Every moment for the past 40 years has been rapid, like I’m navigating wet stepping-stones set too far apart across an angry current, and you just know the bone crushing waterfall waits around the corner. You can feel it. Adrenaline pulsing, mind racing activity focused on sheer survival. I’ve always been able to quickly stay the course and hop back and forth across the slippery banks of pain and pleasure. But what about happiness?

When Hope transitioned almost two years ago I had to stop staring at my feet and let go of where I thought I was headed. My inwardness (my extroverted disguise) was challenged for the first time, despite acting as a mother for almost 6 years and I needed to let go. I jumped, sailed down that river and across the bend to meet that watery cliff… and off I went.

I’ve been falling these past two years, and sharing that lovely suspension with you. In that time I’ve caught my breath, used my voice and even lifted my self-imposed veil of secrecy. I’ve been the mother and the person I’d always hoped I could be. Meaningful stuff. And, like every journey, you never stay in one spot for too long.

Last week I felt the whoosh, like when you nervously dive off the highest diving board and finally ignite with the water below, and I had to make another choice. Stay in the dark bliss below the surface where you can hide or rise up to face what lies above in the light. Tempting as the coziness below feels, I am destined to ascend. To move on. Hope and Will show me that every day, their resiliency and raw courage radiating with each smile. I’ve made it. I jumped and I survived. Now what?

“Allow yourself to be needy Jen,” my Reiki Master told me this weekend, “Other people, I tell them to be less dependent on others, but you? You do just fine all by yourself.” And it’s true. I’d rather crawl into my comforting seclusion than have to work out life’s complexities with others. It feels weird. I wasn’t raised that way. I was trained to be fiercely independent, strong to a fault and so resilient it scares people, but that’s not taking me to the next level spiritually. I’m not in this world alone, and I don’t want to be. I want more. I need more.

So for the first time friends are hearing that I need them and it feels good. I guess I always thought that if I asked for what I needed that no one would listen. Back then I didn’t have enough love for myself to even try. Most friends have generously opened their arms wide to embrace me, accepting me for who I am right now – imperfect and completely honest. Others lost my phone number (and email address) when I showed my first sign of weakness. It stings a bit, but when I look around at who is left I see that I am blessed. I am loved. I am whole. And I can move forward with my heart and mind wide open.

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.

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Thank you!

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.

Just moments before I plopped down at my desk I was cleaning the coat closet, a favorite activity, while listening to my newly downloaded Beatles picks on iTunes. Retrieving little jackets shoved into the few empty spaces, I discovered wooly hats stuffed in random boots and the mitten I was searching the house for yesterday. As I tended to the less complicated part of my day, I found myself singing along with so much passion that I did something I hadn’t done since my freshman year in college. I simply stopped and sat in the closet to think. Weird as it might look, I felt like something huge was coming, like a storm or an epiphany.

“When I find myself in times of trouble mother Mary comes to me… speaking words of wisdom.. Let it be… And in my hour of darkness she is standing right in front of me… speaking words of wisdom.. Let it be…”

I believe everyone has a beacon of light, whether it’s traveling with you right now or not. Whether you see it in the distance or not. Whatever that looks like, something brings you, and me, peace. It’s that person, place or thing that kidnaps us from fear’s grasp and returns us safely to ourselves.

During lunch today the kids were asking about my childhood, specifically about the dungeon I was sent to play in when I was a small child. My early years must sound like Dickens next to what they experience every day.

“The dungeon… was it scary?” Will asked, his eyes wide and bright. Hope leaned in a little as if the answer would have significant meaning.

“Yes. Back then I thought the devil lived there,” to which I quickly added, “but I don’t believe in the devil anymore and nothing was in that dungeon except me and my imagination… and some big spiders.” Both pairs of eyes squinted at me like there was something more that I wasn’t giving up.

“Who is this devil Mom?” Hope inquired, so serious that I could see her as an investigative reporter one day. Well, needless to say we talked about my Catholic upbringing, ghosts, angels, spirit guides and even kirtan music for a long time until Hope gave me a shock.

“I believe there is a spirit that goes everywhere with us,” she said matter-of-factly and I think I actually cocked my head. We’d never explored anything like that before. She added the spirit could be any color you wanted. Cool.

“I believe in the Universe… and everything in it,” Will added, his arms spread out wide like he was giving the air before him a bear hug. Nice.

Me? I believe in light. I believe we are all connected. We live for a brief moment and whatever joy we find along the way is a gift. Today I tuned into the little things that set my heart on fire – talking with my kids, disconnecting from my mind and turning up the volume on my heart.

“And when the night is cloudy… there is still a light that shines on me… Shine on until tomorrow… Let it be”

“I wake up to the sound of music… mother Mary comes to me… Speaking words of wisdom… Let it be”

Have you shared your message of hope?

This morning I sauntered along the park hand in hand with my little one. Lost in thought I caught a blizzard out of the corner of my eye and my son’s hearty belly laugh tickled my ears. Bright yellow leaves cascaded from an enormous tree by the hundreds. Instinctively we started darting from one leaf to the next trying to catch them mid-flight. I lost all train of my thoughts giving into the laughter built up within me. Each time we collected a leaf we squealed with joy and proudly displayed our latest catch. Exhilarating!

When we sat down to sketch a nearby fountain I felt like life slapped me in the face I was so alive and happy. As our Sharpies made masterpieces we talked about everything under the sun. What would we do for the holidays? Where did his grandfather go after he died? What was our favorite season? How did we describe God? The things this little (almost) five-year old and I covered. The incredibly loving and clever mind of this little person!

So many times I wonder if Hope’s life overshadows his, even more than any older child takes over a younger child’s schedule. We’ve altered all of our lives because of Hope’s transition and the bullying she experienced in school. Instead of being defiant or bitter, he is this affectionate, understanding brother always willing to tell his sister “You look pretty” or “That’s a nice dress” when she gets ready. It’s destiny that we are all connected this way. The love that surrounds this little family is inspiring and I am eternally grateful.

No matter how hard I try I can’t balance the scales of their lives and that is okay. I’m sure that is a struggle for every parent with more than one child. The best that I can do is to see each child for exactly who they are and celebrate that person proudly.

I think our little walkabouts will become a habit, not a special treat.

“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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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