited my brain when I read it as if the words beckoned me to stretch beyond my cozy, little comfort zone I’ve created. “It’s time!”, Audre screamed to me with her poetry and I accepted the challenge. Ready for the next step.

- – - – - – - – -

It’s been a little luxurious, writing books that is. I have to admit that I feel a great sense of calm when I can rationalize the countless hours I’ve logged at the beach watching waves, for “inspiration” you know. Or the days I seem to float aimlessly from place to place, not doing particularly anything, but just being in the mix. Feeling my feelings amongst the ebb and flow of my so-called-busy-life. I’ve taken advantage of every chance to slow down and think, a thing I have never done in my entire life. Like a year long vacation if you will. Just moving from moment to the next.

In the past, my other life, I’ve been my own superhero, fast as lightning and able to make minutia a full time job. I stressed if I wasn’t at the latest event, tweeting about the next-fun-thing, going the extra mile, striving to fill my calendar the way a squirrel hordes nuts for the winter. Like I was checking off a never ending list of what I should do, who I should be.

Picture a semi truck, maybe one of those you see on the Discovery channel that drives on the ice at break neck speeds, screeching to a halt for a crying baby abandoned on the road. That was me when Hope said she needed to transition to living as a girl 24/7. Not because I didn’t know or that I was upset at her need to live authentically, but because I was speeding away on my own path. It was all planned out.

So I put on the brakes and stopped for the first time in my life. I’d never trade it. Never change a single thing. Slowly I shut down that other life, the one that didn’t add up to much if you looked at the big picture and I started to look at what I was here to do. What was my vision? Where was I needed?

It’s been one year ago today that Hope transitioned. One year since I started living my authentic life as well. Dismissing my need for “fillers” to escape real feelings and searching for substance. The nitty-gritty, real life, tough stuff that few of us ever dig deep into. I admit, I never wanted my junk to come out. My back story. My feelings. My heart. Petrified that someone would learn that I am broken, damaged, failing.

Now I look back at this year with a lotus in mind. This vibrant flower escaping the mud to rise and bloom. Free. A lotus never denies where she came from. Never tries to transplant herself in some gorgeous meadow like she was meant to be there. No, she came from what some might consider the lowest place. I’ve had 365 days to think about it another way. The filth is beneath everything, even the meadow.

As I think of Audre Lorde’s words I feel ready to move beyond the contemplative inner work of this past year and open the door in front of me. My children’s book about gender non-conforming children is being published in the next few months and I plan to embark on an outreach extravaganza. Someone recently corrected me and said I should use the word marketing instead of outreach, but nothing could be farther from the truth. Marketing feels fake to me, like telling someone they need a new coffee maker when you have one that works just fine right now. Outreach feels right. It feels like sharing a message, touching lives, making a difference. If I can educate people about gender identity and the kids that do not fit into a binary code of this-or-that, then my life’s work will be complete.

I’ve found it and I’m not afraid anymore. My courage. My voice. My mission.

Last night I plopped into bed not ready for sleep and too restless for a book so I turned to my friend Netflix for a treat. When I clicked the play button for Harold and Maude I started to smile. I have adored this movie forever. As I dusted off my memory I could repeat certain lines like the Nathan Hale speech with easy familiarity. It felt like a friend talking with me. Does that sound strange? Soon I could anticipate the next Cat Stevens song and I was enjoying myself as if I was still lounging by the river side staring into the sun. This movie speaks to me.

Maude inspires me to grasp the moment with a gentle hand and live. Too many times I think I reach for something and then try to hold on tight, like restraining a restless dog on a short leash while it watches the park across the street. Happiness ends up just out of my reach, but definitely in my sights.

I’m letting go. Releasing the fear that keeps me from taking the step, crossing the street and opening my hand to fate and love and grace. I am ready. Now all it takes is a little courage.

“You see Harold, I feel that much of the world’s sorrow comes from people who are this yet allow themselves to be treated as that.”,  Maude explains as they contemplate all the differences between what appears on the surface to be identical flowers.

Am I living fully? Did I wake this morning with that Breath of Fire?

Have I danced? Sang? Grabbed an instrument and made music on the fly? Why?

How do I handle making an ass of myself? Do I forgive and move on or do I hold on tight strangling spontaneity with shame and regret?

Who is winning my game of life?

If there was a ever a handbook for successful living, Oh, The Places You’ll Go is it. It’s inspiring, realistic, supportive, logical, brave, cautionary and compassionate.

Whenever I find myself in one of those slumps where I can’t seem to catch a breath or think a clear thought, Dr. Seuss’s words fill my brain with a sing-song like compliment. Clearly, they speak to me.

I found myself like that tonight. So many life changing decisions to be made. Anger at the base of my throat itching to be released. Worry strapping an anchor to my heart as if the storm was coming in and it needed a safe harbor. Sadness watering the corners of my eyelids as I blink repeatedly. “Do you dare stay out? Do you dare go in?”

At lunch this afternoon some friends and I had a discussion about living stealth. “Think of how hard it is for an adult,” a friend commented. I nodded in agreement (and I do agree), but almost immediately my words snapped my head backwards with a force, “If it were just me living stealth I could know enough to choose when to walk away, when to stand up for myself and when to run. My 6 year old doesn’t have that option.” My voice cracked a little as if the weight of my emotions was lurking somewhere behind it.

Parenting a child who has any special needs of any kind means that you go the extra mile. You research a little more. Read a few (dozen) more books. Join a group or five to keep talking and learning. Learn to breathe with your heart outside of your body at all times. Abandon the construct in your mind of what you thought life would look like. Dismantle your ego day after day. Expand your capacity to love greater than you thought humanly possible. Swell with pride at your child’s smile knowing that nothing matters more than giving this child every chance at a good life.

“And remember that life is a great balancing act.” Yes, it is. So here’s a recap of the best pep talk in history- from me to you.

Congratulations!
Today is your day.
You’re off to Great Places!
You’re off and away!

You have brains in your head.
You have feet in your shoes
You can steer yourself
any direction you choose.
You’re on your own. And you know what you know.
And YOU are the guy who’ll decide where to go.

You’ll look up and down streets. Look ‘em over with care.
About some you will say, “I don’t choose to go there.”
With your head full of brains and your shoes full of feet,
you’re too smart to go down any not-so-good street.

And you may not find any
you’ll want to go down.
In that case, of course,
you’ll head straight out of town.

It’s opener there
in the wide open air.

Out there things can happen
and frequently do
to people as brainy
and footsy as you.

And when things start to happen,
don’t worry. Don’t stew.
Just go right along.
You’ll start happening too.

OH!
THE PLACES YOU’LL GO!

You’ll be on your way up!
You’ll be seeing great sights!
You’ll join the high fliers
who soar to high heights.

You won’t lag behind, because you’ll have the speed.
You’ll pass the whole gang and you’ll soon take the lead.
Wherever you fly, you’ll be the best of the best.
Wherever you go, you will top all the rest.

Except when you don’ t
Because, sometimes, you won’t.

I’m sorry to say so
but, sadly, it’s true
and Hang-ups
can happen to you.

You can get all hung up
in a prickle-ly perch.
And your gang will fly on.
You’ll be left in a Lurch.

You’ll come down from the Lurch
with an unpleasant bump.
And the chances are, then,
that you’ll be in a Slump.

And when you’re in a Slump,
you’re not in for much fun.
Un-slumping yourself
is not easily done.

You will come to a place where the streets are not marked.
Some windows are lighted. But mostly they’re darked.
A place you could sprain both you elbow and chin!
Do you dare to stay out? Do you dare to go in?
How much can you lose? How much can you win?

And IF you go in, should you turn left or right…
or right-and-three-quarters? Or, maybe, not quite?
Or go around back and sneak in from behind?
Simple it’s not, I’m afraid you will find,
for a mind-maker-upper to make up his mind.

You can get so confused
that you’ll start in to race
down long wiggled roads at a break-necking pace
and grind on for miles across weirdish wild space,
headed, I fear, toward a most useless place.
The Waiting Place…

…for people just waiting.
Waiting for a train to go
or a bus to come, or a plane to go
or the mail to come, or the rain to go
or the phone to ring, or the snow to snow
or waiting around for a Yes or a No
or waiting for their hair to grow.
Everyone is just waiting.

Waiting for the fish to bite
or waiting for wind to fly a kite
or waiting around for Friday night
or waiting, perhaps, for their Uncle Jake
or a pot to boil, or a Better Break
or a sting of pearls, or a pair of pants
or a wig with curls, or Another Chance.
Everyone is just waiting.

NO!
That’s not for you!

Somehow you’ll escape
all that waiting and staying.
You’ll find the bright places
where Boom Bands are playing.

With banner flip-flapping,
once more you’ll ride high!
Ready for anything under the sky.
Ready because you’re that kind of a guy!

Oh, the places you’ll go! There is fun to be done!
There are points to be scored. there are games to be won.
And the magical things you can do with that ball
will make you the winning-est winner of all.
Fame! You’ll be famous as famous can be,
with the whole wide world watching you win on TV.

Except when they don’t.
Because, sometimes, they won’t.

I’m afraid that some times
you’ll play lonely games too.
Games you can’t win
’cause you’ll play against you.

All Alone!
Whether you like it or not,
Alone will be something
you’ll be quite a lot.

And when you’re alone, there’s a very good chance
you’ll meet things that scare you right out of your pants.
There are some, down the road between hither and yon,
that can scare you so much you won’t want to go on.

But on you will go
though the weather be foul
On you will go
though your enemies prowl
On you will go
though the Hakken-Kraks howl
Onward up many
a frightening creek,
though your arms may get sore
and your sneakers may leak.

On and on you will hike
and I know you’ll hike far
and face up to your problems
whatever they are.

You’ll get mixed up, of course,
as you already know.
You’ll get mixed up
with many strange birds as you go.
So be sure when you step.
Step with care and great tact
and remember that Life’s
a Great Balancing Act.
Just never forget to be dexterous and deft.
And never mix up your right foot with your left.

And will you succeed?
Yes! You will, indeed!
(98 and 3 / 4 percent guaranteed.)

KID, YOU’LL MOVE MOUNTAINS!

So…
be your name Buxbaum or Bixby or Bray
or Mordecai Ali Van Allen O’Shea,
you’re off to Great Places!
Today is your day!
Your mountain is waiting.
So…get on your way!

Dr. Seuss

While motionless at a stop light my eyes fixed on a peculiar sign saying “Is 65% sure good enough? Find out if it’s a boy or a girl!” Peculiar because the sign was attached to a day care facility.

My mind immediately conjured an image of parents in Small Town USA taking their preschoolers in for genetic testing to determine whether, in fact, they are boys or girls. As if birthing/knowing/raising our children only provides 65% assurance and we all want 100%, right?

Confused I started looking at the two adjacent little buildings and saw that one was an ultrasound facility. “Okay! I gotcha now.”, I thought as the light turned green and the semi trucks and I eased back into our crawl.

Somehow I couldn’t stop thinking of that little sign. Even a few months ago a pregnant friend told me she wasn’t going to find out the sex of her unborn child. My reaction? I went into my usual rant about being a planner and wanting to know. All on auto-pilot, all the words and phrases I had used all these years. I might have even said “You are nuts! I had to know.”, like I had so many times before. I wasn’t even thinking. Like the words were simply pre-programmed. I opened my mouth and then fell right out.

Looking back at that conversation I almost cringe. I am still giving people a hard time for not caring about the sex of their baby? In the first place who am I to say/think anyone is crazy for doing anything. Why would I care? Second, haven’t I learned a single thing? Did I really find out if my baby was boy or a girl seven years ago when I laid on that chilly table, goo dripping from my engorged belly? What did I do differently when I found out? A lot.

“We made out like bandits!”, my husband proclaimed when we heard that our baby was a boy. When the technician gave him a strange glance, he explained that girls are so expensive. We just escaped a world of outfits, bows, purses, shoes, accessories… you name it. American Girl, we escaped American Girl! The once simple butter-yellow room was soon accented by navy and denim. Blue wrapping housing blue this, that and the other thing flooded in when everyone found out. It’s a boy!

Evidently the joke is on us.

What do they always say… “if I knew then what I know now” I would do it all differently? Hindsight is 20/20. I wasn’t in the same space. I didn’t know. Rather than beat myself up for making gender specific choices, I’d like to fantasize a bit about sending my message for all new parents. I wish I could go to the ultrasound waiting rooms, maternity wards and the Lamaze classes and give a speech about not caring about if it’s a boy or a girl. About not choosing pink or blue depending on what the “results” were. I’d put it on the line and finally say the words I’ve been holding back for the past few years… I wish I didn’t push all the boy stuff on my children. There! I said it.

Sure, I never thought twice about my kids playing with what I considered “girl stuff” back then, but I never bought it. I remember when a friend gave me an outfit that she said was “too boy looking” for her girls and I donated it because I thought it looked too feminine for my son. Could I have been a little less rigid? Could I have gone toward the middle of the kid’s clothing store rather than taking a sharp right and spending my time knee-deep in skater pants and construction tees? Could I have placed less emphasis on gender in general? I wish I could go back, but today I sit right here knowing what I know for a reason.

Today we talk about the limitless possibilities for all people- boys and girls all around the world. You want to be a nuclear physicist, a nanny or a miner- go for it! You want your toes painted with polish- you got it! You want to play dress up as a princess or a tank engine- no problem! Be both at the same time! There are no rules.

Every step of my past has taken me to where I enjoy today. With both my daughter and my son feeling secure with being emotional and powerful, artistic and analytic, nurturing and athletic. Being everything that they are naturally without judgment, without censorship, knowing that every day we may feel different or the same.

Sure, I still get tripped up on the road to gender freedom and stop myself to explain it to them (or maybe to myself) that even though I was raised differently I can still open my mind to new ways of thinking. It’s never too late to find out that it doesn’t matter.