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.

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.

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.

When friends asked me to an event last November I couldn’t even vocalize what torment the thought of attending brought me. I felt like every name spoken could be my child, and I simply could not endure that thought. Not with others.

Ever since my father’s sudden and tragic death in 1981, I kept Loss under lock and key like a prisoner fearing it’s strength would consume me. There was a persistent, yet completely hidden darkness in me. Something I couldn’t shake after standing in the doorway watching him die. I never wanted to name it, or own it, like the various self-help books I consumed like snacks instructed me. I couldn’t possibly go near the dungeon where I held Loss in solitary confinement so why go searching for opportunities to allow it’s escape?

Only until my Reiki Master and I started to peel away the layers of understanding did I accept that these are my greatest life lessons, my biggest obstacles to growth, and I had to decide whether I would turn my back yet again or stand in the face of fear with arms wide open. I was done running, I knew it, so I let go.

I let go of the tape forever running in my head that said that everything and everyone will leave me. I let go of my father’s untimely passing. I let go of the abuse that prevented me from feeling. I let go of my programmed personal narrative telling me I could never be enough. I let go of pain, and said my goodbyes. And with all that newfound space I focused on one simple thing – love. Love for me, for you, for all of us.

Love. It’s my mantra. It’s my compass. It’s my fuel. It’s the reason I agreed to run a booth for PFLAG this year for the Transgender Day of Remembrance because I will no longer hide locked behind closed doors. I will go and celebrate every life lived. I’ll honor families and friends who supported their loved ones quest toward truth. I will be present, with my heart and arms open wide.

“I want to live, I want to give…” 

Neil Young’s harmonica instantly transports my brain into warm & fuzzy autumnal mode as I sit here and wait for my almond milk chai latte. Glancing out the sun streaked window I realize summer’s gone, and the chill sets in like an old friend coming to visit. Wherever I look lately I find myself seeking out warmth and comfort and stability. I feel like a flimsy plastic bag that’s taken flight in mid air. Not quite sure where I’ll land.

My mind wants to quickly label this feeling anxiety, although with deeper inspection that couldn’t be farther from the truth. I’m free falling, swirling high above the trees and suddenly plummeting down toward the sidewalk, and oddly not a bit scared. For the first time in my life I’m rolling with it.

Like an onion, another layer of protection is stripped away. Slowly I move closer to the core, the truth, and I like what I see. Quirky, imperfect honesty. A heart of gold. A strength wells within me as if I’ve tapped into a long forgotten reserve battery. It’s love. Love for me, exactly as I am.

Traveling by myself does that to me. Without the pressure of organizing others, mainly the kids, I settle into my Quiet Observer mode, and I like it. People argue at the airport, about lines and regulations. Their words swirl around my peaceful brain like a flock of unhappy migrating birds swooping and dropping, and then they’re gone. I find myself simply smiling and figure I must look lobotomized amidst the chaos, and I don’t care when I’m alone. Everything is going to be alright is my mantra in my silence, like Bob Marley gently whispering in my ear 24/7. Now that’s a good life right there.

So as the sun laid to rest while I was still driving to P-Town I let my anxiety keep napping. Black waves lapping up at me from the side of the road and I resist the urge to ditch the car and jump into the cold darkness. The moon as bright as a floodlight I find my way and then settle into the sweetest room. Alas, I’m alone on this trip, and it makes me wish someone else could see it, enjoy it.

Even eating alone is a treat. Some of my friends detest this quality of mine that can head straight into a lavish four star restaurant all by myself and feast without a care. If I look past the hefty tabs I create, I actually love this about me. I take it all in, luxury in slow motion. Afterwards as I journey back to my tiny palace I meet a group of gals who were sensational and without a single twist of my arm I am back at dinner again, talking, laughing and learning. This WAS a special trip indeed. Effortless. Fluid. Meaningful.

The next morning was filled with adventuring around the town searching for an almond chai latte and the perfect angle for quick Instagram pics. Successful in my search (thanks to Wired Puppy) I floated through the rest of my day including my keynote speech and the following discussion about gender diversity in children’s literature. It was divinely right, each step.

As the Quiet Observer I’m able to let go and live. I give myself permission to craft my moments as I please so why do I give that up when I step back into my life at home? Tension flares. My old stress patterns return. The Quiet Observer is bound and gagged as the adrenaline machine churns more and more, streaming fear into my veins like a fitful transfusion. I’m ready to break this pattern.

There goes Mommy-Daughter bonding time out the window! Still, I sat back comforted by the fact that my daughter was so good-hearted as she asked questions of her new pal. It was a Hallmark movie until I tuned into some of the louder than normal answers to these benign inquiries. Soon I heard a litany about how she has flown alone since she was six years old, how her divorced parents battle over custody and vacations, which parent is “the winner” this month, how she loves to talk to people on the plane, about a 9 month old sibling that passed away in a mysterious way, her desire to eat 100 cookies on the flight, and the myriad of ways she successfully hits her brother and gets him in trouble by crying first. Hope’s face looked confused after 30 minutes and I’m sure my wish-I-had-a-poker-face reflected serious concern.

It started to dawn on me that she was more than an unaccompanied minor on this flight. Perhaps she was unaccompanied on her journey through this lifetime. At times she sounded like a crass adult, sarcastic and curt about life’s circumstances. There were moments she sounded cunning like when she talked about manipulating the flight crew into giving her a few energy drinks for free when she had the money to pay for them. Then at other times she sounded younger than Hope, or even Will. Moments where she couldn’t relate to the emotion of the situation. Her view of the world and society’s rules, so skewed and illogical.

One flight, I reminded myself, this is one flight and perhaps just a sliver of this little person’s reality, truth or fiction. She’s an active young person with a creative mind and perhaps this is a chance to let her imagination run wild. Okay. Maybe this is a clear representation of her reality. Okay. Despite what was the truth, I believe in compassion first and foremost.

That is, until she started to get mean with Hope. Pinching, tackling, nasty remarks, throwing food at my daughter… I couldn’t take anymore. I started to discipline a child who was not my own. Once my voice got that serious tone to it and my once peaceful smile turned to a rather tense frown she looked at me like I stole her candy bar. I laid down the ground rules and suggested I sit between them if she couldn’t behave respectfully. Hope looked at me with such relief, like she was quietly comfortable with the fact at least she was an accompanied minor. Flanked by a protector, advisor, trusted confidante and enforcer. She was safe.

Once the 72 cookies our friend ate started to digest she sunk into a slow sugar haze and I had a few moments to reflect on this experience. Hope and I gazed out the window at the vast mountains and valleys with a sense of wonder and disbelief. The world is so big.

We’re lucky to have each other. I’m grateful that I have these two little children in my life to unlock life’s most important mysteries for me, to absorb my life lessons and grow beyond my wildest limits. I’m not letting this experience go, not in a million years.

Hope snuggled me as if to say thank you as I was lost in thought contemplating the countless children out there on the land below, unaccompanied minors in life, struggling for a sense of security or structure. All the kids who are sent out into the world alone because of their gender identity or expression, away from their family and home. No guide. No map. Nothing.

Could we find ways of supporting these young people who are traveling by themselves on this life journey? Act as a mentor? Volunteer to share life lessons and lend an ear? Teach them yoga, the gift of breathing into our bodies, calming our minds and feeling the power within?

When the plane reached the gate I gained a new perspective. The little traveller haphazardly flew past the eight rows in front of us so she could get of the plane first and I didn’t object. Our time together had run its course. Still I’m left with the awareness of all those lives spread across this country, children who have no family waiting for them at the gate.

During an after-dinner conversation about my morning seeing His Holiness the Dalai Lama, the kids and I discussed one of the most importance aspects of Buddhism – compassion. He explained it so eloquently today. My only hope was to share a glimmer of what I learned as I sat in pure bliss. We talked about treating everyone with generosity and respect, from the homeless individual we see at the edge of the off ramp from the expressway to the President. One person shouldn’t get better treatment than the next. We are all just humans living in this existence.

Once I determined that the kids were right on track with our talk (not falling asleep or looking bored to tears) we moved on to the concept of ahimsa, non-violence. They got it right away. Don’t hurt people in our actions, even in our words or thoughts. In the midst of what I thought was a pretty dynamic conversation, Will asked if we were ever going to see Patrick and Carrie again. Abrupt halt. Pause. 

Backstory = Patrick is my cousin who does not understand or agree with Hope’s gender identification, particularly her transition. He hasn’t talked to me in over a year. The last I heard Carrie, his wife, read this blog and was offended. Definitely not my intention here – ever.

I have to mention; however, I don’t write this blog for my relatives or to have a conversation with my relatives or friends. I’d much rather my friends and family talk with me. I write this for the thousands of people out there who, like me, are coping with serious issues surrounding our children’s safety and well-being, our role as supportive, loving parents or issues related to gender identity. If I write/wrote about anything to do with my family or friends, it is because I am struggling with coming to terms with all the aspects of our lives, not theirs. Their involvement is not the focus, but rather just part of what we are coping with. It’s not the person, it’s the concept of what we are coping with. Does that make sense? I have no other agenda but to connect with others facing similar circumstances and to heal.

After reading hundreds of emails from readers, I recognize this as a common theme  among families handling issues surrounding gender diversity. Unfortunately dealing with and losing family and friends is one of the things we deal with when our kids present and transition. It rocks the boat, and some people may jump ship. Fact. That’s why I write what I write. Often I am getting so many emails asking the same questions or sharing the same concerns from across the globe that I’ll write a blog post sharing where we are with that issue or where we’ve been. I know that it isn’t just us facing these issues. It’s all of us in a sense. I only speak for me, but I am speaking to/with people like me, faced with similar situations. I make no apologies for that.

Ironically Patrick and Carrie are the people the kids went to in our wills. They were my “true blue friends” who I thought I could always rely on when the chips are down. The kind you call at 3 am for a favor and they don’t get angry. Now I wouldn’t quite say that my child’s gender identity qualifies as a “chips are down” sort of thing, but what we were/are going through was/is a transition in our lives where we needed/need all the genuine love and support we can get. Still. I never in a million years thought that Patrick would turn his back on me. The thought never entered my brain; we were so tight. But life has a way of throwing curve balls, of challenging our values, our belief systems, and shining a light on what is truly important. What we do is up to us.

But this story isn’t about them, it’s about us. So we are sitting at the dinner table as I try to explain that Uncle Patrick and Aunt Carrie are having “a hard time giving up Nick” as our therapist suggested. Will bursts out into tears.

“We’re never going to see them again?” he shrieked as he jumped into my arms, my little tough guy now so vulnerable and shaken. His hands drawn to his wet face in disbelief. Those enormous eyes looking to me for answers. I guess he was trying to holding out hope that whatever it was blew over and we’d be at their house the next weekend. In the beginning I’m sure I grasped at straws the same way, as silly as that sounds.

“I don’t know Honey,” I admitted, “We just don’t believe in the same things anymore…” I watched for her reaction across the table. Hope remained calm and steady in her chair though you could tell her mind quickly toyed with the idea of this whole thing being her fault. And what could I do? I explained that this is no one’s fault. We didn’t do anything wrong. They didn’t do anything wrong. We love Patrick and Carrie and their children just as much as we did before. We are still family with them even though we don’t see each other. We respect them and their belief systems, despite being different from our own. We reinforced that we’d never say anything bad against them. The fact is that we just don’t agree on how to live our lives. They want things to be like they were and we need to embrace living our lives honestly, no matter what. Funny how the start of this talk, the themes of compassion and non-violence, were exactly what brought this discussion to a close much later.

“I just miss them,” Will whispered as his tears stained the front of my shirt, his head moving up and down as he quietly sobbed.

“I miss them too Sweetie,” At that moment, there was nothing left to say.

That’s a first for me. Not the angry part. No, like everyone else on the planet I’ve been fuming lots of times. The new adventure is writing when I’m still stuck in that ticked off space. Usually when I sit in my (unusually uncomfortable) writing chair I’m coping with something that made me joyful, proud, fearful, sad or confused. Sometimes I’ve been mad and I’ve worked it out before coming to write so the post speaks of resolution. Never have I been so fired up that it’s taken me a whole week just to sit and strangle the words out of my throat and pour them on the page. I’m even coughing when I chant lately so you just know I’m keeping something in there that is itching to come out.

Let me jump back and set the scene… It all started a few weeks ago when I took a Forrest Yoga workshop. It was like a tiny firecracker that started me diving head first into an emotional undercurrent. Incredibly sore and newly aware of what I was hiding in my practice, I needed more.

Step 2: my teacher intuitively gave me Ana Forrest’s book Fierce Medicine and I devoured it. The way Ana spoke of her early life, it was so much like mine that it was uncanny, and it spoke to me. Actually, it shouted. And for the first time I was really listening to what was swirling around me like I had taken off my Bose block-out headphones to hear everything loud and clear.

Step 3: The lights went on upstairs during my sweat lodge with a gifted and loving Native American Elder. Fearing someone was hurt during the sweat, I opened my eyes to see why they turned the lights on only to find it was still absolutely dark. Close my eyes and the ceiling was lit. Open them and it was pitch black. Like a cosmic light bulb went on. I quickly caught on that the Universe was joking with me and yet, very serious about connecting. Now my eyes are open.

Step 4: Butterflies show up on the scene as I tell a friend about the caterpillar transformation described in my Wounded Healers workshop. Unlikely, seeing as though they were fluttering at a two-story window that faces the garages, but okay, I’m still listening and watching.

Step 5: While I share the gorgeous sequence of events with my teacher as we wait for our fellow yogis to meet up, even down to the fact that Ana Forrest and I had equestrian life in common, two cops on horses show up behind me. On the beach no less. Signals. Flashing traffic signs. Stop. Yield. Go. I’m paying attention.

So where is this leading? I thought you are pissed Jen? You sound pretty blissed out? And yes, I am. The crazy part is while I was taking this awakening of my senses, this spiritual hiatus I was getting flooded with emails… and they all had two similar themes. As I started to reply I noticed I was basically emailing the same two messages over and over. I’m not a fan of cutting and pasting my personal communications so that was out of the question and yet, I couldn’t help but notice the similarity to my responses.

One group of emails was from parents asking for advice about their kids who do not identify with their assigned gender at birth. Their requests covered the gamut from how to handle dance recitals and school to what to do when the child asks to present outside the home. The similar theme was that the parents needed reassurance on how to move forward. It sounded like they needed someone outside their support system to talk with, and most of them wanted the type of answers that I admit I don’t have. Answers about what is happening, what to call it, how to talk about it, what to plan for, what it looks like. If you boil it down, they all want to know what’s going to happen and what are they going to do about it.

If you know me, you know that my philosophy is being who you are, so much so it’s the title of my book. I was talking with a friend today about it. That message is not just for the kids, but for the parents as well. It’s for all of us. Kids need to express themselves freely in a safe and healthy environment. Well guess that? So do we. The questions are all good. They need to be asked and still there aren’t any easy answers. I will always share my story, but everyone will have their own journey. Everyone lives life differently. No road maps. No quick fixes.

As I pondered these questions in my inbox, I dusted off a manuscript and got to editing. I’ve had a project in the works for years that walks through our story from a parent’s perspective and now it’s time I get the baby ready to go and published. Parents want resources. They want to hear about how other families are handling situations. They don’t need to follow anyone else’s path. Parents don’t have to base their choices on anyone else, but by hearing other stories they vicariously get to walk in their shoes, at least for a while. And then we learn we are not alone in any of this. That’s huge.

The second group of emails was from young people, teenage to young twenties, who asked me to give them advice on helping their parents understand their gender expression. “What can I say to help them understand?” was the recurring request and their honest, respectful desperation quickly drove me to tears. Reading stories of parents who refuse to speak to or even look at their own children. Parents who have demanded that their flesh and blood leave the safe haven of their home because the child dresses in a way that reflects who they know themselves to be. Parents who crush these intelligent minds, these loving souls, these tender young spirits with their spiteful words and ignorant fists.

These parents have no idea that their children are reaching out to me, a stranger. Reaching out even after the parent has turned their back on the child. Their children are continually grasping at straws trying to find some way to communicate with their parents, to get them to understand just a little bit of what they are going through so they don’t lose the only anchors they have in this world since birth. A parent’s love is powerful. We forget that.

Throw acceptance to the side for a minute. Of course, we all want unconditional understanding, but we might not always get it, at least not in the timeframe we want. Doesn’t mean that the person has to stop loving us in the meantime. It doesn’t mean that parents have to draw a line in the sand and release their child into the world alone, physically and emotionally. This is where I go from absolutely weeping to getting downright fiery and pissed.

What makes a parent turn their back on their child? Someone explain that to me.

Here I have these two groups emailing, parents looking for answers and kids searching for the “right words” and the reality is as hard as I try I can’t really help either group. No simple emailed reply can cover the expansive nature of coming to terms with your life not turning out the way you thought it would. And that’s one of the reasons why a lot of people have a hang up with gender diversity. It’s a big change in their eyes.

If only they could turn the situation around and see how their child is pressured to change every day to fit the demands made by our culture. The constant turmoil. The agony of simple things like getting dressed up, going to school or having a birthday party. Enjoyable moments the rest of us take for granted. Rather than think about how the child’s gender diversity affects them as their parents, why can’t they, just for a split second, walk in the child’s shoes and experience that primal disconnect? Are we so hell-bent on looking like “the typical American family” that we can’t just be who we are – loving parents who protect the safety and well-being of our children?

I know one more book in the world doesn’t make a significant difference. I’m not saying that I’m the person who will (or could) write a book to help parents come to terms, even thought that’s exactly what I will try to do. I’m saying that all of us, all the parents who have gender diverse kids and the people that love us, have that story in us that society needs to hear. We don’t need to write it if that’s not our thing. Maybe you draw and someone else sings. Maybe we advocate for our child in a gentle way that educates others. Maybe we answer the next person’s inquiry about our child’s expression with pride and pure love instead of apology and fear. Maybe we share our story with a friend or at a play group. Maybe we ask our child what it feels like to wish for different body parts. Maybe we finally tell Great Grandpa why Billy is wearing a dress… whatever it is. We can all make very large or very small steps towards demystifying gender identity and expression. And if not now, when?