Are you the enemy?

and quite a bit about emotionally intense personalities

For about the last four years, my heart has ached for the lost relationship I once had with my now 17 yo daughter. This is somewhat paradoxical, though, since we spend a large amount of time together; she seeks out my company, and we have long, philosophical conversations that I don’t think anyone else in her life indulges her in. From all appearances, we’re pretty tight. I’ve even had others comment on this: how she’s clearly very attached to me and how very alike we are. And you can trust that I am incredibly grateful for this precious connection with my only daughter. 

Then why the melancholy? I consider myself a highly sensitive person (also see Enneagram Type 4 and the intellectual, imaginational, emotional intensities associated with the Theory of Positive Disintegration or TPD.) I’ve had to come to the awareness that I am extremely sensitive to the energy and emotions of people around me. I think as humans we are probably all constantly reading the body language of others, but for people like me, there’s a heightened attunement. It may sound beneficial, and in some ways it is. But let me assure you, it’s not always helpful. Especially since we are continuously assigning meaning to that energy and those emotions we’re perpetually sensing. If we’re not actively checking our assumptions about what the energy and emotions mean, we can convince ourselves of some pretty dark–and very often fictional–stories of what people in our lives are experiencing. And these stories are usually directly related to ourselves. Yes, people like me have a tendency to be self-absorbed and imagine that this swirl of seemingly negative emotional energy is in a causal relationship with our presence. We have rich inner worlds in which we are constantly reflecting on and rehearsing our interactions with others. In our minds, everyone is responding to who we are and the actions we take as a result of who we are. It’s way overpowered–we credit ourselves with far too much influence. And it can be really debilitating. Yes, even a bit narcissistic. 

I explain all this because I think my daughter is very much like me, and this seems key to the lost relationship I (believe) we’re experiencing. Notice me checking my assumption there? This is so incredibly important for highly sensitive people to do. Are you projecting? How can you check the theory you’ve created about why someone is putting out the vibes you’re sensing? It’s important that mothers in my situation (keep reading) develop a theory about what’s happening in their daughters’ heads. We need to be able to trust our intuition, yet we also don’t want to be operating from flawed theories. That said, let’s explore this current theory of mine: 

So, you have some sense of how my daughter and I are around each other based on my description in the first paragraph. I think any regular observers of our relationship would agree that we’re quite securely bonded. Yet, there’s a definite block between us. And that’s what I’m sensing; what I can’t help but be hyper aware of. That’s what causes me such heartache. My daughter is defended against vulnerability. Especially with me. And for me to feel a satisfying closeness with someone requires vulnerability. My daughter is one of the most important people in my life and someone with whom I desperately want to offer a trusting, supportive connection. And I know, individuation, yada, yada. I’ve spent a considerable amount of time thinking and may write another essay about how individuation plays into all this, but for now, let’s get to the point of this one (essay I mean)...

Another trait she and I share is a propensity for authenticity. We are driven to live “true to ourselves.” And the best evidence we’re accomplishing that is the way others perceive us. Do they see us the same way we see ourselves? With the amount of time and energy we spend reflecting, we imagine that we must be the most self-aware people on the planet. And this brings us to my theory about the block that’s arisen between us. She sees herself as a boy. And I see myself as a mother who works incredibly hard to be good in this role. See the problem? She knows I don’t, and never will, see her as a boy. How can I possibly be a good mom in her mind if I refuse to see her the way she sees herself? Both of us are feeling unseen and unappreciated for who we’re both trying so hard to be. 

So, what does all this have to do with the title of this piece? Why the war metaphor? I figured out some time ago that I needed to reposition myself. I came down strong in the beginning with my views about girls identifying as boys. As I’ve described in some detail, I am driven to be authentic. It is not in my nature to lie no matter how much better that would seem to be for my relationship with my daughter. Part of the narrative that she embraces is that people like me are transphobic. If she’s trans, and I’m transphobic, then I’m, quite simply, the enemy. How incredibly painful to believe that your own mother who has so much power over and responsibility for your well-being is against you! And it doesn’t help when your closest friends, who are also trans-IDed, have moms that don’t question their assertions that they’re actually boys. 

And this is where we’ve been for several years now. We share lots of interests including thrifting, philosophy, a desire for long conversations about abstract topics, certain podcasts and music. We take lots of day trips to nearby cities to engage in these shared interests and have lunch together. But there’s also been this unmistakable energetic shield between us. I take much responsibility for the building of the shield because I was pretty emotionally erratic in the early months of the trans announcement. And people like us, my daughter and me, we assume we’re the cause of other people’s emotions. If we’re not consciously checking our assumptions, those difficult emotions can communicate to us that we’re flawed. And of course, she’s got to defend herself against a mother who she’s being told is the enemy. It may be obvious to you that so many of these stories we’re telling ourselves are fiction, but in our minds they’re very real. I’ve worked incredibly hard to develop a conscious practice of examining these stories I tell myself, and I can only hope I’m now effectively modeling this for my highly sensitive daughter.

She’s almost 18, and I’m inclined to influence her as much as possible before she launches from under my roof and is full-time in her LGBTQ community where there’s much pressure to solidify your identity with irreversible body modifications. I am determined that I will not be THE reason she pursues cross-sex hormones and non-medically necessary surgeries. Of course, I don’t want her to pursue those actions at all, but what is possibly in my control is to remove any compulsion to prove me wrong or to force me to see her as a boy. What a pickle this puts me in! How do I remain authentic and honest while ensuring she experiences being fully seen and appreciated for how she sees herself? 

Thank goodness for the work of Lisa Marchiano and Patrick Ryan. Since listening to this conversation between these two in the summer of 2020, I’ve been seeking an opportunity to genuinely ask my daughter, “What do you love about being trans?” I knew it had to come from a place of authentic curiosity, and for the life of me, I couldn’t seem to find that place. But about a week ago (yes, that’s over a year and a half of seeking just the right opening,) I did find it. Maybe I’ll write another essay soon about how we got there, but for now I’ll just say, from my perspective, it went brilliantly! What ensued was a 3 hour conversation–a challenging conversation, but the first in years where trans topics were the focus and and she didn’t storm away in frustration. By adopting the language of “different world views” and recognizing her for her commitment to reflection and self-awareness, we had our first lengthy trans-related conversation since the earliest days of this particular parenting phase, where I felt I could remain in calm curiosity while still remaining true to myself and my values—oh, and not being seized with the ever-sabotaging fear that crept up in so many past conversations gone bad. 

Better yet, I felt the wall completely dissolve. I even reiterated in this conversation how opposed I am to non-medically necessary body alterations. Yet for the first time in 4 years, I didn’t feel like my daughter was shielded from me. Energetically, she let me in. It’s what I wanted all along, but I had to get to the point where I truly accepted and communicated to her that this is her journey. She acknowledged that she knows I’ve been operating from a place of care and concern. I assured her we don’t have to agree on what the healthiest path forward is. It even ended with us giggling about some digital conversation she was having with one of those aforementioned trans-IDed friends.

This was huge for me! Not the words, necessarily, but the energy. The shield lifting. You moms out there who are navigating this precarious situation with your daughters know exactly what I’m talking about. If you’ve managed to maintain this openness with your child, you’re doing incredibly well! If you haven’t, you’ve probably experienced the same bittersweet sense of loss, most pronounced during those precious moments of togetherness, that I have throughout the majority of my daughter’s adolescence. 

In Episode 54 of Gender: A Wider Lens, Marchiano explains that our young humans who are transIDed typically have plenty of ambivalence–these are highly intelligent kids engaged in some pretty heavy duty cognitive dissonance. Many come to see their families as representing their doubts about medically altering their bodies and by cutting out their families, they are able to cut off those doubts and move forward with these extreme and risky steps, forever altering their trajectories. Do you represent those doubts for your child? Are you the enemy? If so, maybe it’s time to figure out how to reposition yourself.