Room to be Profoundly Human

guest story

I’m so appreciative that this mama accepted my invitation to write, and allow me to publish, a bit of her story and this striking artwork of hers that depicts how the “dark night of the soul” was for her. In her description, she shares what life felt like when she painted the piece, and compares it to where she is now. I love that this is ultimately a story of expansion.

During our exchange as we prepared this for publication, she included these words (and granted permission for me to use this quote):

"I am really glad that you like it. What surprised me was that the act of writing it really helped me realize these truths. I definitely still have moments of despair and anger, as mentioned, but there is a chasm between where I was and where I am now. I credit your stoic presence and wisdom for help getting here."

To this guest author, an incredible mama that I have the pleasure to know, thank you! -Much love, StoicMom

This watercolor was painted exactly two years ago in 2023, two years into my beautiful daughter’s sudden and unexpected trans identification. She ticked all the classic ROGD boxes: academically gifted, creative, socially awkward (bullied significantly as a result), in the midst of puberty and with an incident of sexual assault directly before heading into the isolation of the pandemic and the accompanying dive into the online abyss, which was territory she had been formerly unfamiliar with. Although I was initially supportive of her exploration, some quick research revealed the explosive and alarming trend, specifically with what seemed to be an inevitable pairing with chemical hormones and surgeries, much of which we know is irreversible. As I am guessing many readers here have, I took a swan dive deep, deep into the ocean of gender ideology.

When I painted this I was in the midst of being held in a state of paralyzing fear. Fear of what I saw as an oncoming storm; the destruction of my daughter’s life via the desecration of her body, and my own perceived helplessness as I witnessed events which were unfolding exactly as those of the children of thousands of other parents whose stories I was devouring. In it I am standing on the shore next to my house, which while beautiful and full of love has a few cracks and repairs to address that I cannot fix as to do so would be pointless with the impending hurricane. The storm could simply raze the house and destroy everything in its path.

Two more years later I am no longer in this place of terrified waiting. My child is attending a small, liberal arts college near a big city, and, courtesy of the extremely questionable “Informed Consent” model at a clinic, has been taking testosterone now for a year— first in gel form, and now as injections. Her voice is jarringly deep and she is arguably more anxious than ever before. She is still my daughter.

My red line in this whole mess has been the medicalization of this identity. My daughter’s journey has taken her there, as it has many thousands of others. It is my daughter’s actual job right now to explore identity and to determine who she is. This is a process that is fluid and ever changing by its very nature, as my own was.

I am doing my best. My child is doing her best. I do not take blame as such— this was a perfect storm. I believe this exploration to be a modern, albeit dangerous, manifestation of her individualization. It is still necessary to be anonymous with these posts, and I am delighted to write that our relationship remains very close. I cannot stop her from taking these cross-sex hormones. It will be up to her to do so.

I liken my place to that of being on a spiral, or perhaps on a spring with its up and down movement. I still hurt often in this process. The constant change can be exhausting, and it is profoundly human.

Am I concerned for her physical, mental, sexual and reproductive health? Yes. Do I think there are cult-like aspects to this identity? Yes. Do I find myself angry with the many institutions that are blindly holding up these affirmative-only models and their accompanying medicalization? Absolutely. Do I look at the politics of this and see my child as a football being tossed around by two extreme ends of the political spectrum, neither of which cares about her and who she is? Yes. Do I think this identity has arrested her self-exploration rather than enhancing it? Yes. Do I continue to need the support—even simply to be seen— by family and friends and community who “get” the complexity of this? Yes. It’s OK.

I am finding ways to address these things. I am retraining myself to look for the good. I am working to adopt more healthy behaviors. I am engaging in activities that bring me joy, learning and stretching my intellect. I continue to love and hold my gorgeous child in her current identity, and to keep that attachment strong by being the support that she needs when she asks for it. It’s a dance— with the tune, rhythm and corresponding steps changing all the time, and I am becoming more graceful. I am finding my voice. I am not resigned; I have not “given up” on my daughter. Though the changes these drugs are having on her are very real, underneath it all she is still the shining human, the radiant young woman that I have always seen her to be.

There is room for it all. There is room for the grief, there is room for the anger and the relentless worry; there is also room for love, there is room for other joys. There is room to work to make political change that affords nuance. I no longer find myself that small, frightened parent chained to a rock looking at the impending storm. My world has expanded. I can open my arms more widely and have the capacity not only to hold it all, but to embrace it.

Do I hope for detransition? Yes I do. I do, though that hope is no longer the life raft - or perhaps even the rock - that I spend my time clinging or chained to. I am, daily, discovering the faith that she will learn and grow into herself. One day at a time. She is growing in this world, and I am, too.