If you haven’t seen this, check it out. Look past the subtitles for an artistic, upbeat and informative piece about a gender diverse teen. She’s adorable!

So here’s the press release for Nightline tonight. They approached me a while ago and I sent them my book, but how they will report and what they will say is anybody’s guess… until tonight. 

“Primetime Nightline” Goes Inside the World of Transgender Kids and

Teens in “My (Extra) Ordinary Family: Transgender Kids”

Special Airs Wednesday, August 31 at 10:00 p.m. ET

“Primetime Nightline” goes on a remarkable journey inside three families, struggling to do the right thing for their transgender kids.  One biological boy who at age ten is now going to school as a girl and who will soon be given medicine to stop him from going through male puberty; a15 year old biological girl who is taking testosterone to make her more masculine; a 19 year old biological male who goes to Mexico to have six surgeries in two hours to make him more feminine.

Nightline’s Cynthia McFadden looks at the challenges that these children confront, the difficult decisions they and their parents have to make and, at times, the risks they have to take in order to become the person they feel they were born as.

We look at the social, medical, and surgical changes, as well as the emotional journey on which these children are embarking.  We talk to the leading experts.  And find a grim reality:  transgender kids often are rejected by their families.  One estimate has over 33% of them attempting suicide.

We also profile Kim Petras, a burgeoning pop sensation who became the world’s youngest person to have a complete sex change operation at the age of 16.

We also interview Charles Kane perhaps the only person in the world to have sexual reassignment surgery twice…going from man to woman and back again…he regrets his decision to have sexual reassignment surgery and believes children should not be given these therapies.

Meet some of those we follow:

Jackie is a 10 year old from Ohio who was originally born as Jack.  As a toddler, Jack was drawn to his sister’s dolls and clothes, and enjoyed dressing up in tutus. At 10 years old, with tears in his eyes, he told his parents “I’m a girl on the inside.” Within months, with his parents help, Jack becomes Jackie. She now attends school as a girl, wearing girl’s clothing, heels, and makeup.  We watch as Jackie navigates her transition and meets relatives for the first time as a girl.  Soon Jackie will begin taking puberty blockers, a controversial treatment, which will prevent her from going through male puberty.

Nathan is a 15 year old living in Arizona and was originally born Natalie.  Always feeling out of place as a girl, he came home from his first day of pre-school to tell his mother, “I’m a boy.”  He started dressing in gender neutral clothing in pre-school.  As Natalie grew up, her parents became convinced this wasn’t a phase and are now helping him transition.  We watch as Natalie changes his name to Nathan in court and prepares to start testosterone treatment, which will give him physical attributes of a boy.  Harassed into home schooling, Nathan has no friends his own age.  Cynthia McFadden introduces him to his transgender idol Chaz Bono, who offers him and his family a few words of advice and hope.

Vanessa is 19 years old living and working in New York City. Vanessa was born as Pierry.  At first, her immigrant family had a difficult time accepting their son as their daughter, but now that she has decided on surgery, they have come to support her.  But neither the family nor Vanessa can afford the transition, so she has turned to prostitution to pay for the body she feels she should’ve been born with in the first place.  We go along with her to Guadalajara, Mexico, where a wad of $6500 cash will buy her six surgeries in two hours as she struggles to become the woman she’s always wanted to be.

For parents of gender diverse kids, it’s a little more than the usual parent revelations like, “Oh, Billy needs braces. I didn’t see that coming.” It’s legal name changes and Tanner stages and pediatric endocrinologists. And choices. Choices that alter your child’s path in this world. Big stuff.

Last week Hope mentioned that she wanted to make it so that she and other people only saw her name on all documents. Translated – legal name change. Most people look at me funny when I explain that we haven’t gone through this yet. Like it’s on the gender diverse kids checklist, whatever that is (but if you see one, email me Some people have given me the awkward ‘You don’t practice what you preach!” look when they hear that my child hasn’t legally changed her name to date. Like I’m in some sort of denial about her legal name given at birth.

In our eyes nothing could be farther from the truth. Every single step we’ve taken on this journey with Hope has been instigated by HER. Not me. Not her dad. Not her therapist. Her. So why would we push a name change when it really never was an issue before. Obviously we notice as she is getting older how this will benefit her, passport changes and all, but we’re talking right now in her life. In a weird way, it’s like it never came up so we just listened for her cues.

Let’s face it, an 8 year old isn’t going to be so savvy announcing that she’s ready for a legal name change. Although who knows, some may request it if their friends have gone through legal name changes. Hope’s friends haven’t. For the most part they were fortunate to all have gender ambiguous names to start with. So she opened the conversation with the fact that she hears her old name at the doctor’s office and when she sees the insurance cards and such and she doesn’t want that. She wants her real name 24/7, 365, forever. This new piece of info led to a pretty lengthy discussion about what a legal name change means and what it takes.

Despite not wanting people to discuss her private life openly in court, she’s game. And so are we. Now to the next task of researching, collecting information and compiling letters and legal help. If you have knowledge in this area, comment here or email me at Jen@JenniferCarrBooks.com. The more I know the better this experience will be for all of us.

Trust me, I’m not complaining. This is life and I’m particularly grateful for it. If this is the next step for my child to feel right in her skin, to feel completely whole, I’m in. Let’s go to court.

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.

Today while sorting laundry his words danced across my consciousness like opening credits in a romantic comedy and I quieted my thinking long enough to evaluate what it meant to me. It’s true in the past I’d reinvent myself. My job hit a plateau and poof! I’d have a better one. A boyfriend broke up with me and chop! went the hair. Bored with my apartment and voila! I’d be in a cuter place across town before the month ended. A friend makes a snide remark (like I wouldn’t fit in her skinny jeans even if I tried… not like I remember that or anything) and snip! went the ties that bind us. Yes, I could stop dead in my tracks, switch direction and forge a new path without a moment’s hesitation. Yes, I could pick myself up and change the scenery. Yes, I could run and hide and pretend nothing happened. But it did.

When my friend of many, many years said this, I think he was trying to compliment me, even comfort me that I didn’t need anyone else’s help. I would be just fine on my own no matter what because I had this fabulous quality the way he spoke about it. Always-have-and-always-will type of thing. A couple years ago I might have beamed with pride at hearing that assumption about me, but today it leaves me hollow, like a dingy, vacant apartment with little bits of packing tape on the floor and empty, bent hangers in the closet. Just pick up and reinvent myself now? Me?

The concept is utterly foreign to me if I am honest with myself, but perhaps I’m not expanding my thinking far enough. Just maybe each time I scrapped where I was I simply moved closer to being who I really was. Instead of thinking that I put on a new disguise, like I lived my life incognito in some weird way, maybe I can see how each decision navigated the course toward finding the real me? Deep in my heart I believe there is a divine time, divine order in constant control. Whether I resist or not is up to me. My actions are up to me. Still, does that mean that I am forced to shift gears when things go sour? Or do I have the power to ride the wave of challenging times with complete surrender? I think I’m growing up.

Let’s face it. It would have been easier to chuck everything and move when Hope transitioned two summers ago. No doubt about it. If I was the one-trick-pony my friend alluded to than I would have reinvented us somewhere else and started over, right? I’m not saying that moving fixes every single hurdle, it doesn’t. Nothing does. But it does give the chance to have some breathing room. Despite myself the thought never crossed my mind to leave our city and go where no one would know us. If anything I was on auto-pilot digging deeper to keep things grounded and normal and real.

Maybe that’s a signal of me outgrowing my more impetuous reactions and quick-fixes or better yet, not needing to chart the course in search of myself. I’m here. And I’m handling my problems moment by moment, not by changing my surroundings either. In the end I think my friend was partly right, no matter what happens I will be okay. Not because I can change directions and start fresh, but because I can stand still and just be me.

“Nick? Nick, is that you?” she asked, her head bobbing in the yes direction as if she was the person who was making this decision and possessed the power to make us agree by placing us in a trance like state with her nod. The three of us sat there in the park perplexed as if she was speaking a foreign language to us and seemed desperate to to find out where the bathroom was. What was she talking about? Time passed slowly, very slowly. Oh heavens, Hope used to be called Nick. I forgot.

So many times we find ourselves in such happy spaces with life moving blissfully forward that we don’t remember that our existence was different at one point. We simply don’t remember right away. That might sound strange to the outsider. How could you not quickly recall that your child was once identified as male? Odd as it may sound, I do, I forget.

I guess I don’t see her as anything but Hope. Even when she had a different name and was identified as a different gender, she was always the same person, the same child: sweet, funny, intelligent, tender, playful, responsible, intuitive. She is just the same today. Granted she is way happier with people understanding who she understands herself to be, and that’s a good thing; however, not much has changed since she transitioned. Maybe her clothes got a little more colorful and her hair got longer, but she is the same wonderful person I’ve known since Day 1. And I’m grateful.

Even Will told our therapist that he thought the woman who was shouting at us was speaking to him. “Who’s Nick?” he said gesturing wildly with his hands, his shoulder bouncing up and down as his voice went up an octave, “My sister is Hope.” The words fell on my ears like kisses, this remarkable little person, two years younger than his sister and yet so protective and so extremely sensitive to her feelings. What a blessing that we are related to this tiny champion, but then again, there are no mistakes in life. No roll of the dice in my opinion. Throw luck out the window on this one. We are all meant to be together, to be this family working through moments like this when things go from lazy day at the park to spotlight on Hope’s gender transition.

“It’s Hope now,” I explained to our now somewhat familiar interrogator as I gently placed my hand on Hope’s back. I think the woman worked at the preschool the kid attended in what seemed another lifetime.

“Is Nick at school then?” her urgency for crystal clear answers felt like a chill on an otherwise sunny afternoon. She wasn’t going to stop, was she? 

“I think you’ve forgotten, it’s Hope now,” I calmly, but strongly, informed her with a generous smile and a nod as if to say, “That’s it. Show’s over. Move along…” And she did. She still had the deer-in-the-headlights look, but she finally walked along.

When I glanced down at Hope safely cuddled in the crook of my arm she looked oddly cool, calm and collected. Strong. Even though I offered, she didn’t want to leave right away and for that I was incredibly grateful. She didn’t need to run away from what happened or any of the realities I tend to forget. She wasn’t afraid to be in that space, as uncomfortable as it was. None of us were, and that still amazes me. I guess that means we’re finding our ground day by day. Moment by moment.

The book is available on Amazon, Barnes and Noble, AuthorHouse, and over 20,000 book retailers. Please share your reviews here or on the sites where you purchased your copy. Every little comment helps send the message of love, hope and support out to the world.

Thank you!

For years Hope coveted other friend’s princess shoes, but when present time came around she opted for a doll each time. Even when we asked if she wanted the shoes, she would trade up for something that was bigger. Still, I would see her prance at play dates, absolutely entranced in the shoes. Each time she’d run to me, clicking away, as she modeled the “high heels”, excitement flying around the room.

Each time my mind slipped backwards, years ago, when she pleaded for pink sandals. I can still picture my son, then a sweet four year old, who was hell bent on buying pink sandals when we picked out our spring shoes at a local boutique. It came as a surprise. The shoes were awful actually, the kind that has awkward straps and glued on flowers and to my disgust, glitter in all the wrong places. It wasn’t the color I protested, it was that they were so ugly. She, then he, begged for them. The two sales people and I showed my child at least twelve other pink sandals that ranged from fancy to sporty, but nothing worked. Only those hideously garish sandals filled some void that I couldn’t comprehend. It was such a little thing to be so upset about. Yes, I bought the shoes, but as we settled in the car afterward I turned backwards in my seat to ask why the pink sandals were so important. After a considerable amount of time my child told me that he knew something he couldn’t tell me. Fear raced through my entire body – abuse? What happened? I calmly told him that he could tell me anything, that he could trust me to understand and to love him, no matter what. I hung on waiting for his answer.

“I’m a girl inside Mommy,” were the words that I didn’t expect. Those few little words began our journey and ultimately brought us where we are today, all these years and conversations later.

So Christmas morning as she scanned the presents left for her, Hope’s eyes fixated on the one little thing she’s never quite asked for, but has wanted her whole life. She got the princess shoes that day and she never took them off.

Sure, our compliant smiles said “We are a totally normal family who doesn’t pose a threat to anyone… Really!” but the agent’s face twisted and turned as he went rifled through our paperwork, eyes darting from the details on the page to each one of us with a burning look of authority. Our smiles became forced and then it just plain hurt to maintain them. Still, we struggled with equal intensity to look like your typical, unassuming family who just wants to get through airport security without incident. Guessing from the way I felt like I was going to pass out, I think we were holding our breath, too.

“So little man, what’s your name?” said the agent, his eyes fixed so intensely on Will that I thought my son might catch fire.

Without hesitation, Will blankly replied, “Tony.”

Our heads snapped to glare at Will who was not smiling, mind you, but rather looking as bored as bored could be. Tony? Oh, Tony Stark… Iron Man. In that moment I forgot that Will had signed his schoolwork as Tony. Little writing samples, holiday ornaments and artwork all reflecting the wrong name, but now? Now when we are trying so hard to walk through this situation unscathed.

“Damn that Tony!” I thought, “He’s going to get us thrown into the scanners quicker than you could spell bomb scare.” The agents eyes scanned the paperwork, probably wondering if he should check an Amber Alert for this cute, missing Tony.

“This isn’t the person you should joke with,” Hope leaned into whisper, but it came out like a shout. Kind of like when my mom tries to talk in church. “This is serious.”

Under his breath a barely audible “Will” came out and I was sure we were sunk. Get ready for a cavity search and a discussion with the police. Now I didn’t give a second thought to Hope’s transgender status in a body scanner. That was nothing. In that moment I was way more concerned with how I’d convince the TSA that Will was not Tony. Isn’t that how life pulls a switcheroo on you? You prepare for one thing and end up dealing with another.

All of the sudden my paperwork was beneath my nose and an arm ushered us to the conveyor belt near the rest of the busy travelers. As I walked in disbelief I glanced back to the agent who had moved on to the next person like nothing ever happened. He let us go! I mouthed a “thank you” to the back of the agent’s head and closed my eyes as I removed my shoes and released my stagnant breath in a heavy sigh. Thank you.

Body scanners. The buzz about our airport getting the x-ray machines whirled around my brain. What does that mean for Hope? Her ticket has her chosen name on it and we’ve never had any trouble traveling before, but what happens when she walks through a scanner and her anatomy doesn’t match her gender presentation and name? Would we be pulled aside? Would they separate us? Would the paperwork I carry from our therapist and pediatrician satisfy them? I’ve heard that if you decline the scanner, you automatically get a pat down by TSA. Not the option my private daughter would feel comfortable with either so what are our options?

Each scenario played out differently in my brain. Best case – maybe it wouldn’t be an issue? Perhaps she’d confidently walk through the scanner like everyone else and that’s it. Alternatively she could walk through and they could question her identity. I rehearsed my responses. I’d quickly provide her paperwork and they would accept it. Hope might be aware of it, but I could prepare her for that. Just as easily though, they could make a big deal of it. Would they? Do they? The possibilities seemed to spring from one side of my reasoning, the more logical side, to the more desperate, fearful side and then back again.

Each day brings new challenges. Yesterday it was how to find a ballet leotard that didn’t reveal too much. Today it is explaining body scanners to my kids. Tomorrow it will be something different. We can’t complain, really. Everyone has something that they have to work at or cope with. Everyone. Still, my heart feels heavy for every person who has to share their private struggles openly with the world, like my transgender daughter.

It’s not just the way people “read” her in terms of her gender, but the severe disconnect in her life, similar to other trans individuals. In many cases their birth certificate doesn’t match their chosen name. Their gender marker is wrong on their license. They have to explain their transition daily to just about everyone from the dentist’s office to the mail carrier. They have to educate family and friends about how they truly feel. Their body doesn’t match their brain. And it’s mostly public, right out there for everyone to see. Just imagine the courage it takes to pursue the life you know to be true. How much fortitude, perseverance and tenacity it takes to eliminate the disconnect. I’m continually inspired.

As I zipped the bulging suitcase shut I repeated a little mantra that goes like this… I stand in my truth. Every word and action will be there when I need it. As long as I have my breath I can handle any situation. And I repeated it until I believed it to be true. And it is. Whatever challenge arises, I know I have what it takes to figure it out, to keep the kids safe and to be true to myself. That’s all I need.