How many times did I hear this when I was little? After a while I didn’t need it whispered into my ear anymore, I embodied it. I knew there were things I was never expected to say, at home or out in public, like they never happened. Off limits for good, like a dangerous abandoned mine.

It made for an interesting supper time as my family sat around chatting. Never characterized as quiet people by any stretch of the imagination, my parent’s hushed tone signaled an off-subject topic that immediately sank into the family vault. Adoptions, affairs, sickness, rage, runaways, sexuality, abuse, alcoholics, you name it. They called them Family Secrets.

Now as a parent with a lot to explain I finally understand what they were trying to accomplish, walk a very fine line between what’s public and what’s private behind and outside closed doors. What do you share with others? What things do you keep to yourself?

Last week Hope came home in a panic. Not thinking of the consequences (and probably just wanting to make conversation) her brother commented to some friends that Hope named herself. Since she’s stealth at school this information is strictly confidential, and Will knows it. Although she profusely denied the claim to her friends, she retained a look of betrayal several hours later as we sat at the dinner table to discuss.

Looking more like a hungover frat boy than a well-intentioned 5-year-old, Will sat with his head in his hands as he kept saying, “I don’t know why I said it.” I believed him, and yet the question of boundaries was sitting before us like the holiday meal scheduled less than 48 hours away.

“What if Hope talked to your friends about the fact that you sleep with your Lovey at night?” he popped upright looking remarkably alert, and shocked, “Would that make you feel good? Would that be something you’d like your family to share with your classmates?” His answer was clear. And so we talked about what privacy means and why it’s important to us. No threats of retribution. No code of silence like when I was young. Just logic infused with love.

That night I lay in bed thinking of how parenting feels like one long essay question. Every so often there’s a pop quiz that tests your skills. What have you mastered? What needs improvement? It challenges me to use my voice as an individual and a parent instead of mindlessly falling back on the way I was raised.

My children are encouraged to speak their mind and stand in their truth. Most of the time it works out for the best, and other days it becomes crystal clear that we are still learning our boundaries and finding our way. I’m grateful for this. Hope learned how to handle feeling outed. Will learned that his words have consequences, and can hurt people. I learned that I am not so afraid of secrets.

Gender Conversations, a new site dedicated to discussions about gender identity, expression and diversity, was born from the need to have our expanded, global community connect in a more user-friendly way. I love social media and daily digests, but it is all missing a critical search function. I want to type “hormone blockers” into a search engine in one site and hear from parents, clinicians and trans folks and learn from different perspectives. This isn’t possible on most sites I know about right now.

By connecting with GC, members can connect and quickly explore what they’re looking for without sifting through long conversation threads. Similarly they don’t have to get online so often. Put a discussion out there and you can still easily check on it months later to conveniently see what new members have added. Love that. Events are being posted. Groups are being formed. People are talking. It’s all coming together so check it out and let me know what you think.

Click here for an invite and feel free to share with those people who have a story to share. And so the party begins!

After discussing the latest Exit Stage Left, my dinner companion commented that this person had a problem with showing up. And it dawned on me. That’s why I was so annoyed with the situation. It wasn’t because my feelings were hurt, it was overwhelming confusion mixed with frustration. And disappointment.

Since it struck such a chord with me I had to go deeper, investigate if this was something I seriously feared in myself. Lo and behold, it was. First stop – my reiki master for clarity (and boy did I get it!) then I sat in meditation for quite some time contemplating me, my life and my actions. Here’s what I know… I show up.

It might seem like a simple concept, but for me it’s beyond just sticking to your word or being loyal. It’s really being there, being present even when that’s not the easiest thing to do. I’m not saying that I’m perfect at it, but it’s my guiding light, my truest life lesson.

How do I show up every day for my children? Not just pass the time or dart from activity to activity mindlessly wasting the minutes and moments, but really show up for them emotionally, even spiritually? How do I show up for my family and friends? Better yet, how do I show up for me, my work, and the things I hold most near and dear to my heart? Am I actively participating in my life or am I taking the virtual ski lift to watch everyone else living? I’m showing up.

Granted, it’s not the easiest. There are days when I wish I could take the backseat, let anyone else shoulder the burden. Walk away. Step aside and allow whatever insurmountable hurdle to pass by without me having to dig in and do the dirty work.  But what happens then? If I don’t handle my problems now they’ll just be my problems later. Now or later, my choice.

I’m grateful for these little moments that shine a light on my default thoughts and actions. Slowly but surely I’m even changing some of my inner dialogue, the endless tape of messages played non-stop before I actively quiet my mind. Today I’m interrupting the barrage of “shoulds” that flood my consciousness and inserting my affirmation – I’m showing up. I’m open. I’m ready. And I’m here.

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?

“I was in a self-induced coma,” I explained as we started picking at the appetizer plate. It’s true. I disconnected last summer when Hope transitioned. Whether it was the emotional heaviness of all the changes in our lives or just a feeling of being overwhelmed in general, or both, this social butterfly started to bail on events. So unlike me, a person who adores getting dressed up and catching up with friends. As summer turned to fall, I found myself ready and willing to go to a party early in the day; however, as time ticked by I got increasingly comfortable with all the rationalizations why I shouldn’t go. The kids need me. I’m tired. I gained too much weight and have nothing to wear. I’m depressed. I have so much on my mind I don’t feel like small talk. I wish I didn’t have to go. I’m scared. So many excuses flopped around in my brain all day, like lonely delicates on a slow cycle.

Each time I bailed on a fundraiser or gathering, I figured I would surely attend the next, and so on, and so on until the weeks turned to months. I stopped opening invite emails and then the moment arrived… Click! I just up and deleted my email address. Now that will stop the trappings of my social world once and for all! Only my inner circle had my personal email address so it made sense to me. If they really need me (and I mean beyond the occasional brunch or benefit) they will find me. While everyone was out gallivanting, I needed to sit back and think. And think I did.

“I lost my funny,” my friend disclosed as the entrees were taken away and my cheerful face fell. “It was the stress,” she confided as she told her story of trying to do it all and be everything to everyone, and I still couldn’t grasp it. Her? This industrious powerhouse of energy and light? Apparently even the life of the party got sidetracked once in a while too. Don’t fret, she quickly got her humor back, and might I add, better than ever. It was all just another step along the road.

Later that night as I walked to the subway I grabbed my scarf and threw it around my neck and finished the knot. The long anticipated cool breeze begged me to saunter slowly (not launch into my normal power walk) and I thought long and hard about our conversation. I guess life unfolds in due time.

There are moments we find ourselves hosting the celebration, organizing every last detail and making sure it all goes as planned. Other times we find ourselves as the unofficial entertainment with rousing stories full of merriment and laughter. Other periods we are the proverbial wallflower – in attendance, but not really there. And then there are times in our lives when we just don’t show up. We’re somewhere else altogether.

In the end it doesn’t matter as long as we are being true to ourselves. The seasons will come and go and true friends will be there if we are honest. And there is always another party right around the corner. I am sure of it.

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 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.

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.

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.

This weekend our play date group for gender variant kids met and while the kids were busy playing and crafting, the parents had a welcome opportunity to talk about what happened in the past month since we saw each other, ask questions and share thoughts. Although I love the fact that the kids have each other, I am filled with a deep sense of gratitude for the support of these fellow parents.

Who else understands this life parenting a trans or gender variant child (and their siblings)? No one. It’s like a deep sigh of relief when our group gets together. They get where I am coming from without judgment and their shared experiences give me so much to think about. This past get together was no exception.

After settling in we talked about a philosophy where some parents do not transition their child at all. Rather they explain to the outside world that their child identifies as the other gender and that’s it. If they were born a boy, they stay living as a boy. The rest of us cocked our head as if we needed more. This philosophy (someone email me the real name so I am not disrespectful) contends that 80% of all (let’s just use) trans girls, meaning affirmed girls who were born in boy bodies, actually grow up to be homosexual males. Now I felt my eyes squinting as if the information could sink in quicker if they narrowed. Huh?

The philosophy is that very early on (ages 3-4 or so) homosexual men are socialized to learn what men in society are looking for- women. So these little boys emulate women because that is the object of desire for men. Once puberty hits and the surge of hormones manifest biological changes to these little boys (who previously identified as female) they start to understand that they, in fact, desire other men. When they identify with a group of males who desire other males, the female persona, if you will, is no longer needed and fades away.

I consider myself an open person, but I think my mouth hung open. What? It wasn’t that I didn’t believe what the parent was explaining, but that it put my whole transgender child philosophy on it’s ear. (I think that’s what any good conversation can do) My mind raced. How do they know which children are trans and which are homosexual? What are the signs? At what ages? How do you protect the well being of your child while allowing their TRUE gender identity and sexual orientation unfold naturally? So many questions!

First, I had to ask about hormone blockers. My daughter is petrified of growing up to be a man or as she puts it “looking like Daddy” with his hairy arms, beard and legs. She used to run to me crying about the fact that she can’t be a man, pleading for help so that she doesn’t have to be. Our answer is/was to give her hormone blockers when the time is right to simply delay puberty until she was ready to make more permanent decisions. This way she would not have the surge of male hormones that will create lasting secondary sexual characteristics such as an Adam’s apple, strong lines in the jaw area, etc. Hypothetically if we were to consider the philosophy discussed at the play date we would not give our child hormones and see what happens naturally.

As I tried to process the information, I thought about the countless children and young adults who commit suicide after puberty hits. They simply cannot endure the changes brought on by adolescence because it feels so wrong to them. Many become clinically depressed, socially withdrawn. This doesn’t sound like they are figuring out they are gay. This sounds like they are being held hostage in the wrong body. So if the statistics are true and there is a possibility of the child actually being gay instead of trans, a parent would want that child to have the chance to develop into the person they naturally are. Does that mean that blockers could stifle their true identity? Or do blockers allow the child to have the time to develop naturally? How do parents know which road to take as the age of puberty looms around the corner? Blockers or no blockers? My mind became fuzzy.

Where is the research? How old is the data and the stats that we are talking about? Now that there are trans kids in society does the same old data still apply? And who is studying these children and creating new data? I am lucky to know a local therapist who is starting to do just that. (I’ll share more as the organization is ready) I just have to wonder with all these important changes taking place across the world, how many studies are being conducted and what are they finding out?