Just saw the CNN clip with Kimberly Reed, director of the movie, telling their story of two brothers whose lives have changed in immeasurable ways. Kimberly, a transgender person, goes back to her high school for a reunion and to reunite with her brother who has suffered a brain injury that challenges their relationship.

I’ve summarized it in my own words, but there is so much more to the story. It’s a unique perspective about unexpected changes in life and how we cope with them. I think we could all relate to that concept in life.

“She likes to dress like a boy. She wants to be a boy. So we had to cut her hair. She likes to wear boys’ everything. She thinks she’s one of the brothers.” Jolie was quoted as saying. Perhaps because an international mega-star like Jolie has said it people across America will think twice before judging other children like Shiloh.

Isn’t that what it takes sometimes? A popular tv show or a celebrity to validate everyday life. I think lots of folks subconsciously rely on prime time and magazines to provide cues on how to think, what to wear and of course, what to buy. When in fact, life is just fine no matter how you look at it.

Nevertheless, I am enormously grateful that Jolie responded honestly about the questions regarding her child’s clothes. I hope that it opens doors of thought for people across the planet. It definitely made me smile.

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.

This morning we found out that a really lovely person we know was murdered. For nothing, really, The person (or people) that took his life wanted his new car. Here he was waiting for the next two weeks to slip by so that he could peacefully retire and live out his happy life. It didn’t happen. I keep thinking of him and his family, wishing them peace.

In my heart I go to that place that tells me that his work here was finished. As my best friend always says, everything is divinely right. Yes. Although I believe that’s true, my mind challenges my heart by reminding me that we are all a breath away. A blink away. A wave and a smile goodbye. Flash… and it’s gone.

For the first time in my life I can honestly say that I am loving the way I am destined to. I am living the way I feel is genuinely, and for that matter, divinely right. It is all in line. Not perfect, but real. It’s flowing without regard to what it looks like to anyone else. Pure. Free. Real.

Whenever you lose someone in your life you re-assess. This evening I said goodnight to a family who makes me happier and more fulfilled than I have ever been in all my (almost) forty years. Each one of them have been my gift. My reward perhaps. My everything.

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.

How do we live each day? How do we love?

A few days ago my father-in-law passed away after a painful and heroic battle with lung cancer. He never complained once. He never felt sorry for himself. He never gave up his fight to live even when his body didn’t agree. His life, and death, is a pure example of determination and optimism.

Despite so many life altering and tragic obstacles that would have debilitated most of us, he chose to consistently see the bright side of life and the people around him. I think of that so often.

My kids were lucky to have him in their lives. When Hope transitioned he stayed the same grandfather he’d always been- loving, playful, fun. Even though he was a pretty conservative guy with a traditional history he kept showing his love for my daughter and my son equally. Kept showing everyone how proud he was of them. I was always so touched by him. I loved him dearly.

Unknowingly he filled an aching void in my heart created when my father passed away when I was a child. He comforted me in a way that I could never quite say thank you enough. I am a better person for knowing and loving my father-in-law and having the chance to call him Dad, if only for a short time.

The person who made the joke isn’t aware of proper social boundaries, nor is it likely they will ever learn given their environment. The nature of the joke just shows how ignorant the person is about my child’s life. Comparing my 6-year-old little girl to adult gay men really isn’t cutting edge humor, now is it?

Ironic thing is that this young person has their share of (often socially judged) eccentricities. (Glass houses, if you ask me.) Perhaps it is their deep-seated feeling of being different that makes them prey on others? You’d think both parties would have a bigger heart, but no.

There’s two ways to go with this, at least in my mind. We can internalize their words and become haters, so slighted by living a path that is a little difficult and isolating at times that we lose sight of our humanity. We can choose to spew frustrations out on others both weak and small to gain a little head way in the power department. I could teach my children to disguise whatever it is about them that makes them either seem or feel different to achieve the glorious honor of fitting in with the rest of the group. That’s one way to look at it.

The other path is to feel compassion for the person and their parent. They are obviously grossly misinformed. When they are so many intelligent and inspiring viewpoints in the world why focus on words so small-minded and damaging? We can choose to move beyond the words and see people for who they are – the good, the bad and the ugly. Doesn’t mean that I will ever subject my children to their hatred and cruelty, but I can move past anger and betrayal. They are living a life motivated by fear. That’s where the joke and the corresponding laughter comes from – Fear. Dress it up in any fancy clothes and call it what you like, but I know what it is. And I want no part of it.

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.

Instead of going on the attack, I tried something new. I took a moment to find out where this anger is coming from. Feeling left out, I guess. Both my feeling of being left high & dry and the fear that because my daughter is trans that she’ll be left out just the same. Maybe the fear that they really don’t accept us. That they wouldn’t really go to bat for us if they can’t handle a simple birthday party. Abandonment has a special hold on me at times and floods my judgment with instant panic. So breathe, Jen, breathe.

Maybe, just maybe, this isn’t just about me or my child. Maybe this person needs some extra time and can’t say so. Maybe some of the people at the party disagree with Hope’s transition or simply can’t understand. It wasn’t long ago that these friends finally came around to even seeing us and now a big party could feel a little daunting. Perhaps this is her way of protecting Hope? Can I be a little patient? Can I be big enough to put the shoe on the other foot and see from a different perspective? If my child came to me with the same issue, how would I suggest they handle it? Can I practice what I preach?

Sure, I want things to go on like normal because that’s how life feels. Still, I have to honor where people are at and what they can and can’t accept at this time. Truth be told, I know in my heart that attending the party isn’t in the cards for us. No matter what excuse is used or how it is communicated, it isn’t meant to be- plain and simple.