Of course, as these things go, I didn’t notice what I had done. I thought I was leisurely checking out site improvements, sampling the bells and whistles, perusing what was out there to make my site faster, easier… better.

When I found out what I’d done it was as if my cat ran out of the house and under the neighbor’s bent wheel. Like the shout that never really came out of your mouth, but it was right there nonetheless. I felt sick. Where were my words? Where was my heart?

As you sit in your (hopefully) cozy chair reading this you can tell it all worked out, but the exercise walked me through a necessary evil. The Universe presented a challenge to me and with diligent faith I reacted. During the whole endeavor it became painfully clear that this place is so special to me that I’d never want to let it go. Or take it for granted.

This space is me. It soothes me like a backrub. It stirs in me like an episode of American Horror Story, too scary to watch so you listen under the warmth of your sofa blanket. It’s not a blog, a thing to visit now and again… well, it may be for you. Not for me. Not at all.

It’s the light streaming from my crown chakra as if I’m being lifted right off the ground. It’s my darkness, memories of my childhood in the Dungeon with the rusty wet stains near the broken metal door missing the screen and the Devil between two locked doors. It’s my eyes as I watch the world around, as I follow my children running in front of me their laughter muffled in their coats and scarves. It’s every wish I ever hoped for. It’s every dream left unfulfilled. My secrets. My failures. My triumphs. My love.

It’s the reminder of what makes world worth living.

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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.

Ironically it is the same center (different location) that a friend took me to in 1992 when I had a life crisis and needed help. There I learned to chant nam myoho renge kyo and quiet the bear inside me (or at least that’s what I used to say). I’m not exactly sure how I drifted away from the practice or even why. I recall being intimidated by Gongyo (it went so fast and I felt so awkward) but was that feeling strong enough to tear me away from chanting too? (And what was my bear doing now I wondered.)

Perhaps this same fear is what kept me sitting outside the Center in my car yesterday, just staring and wondering. It felt like I was going on my first blind date at a restaurant I’ve never been to. Was I at the right place? Would I know who he was? Would I like the food? What did it look like inside? Somehow the unknown kept me at bay like a child staring at a toy store that had closed ten minutes prior.

I never went in. I got an important call that took me in another direction. Wasn’t the right time I guess. Lately I’ve had the strong desire to find a spiritual outlet, a home if you will. Both for me and the kids. I raised them with a Golden Rule mentality, but no focused religion or group to call our own. These days (and after reading Eat, Pray, Love) I feel called to share my beliefs and values with others and move toward a greater spiritual connection. But how?

It’s been decades since I came to the realization that Catholicism didn’t speak my language. The ritual is one thing, but my heart is another. I was raised by two strict Roman Catholic parents who counted on my being Catholic. Shortly after my dad passed away, it all kind of fell to pieces. Since the mass reminded my mother of my father, most Sundays were spent in tears and painful regurgitations of his death. When I tried to attend mass as an adult, I finally listened to the words, not just go through the motions. It wasn’t for me.

That is how religion/ spirituality has been with me over the years. I sit in the stands watching (and admiring) from a distance, but never getting up close and personal. What do I think I’ll find if I go searching? Why so much fear? I’ve come so far lately- finding my voice, opening up to a new awareness, tapping into a newfound sense of courage and honesty. Perhaps tomorrow I will take a deep breath, open my mind and just walk right in.

Struggling not to lose that warm, snuggly feeling that assures me that I WILL fall back asleep, I soothe my worried mind by telling myself that my choices brought me to this beautiful place in my life so they must have all been part of a larger destiny, a grand plan. Telling myself over and over again that I needn’t beat myself up did not make me any less sleepy. If anything, it made me more focused.

As I settled back in my bed, shifting into the “sure thing” sleeping position, I thought about the last scene in the movie Harold & Maude where that fantastic song by Cat Stevens plays in the background. Maude takes her sleeping pills, as planned and says goodbye on her birthday. Trouble, oh trouble set me free, I have seen your face and it’s too much for me today… Harold realizes what she has done and calls for help… I’m beat, I’m torn, Shattered and tossed and worn, too shocking to see, too shocking to see… Harold is faced with the truth and decides his next step… Trouble, oh trouble move from me, I have paid my debt so won’t you leave me in my misery… his black Jaguar flies off a cliff and he’s left standing.

I’m letting my burden sail just like that car speeding off the edge. Letting it go. Saying goodbye and dancing away.

Well, that depends on what email I am answering or who is calling on the phone. You see it’s not so easy when part of you lives stealth. Your life starts to divide in a weird way and some things fall on the “new” side like the new school the kids are attending, writing the book, doing gender advocacy work and some things fall on the “old” side like my past career, friends from the old school and my larger group of acquaintances before Hope’s transition. It might sound easy to reconcile both sides, but it is not.

Here’s the tricky part about stealth. Most everything that identified me before (Hope’s transition) identified me as a mom to 2 sons. I regularly said and wrote stories about “my boys” and I can’t erase that part of my history no matter how hard I try. It’s out there. Most of my career and my social groups have nothing to do with my child’s gender identity so it shouldn’t be an issue, right? Wrong. Constantly people ask how the “boys” are mentioning them by name as I cringe in my seat waiting for my panic attack to pass. Keep smiling Jen. What to say? In that moment I am left at a crossroads where in a split second I need to decide whether I address the situation honestly and discuss Hope’s transition or divert the subject never answering the question at all. I’ll be honest with you, this process still gives me the hives.

Living stealth means there are some people you tell and some you don’t. You need to decide quickly in most cases. And for me, that is a slippery slope. Who is the gossip? Who would take this information and use it against us? What if I tell someone from the “old” life and they interact with someone from my “new” life? What happens then? When should we just maintain our privacy? When is it appropriate? Who can I trust?

It’s like I have a foot in two worlds and they constantly intersect leaving me to trip and fumble as I move forward. At my support group for parents of transgender kids, I sometimes find myself so envious of the parents of older children. They can simply tell their friends about their child’s transition and move on. Take it or leave it style. If the other person has an issue, the parents can say “Talk to (my child) about it.” And there it is, a clean break, a new start. Their adult age children can fend for themselves, whereas, my little one cannot. She looks to me to make sense of this journey and sometimes I fear she finds me with my head inside the proverbial map trying to find my way.

I remind myself that it’s going to take time so I need to be patient and gentle with myself. I wish there was a guidebook so my mistakes wouldn’t threaten Hope’s safety and well being. That is all I care about. Not me or my itching, but her. I don’t want anything bad to happen to her and I struggle that this tiny little wish is completely beyond my control. Perhaps that is why I cling to this page and release the struggle. Half of me needs to get it out and the other half needs to prevent another parent from making the same mistakes I do. Still the two sides of me tug and pull like children wanting to go in two different directions.

Since Hope socially transitioned her gender this summer some family members have reached out and expressed their love and support. Some people in our extended family have stayed in the background defining Hope’s transition as “my mistake” and “my decision”. Rather than talk with me directly, they have chosen to gossip about my family like we were the topic of a catty talk show where loud women sit around and judge others. Needless to say, this changes holiday plans significantly.

After writing an article about sparing your holiday nightmare, I started to think about what that means for us. This year we opt to host a celebration in our new home. I know, how insane to have a holiday dinner only 5 days after moving in! Nevertheless, we can’t go backwards and do things like we have for years. Things have changed and I feel the need to create new traditions and celebrations to keep my family safe.

Perhaps that is one of the reasons we opted to move into a larger home, to have the ability to create the memories we long to cherish. A warm house filled with love and laughter. A big table filled with those we love and who genuinely love us. Sure, the table might be scarcely filled at first, but watch as the guest list grows year by year.

My fondest memory of the holidays is a solitary one. After the clanging of pots and pans invaded my dreams, I peered at the bedroom door of my youth to find the glow of the kitchen light creeping up the stairs. I’d close my eyes and savor the smell of Grandma’s bread baking in the oven. I didn’t call out. I didn’t get up. I didn’t help my mother. I just stayed there- safe and secure as the holiday dinner simmered in the hush of the early morning hours. Even though it only happened at Thanksgiving and Christmas, I waited for that moment all year like an addict. I never told anyone. Guess I didn’t want anything to change. As if my acknowledgement would affect the sequence and ruin my treasure forever.

It’s funny. I am not even sure when I experienced that moment in person for the last time. Still, I hold it dear to me like an expression of love. I guess what I crave more than anything is the feeling of security and the knowledge that I know what is happening next. The very thing that I’ll never experience in my parent’s home again.

There has to be a way to reach out & help these kids. Where do they go? How can we find them? Quick research shows that many are forced into prostitution or commit suicide. Is that any type of childhood? Who is caring for these innocent little children? Who is showing love to them? The sense of panic consumes me as I watch my child, safe in her bed. Snuggled tight in the safety of our home and our love.

Even though little by little I would remember what was going to happen when I walked into the elevator and pushed the button, I could not control how I went about saving myself. It was like I forgot how I got out of it the last time. This went on for years and years. As I got older I began bracing myself by placing each foot at a corner and positioning my hands on the corners of the ceiling so that I would be stationary while the cab made full circles. I spiraled like this for another couple years feeling disconnected to everything but this menacing force set out to scare the living lights out of me.

Once I reached the point where I quickly got into place and then laughed as we looped around and around, it stopped. It was like I conquered the instability of my life and put the fear in check. I felt this sense of relief waking up without the torment.

Then a few days ago my sister called and told me she was having a heart attack. This was the call I dreaded since she turned 42, the age my father’s sister died of a massive heart attack. Only eight years shy of the age my father passed away of the same add a stroke. Same story as my grandmother and my uncle. A kind of genetic assault that leaves our family asking not if, but when and where a heart attack will happen next. My sister is 44.

Upon hearing the news I scrambled to prepare myself for the 6 hour drive south. Not her. I pleaded with the powers that be. Not my life line. Not her. Not now. Was anyone listening? I felt hopeful for a moment and then memories flooded into my sight line.

My father saying goodbye to me while he held his arm near the elbow. His lips moving though I can’t seem to hear the words. Flashing lights from the fire trucks and ambulances as we pulled up to our house. Hearing the screaming before I recognized it as my own. Running into the doorway and seeing him lying on the living room floor there while people hovered over him. People touching him, poking him and looking at me.

I stayed outside on the porch but ran to the picture window just left of the doorway to escape what I saw. Was it real? Screams flickered from the top of the stairs. My sister’s desperate wailing made me inch closer to the doorway. Too frozen to ever take a step, I stood there and just watched.

Who knows how much time I spent just staring at my nearly packed bag as I recalled the single most painful day of my life. I knew I had to still pick up my mother in one state and then drive like the wind to reach my sister in another. I knew that I would need to be the strong one for my mother. Be the one who calms and quiets, the keeper of hope and logic. My sister takes good care of herself. She is strong. She knows more than they did. She has better care than they did. She… she… she is my best friend and she’s not dying today. That’s it.

That night when I laid my head down on my niece’s pillow I thanked the heavens. Life didn’t repeat itself. She made it through. I think I was still counting my blessings as I slipped unsteadily into a brief, but deep sleep.

Doors opened and there I was back in an elevator. This time it was a glass number that slid along a skyscraper. Okay. Let’s do this. My eyes scanned the smooth top of the elevator looking for a familiar resting place for each hand when suddenly we lounged forward away from the building and my cheek hit the cold glass. Nothing was underneath us. Nothing. We just sped horizontally toward some structure in the distance. It got me again.

Now I wonder how long I will have to relive this dream night after night until I find a way to champion the fear?