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.

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.

So when our discussion last night, centered around transitioning bodies to appropriate genders, started to feel like the way people looked was more important than how they feel I started to feel like I had ants in my pants. Aren’t we trying to move past “passing” or as I like to refer to it “how people are reading us” or are we buying into it? Deep breath Jen.

Here’s my beef with “passing”, it puts the onus on the individual being read to satisfy some mystery requirements to register female or male. really Last night the specialist said that all a female needed to do to “pass” as a male was to cut their hair short, wear pants and a flannel. Really? (Immediately I turned to a friend to divulge that I had a quick 2 out of 3 tonight, but my DVF flannel was in the wash!) “Passing” feels like being thrust into a game against your will and then being told the rules were none of your business. It’s a losing affair.

“Being read” (turned on to this by S. Bear Bergman in The Nearest Exit May Be Behind You) however, puts the responsibility on the reader, not the person being read. Feels better. I know it’s just semantics, but it feels like this is where we get tripped up sometimes, our need to see ourselves through another person’s eyes while forgetting about our truth. And then I think… Wait! Shouldn’t we focus on trying to let go of judging altogether? Shouldn’t we dissolve the need to define and identify male/ female (or boy/ girl) all the time? Is it really that important? Could we even if we tried with concerted effort? I’m not sure. Maybe we are hardwired for judgment of this kind? Maybe not.

Huge alarms went off when the doctor explained that “90-95% of all trans females need breast implants.” Need? Apparently this specialist feels that because many trans females have broad shoulders and big breasts deter the eye away from the shoulders, as the shoulders are male identifiers, and bring the attention to where they should be. As in their chest? Yep! As he confidently shook his head up and down encouraging the rest of us to see the logic, my head cocked in disbelief. Here I am an very tall woman with crazy big shoulders and very small breasts. What does THAT mean? Forget my designer flannel, is he insinuating that women like me are often read as masculine? I guess the other masculine features fit me as well, angular features, lack of curves. I’ve got the whole package. Lots of people do.

As you can imagine my head was spinning by this time. I felt like I was running from side to side like a double agent in the War of Appearance. On one side I don’t want to give in to gender binaries and judgment and I want my child to just feel genuine inside her skin, whatever that means to her. On the other side I’m desperate not to miss the warning signs, the precursor to Tanner 2 where she would develop male secondary sexual characteristics. It’s not because of her being read as a female, it’s because of an oath I took. Years ago I started to own and cultivate this ever-increasing panic when my daughter made me promise that she could take hormone blockers and made me promise once again with tears in her eyes to “not forget”… it’s everything to her not to look like a man. Not to have a deeper voice, facial hair and an Adam’s apple and I’m charged with making sure that doesn’t happen.

Ominous task when no one can give me straight answers on exactly when Tanner 2 starts. “It’s a case by case basis,” the doctor said last night, and I believe him… but throw a Mom a bone! The doctors near us say she’s too young to be seen. Still, I want her to see a doctor who can help us. Sure, you won’t be administering anything, but take a baseline! Examine her Tanner 1 body so we don’t miss any warning signs. She dislikes her body so she’s definitely not monitoring her testicle size, which is exactly the red flag for Tanner 2 beginning. Breast buds are a sign for Tanner 2 starting in girls. “Peek into the shower when she is in there,” a friend suggested last night. “To stare at her genitals?” I quickly replied almost spitting my water. You can’t possibly understand how this would traumatize my daughter.

A professional stood right in front of me so why not ask how I was supposed to catch a miniscule increase in testicle size. Guess the answer? “It’s so individual, she needs a doctor that can notice the changes,” his answer bugged me, like passing the buck to someone else, anyone else. And if she did have a doctor that she trusted enough to allow him to repeatedly examine her testicles how often does that happen to catch Tanner 2 when it starts? “What’s my window of time in catching Tanner 2?” I asked. You know what he said, “Depends on the individual.” Uh-huh.

I’m confident in most every aspect of my life. Truth is my guide. But puberty, specifically the start of Tanner 2 because that is exactly when pediatric endocrinologists will take you seriously and actually see you in the office, feels like a runaway freight train full of newborn babies that’s both gaining speed and barreling off the tracks and my job is to catch it, stop it and redirect it. It’s up to me.

After some research I feel like I have a good plan on stopping it and getting it back on course. Whew! The glitch is that I live a hundred miles away from where the train is likely to show up, but I don’t know when it’s coming exactly or where. In the dark. Usually when I’m in this state of utter confusion I turn to books, and lots of them, but the books out today about puberty give me hives. They don’t say a single word about calculating when the freight train is rolling through town. And I need THAT info.

Walking out into the cool, wet night felt refreshing. I must have been sweating in my seat all evening. Nervous. Nervous still. But that’s how life happens. We sit in an uncomfortable place/s knowing that what we do is the right thing asking questions despite the answer being clearly out of view. That’s okay. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But standing in my truth, knowing I’m searching, I’m drawing the way closer to us every day. And then I trust it will appear.

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.

Take this morning… one sleepy child was in a huff that the other had (what appeared to be) more strawberry-banana smoothie in their little Lilly Pulitzer pink and green glass. Heaven forbid! Shoulders crunched, faces scrunched, eyes squinted. What time is it again? The lovey mojo of good morning kisses were long gone until I turned to iTunes to rescue us. Not even a song later I saw their postures loosen, smiles emerged and then, laughter graced my little kitchen. Saved, yet again, by the power of music. As the two pranced off, best friends once more, I stayed behind loading the dishwasher when this Tracy Chapman song came on and it hit me like a ton of bricks…

If you knew that you would die today,

Saw the face of God and love,

Would you change?
Would you change?

If you knew that love can break your heart
When you’re down so low you cannot fall
Would you change?
Would you change?

How bad, how good does it need to get?
How many losses? How much regret?
What chain reaction would cause an effect?
Makes you turn around,
Makes you try to explain,
Makes you forgive and forget,
Makes you change?
Makes you change?

If you knew that you would be alone,
Knowing right, being wrong,
Would you change?
Would you change?

If you knew that you would find a truth
That brings up pain that can’t be soothed
Would you change?
Would you change?

How bad, how good does it need to get?
How many losses? How much regret?
What chain reaction would cause an effect?
Makes you turn around,
Makes you try to explain,
Makes you forgive and forget,
Makes you change?
Makes you change?

Are you so upright you can’t be bent?
If it comes to blows are you so sure you won’t be crawling?
If not for the good, why risk falling?
Why risk falling?

If everything you think you know,
Makes your life unbearable,
Would you change?
Would you change?

If you’d broken every rule and vow,
And hard times come to bring you down,
Would you change?
Would you change?

If you knew that you would die today,
If you saw the face of God and love,
Would you change?
Would you change?
Would you change?
Would you change?

If you saw the face of God and love
If you saw the face of God and love
Would you change?
Would you change?

Last night I found myself reading into the wee hours, that’s my thing when I have too much on my mind, so I grabbed Deepak Chopra’s Power, Freedom & Grace to shine a light on what was happening in my life: finances, prickly relationships, school next year for the kids, things I wish I would have done, but didn’t have the courage to, words left unspoken. I felt like a top spiraling, but not the way you’d normally picture it quickly gliding in smooth circles, all strong and centered. No, this was the loopy, falling to one side, drunk-looking top that couldn’t decide whether to keep going or just plop over. I was flailing, so I cracked open the vessel that I hoped had an answer. It didn’t, but I got tired enough to put my thoughts to rest, at least for one night.

When I woke up my quandaries still plagued me, but in the backdrop like white noise as the kids barked at one another about breakfast and equality. Then, in my peaceful state of contemplating whether the Crate & Barrel eco-friendly bowl could actually unravel in the dishwasher like they cautioned, I began hearing the answers louder than the questions.

Every moment is another chance.

Every time I would be ready to take the step into the light I found some way to go in the other direction. I wasn’t really ready at all. Like many parents of gender diverse children, I feared that someone would hurt my children because they do not agree with our lives. That thought paralyzes me, the power of people who simply don’t understand. It took me a year to pull myself up by the bootstraps and remind myself that nothing will get better unless we educate the community and advocate for all of our children and their families.

Once the book was published and sitting in my hot, little hands, I felt the strength to put aside my fears and practice what I preach. I needed to believe in being who I was, a mom who loves her children with every fiber of her being. Still, I wondered how I could put a barrier between the image of my public self and the reality of my private self for their sake. Kind of a disconnect for folks seeking to do us harm. I guess living stealth for this long made me question everything around me and I wondered how I could insulate my children from any negative backlash.

Glasses! There you go! Sure, I usually wear my glasses when doing things with my advocacy work and they might make me look a little different, but would that make a significant difference? Then my mother suggested I wear a wig to cover my signature short pixie. I have to tell you, I considered it for a second before I remembered how ridiculous it was. Why do I need to camouflage myself?

The fear is real. It’s what prevents parents and caregivers across the country (and the world) from allowing their child to present as their identified gender outside the home. Every time I talk about gender diversity or talk with families in similar circumstances I relate the single experience that made the biggest impact on me and my family. It was the afternoon my child (pre-transition) asked me if he could wear a dress to a concert in the park.

When he asked I could feel time slow to a crawl as he stared at me, searching for the answer to a question that he didn’t directly ask. He was really asking if I believed everything I told the kids about being true to yourself. Was it really okay for him to wear a dress to the concert if he wanted? Then I asked myself. Did I really stand behind my own words? Could we handle the transition from him presenting inside the house to him presenting outside in the real world? It’s a big jump, and we did it.

Once you make that leap to presenting in the outside world, things change. Yes, you are free for the first time. Free to express yourself out in the open. What a liberating moment! I saw the exuberance on my child’s face being able to walk outdoors with a favorite outfit on. At the same time, I started to build a layer of armour against the dirty looks and the unkind comments like “Why is that boy wearing a pink dress?” Subconsciously I piled on more emotional protection when family and friends turned their backs on us as my child moved from just presenting full-time to transitioning to living full-time as her identified gender, a girl. The pain was immense. The loss, hard to make sense of yourself, let alone explain to small children.

Slowly I began to realize that the hiding I was doing, even as insignificant as it seemed, was unnecessary. If people wanted to find me, they would. As a mom, I am in protector mode 24/7 so that will never change. I trust myself. I will always put my best foot forward with regards to their safety and well-being, my only true concern, and now I’ve slowly started to accept that the light isn’t a threat. It is a freedom.

I showed up to the television studio unsure of what I was going to say and waited patiently as everyone busily prepared around me. My hands fiddled with my glasses as I listened to my kirtan music through headphones. I nervously put them on and then I took them off as if I was testing the waters. The more Krishna Das sang in my ears, the less I tugged at my glasses. At one point I took them off, slipped them into my handbag and then I totally let them go. Even before the producer finished asking me if I was ready I was nodding my head up and down, steady in my resolve. I had successfully taken off my glasses.

Just like that afternoon when my child confidently walked outside the front door ready to go to the concert, I smiled as I sat down in my seat, raised my head proudly and looked straight into the lens.

My heart sank. The mother of the 9-year-old victim spoke eloquently about how her daughter, born on 9/11, was brought into this world amidst tragedy and left this world in the same helpless circumstance. As I wiped the tears I could not hold back, my two little children played upstairs unaware of the hatred in this world.

From time to time I get a glimpse of that small mindedness here on this blog, my simple, safe space that I share with the world. Often the comments are so inappropriate that I do not post them, so I keep them hidden from you and me and them as if they never existed at all. But is that fair? I pocket the hate sometimes like an old receipt that I feel the irrational need to keep, but can’t seem to file away in the right place. So it lingers in a jacket that’s out of season left hanging in the closet. Forgotten, but there.

Here I’m on the cusp of being public for the first time to promote the book and I’m still not quite sure how to deal with hate? A friend’s voice whispers in my ear that compassion is the key. Easier said than done sometimes I think. In the past my knee jerk response to this conflict was fear, but I see how that doesn’t serve me. It doesn’t come close to satisfying what is present in my heart.

Last year a parent who was acting on the defensive (long story) threatened to out my daughter, who lives stealth. The mere mention of this sent me into a panic. Shaking, I sat at the kitchen table like a statue, unable to stop the rage and fear that pulsed through me like sparks flying off jumper cables. One part of me wanted to unleash my wrath, protect my child at any cost. Mama Bear was not happy. The other part of me wondered what I could do to defuse the situation. “How do I make this woman leave us alone?” I thought. I wanted to run away. Change our name and never look back. Looking back I recognize that her threats were out of my control. The only thing I was responsible for is my reaction to the situation.

Say the same scenario happens today, how do I react? How do I seize the opportunity for compassion and go there. Jump into the messy parts of misunderstanding and small mindedness and create a small space for love, for what it’s worth. Would it bridge the gap between she and I? Would she come to a greater understanding of my child’s diversity and I to a deeper knowledge of her fears? That’s yet to be seen.

We’ll never make sense of hatred, let’s face it. The only action I can control, especially when faced with tragedy like what happened in Arizona, is to muster up the courage to show compassion for all people, and teach my children to do the same.

Such a long lesson in patience my friends, but isn’t that the way life leads us where we need to go? Recently I met with a lovely reporter who interviewed me months ago about the book and commented that I seemed much more at ease now. I had to admit to her that I didn’t know how I’d feel when the book was released. Would I summon the courage necessary to charge forward and spread this powerful message? Would I feel exposed on some basic level and feel paralyzed to move forward? I didn’t know. I was still thinking.

On one hand I feel like a warrior, ready to talk, discuss and educate, even with those people who do not agree with our perspective. On the other hand I feel like it is a giant leap, especially when I try to keep our real names and identities unknown. I think most families with gender non-conforming kids, especially those that have transitioned may feel this way. Visibility vs. Invisibility. Ever since Hope’s transition and I started writing this blog I have stepped back in many aspects of my life. I needed to. I abandoned my former career, a certain level of notoriety and even some friends that made my social circle as wide open as I wanted. I went from being in the center to walking away. Gladly.

During this time I’ve done some serious soul-searching, seeking awareness, even enlightenment, as I open myself to every single thing that scares me. While keeping my children safe was my primary focus during the hiatus, I think I took the chance to get away myself, just to think. I look back at all those mornings on the beach this summer when I watched those two carefree souls frolicking and splashing. I know now that I was gearing up. I was charging the battery. Getting strong. All that together time made us closer than ever and we needed it, probably more than we’ll ever know. I needed to be quiet in my thoughts for some time to really feel through what it was that I was after. Define what I was called to do.

Now I sit on my living room couch gazing at wood in the hearth just begging for fire. I feel like that wood, ready for the spark. Ready to begin. I know what I’m after – to tell our story, to raise awareness, to make this world a better place for my children and all children. I’ve had my time to think and rest, and now I’m ready to get to work.

Have you shared your message of hope?

Some days I feel like I spoil them and then there are days like these where I feel like I am my father all over again, his broad, imposing figure waking me from a peacefully sleep to tell me what is wrong with me. In my mind I can’t so much make out the exact words, but I gather their meaning from the image of his infuriated beet-red face. Eyes wild with lids pulled tight into his skull. Lips spread far apart to show teeth grinding on an obsession. His jaw protruding as his rugged face contorts frantically. Adrenaline still pumps wildly through me as if I was still standing in the kitchen feeling his breath race past my face as he bellows his latest complaint. When he got a hold of something, he wouldn’t let go. Like a rabid stray left to gnaw on my tiny bones.

Is that how my children see me? Insistent and enraged? Even though I assign feelings and reasons, the “why” if you will, to my anger or disappointment, does it really matter? Does it soften the emotional blow when I share with my kids that I am just a person who strives to be a good mom, a job that’s harder than it looks? Do they recall those simple words when it’s me who looks disgusted?

If I flip the situation around (a little tactic Pema Chodron encourages me to do), could I be overreacting when the kids get upset?  Could my own unstable reaction to being reprimanded for any little thing as a child cloud the moments of today? Somewhere down deep do I still expect some type of twisted perfection where things go along as planned and everyone is happy go-lucky if I am the one “in charge”? Because if life has taught me anything, I know for certain life is not that way.

Deep in my heart, I know my father wanted to raise his children to be good people, and now as a parent I share that desire. Our methods don’t have to be the same. I believe that he leaned into my sister and I because he knew no other way. Military style worked for him and so it should for us. No matter how difficult it is to come to terms with, I am grateful for being raised by such a complicated, dynamic and loving human being despite the terror. He did his best and so do I.

As I stare up the winding stairs before me, I think about sitting down on the carpet with those two little munchkins in my arms. Maybe we’ll play a game or sing a song or talk about the day. Somewhere between here and there I will let them know that I love them regardless. I love them when I am happy. I love them when I am not. I love them when they are behaving. I love them when they are not. These little bumps are lessons for us all.

After taking the first flight, I start on the next step then stop and go back to my journal in my bedroom to write down a quick thought. It’s not the single moments that make up life, but the journey. That’s perfect enough.