Pride

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This Pride Month has hit a little bit differently than in the past. We’ve always stood as allies of the LGBTQ+ community, but now, more than ever, we understand the need to defend the rights, the very existence of LGBTQ+ human beings.

I am the mother of a transgender young adult.

I am the mother of a transgender person who is currently transitioning, having started hormone therapy nearly two months ago.

I am the mother of a transgender young woman.

The person known as E will now be known as N, with she/her pronouns. I will not live in the middle anymore. For her, when I speak of her, of her existence, of her as one of my children, she will not be E or he. She will be N and she. I have one son and two daughters.

I am not sorry if this makes you uncomfortable. I’m not sorry if you don’t agree. I’m not sorry if you feel you can’t accept this. I’m not sorry if you believe transgender is something made up, some kind of sickness, some attention-seeking action. My daughter was diagnosed by a psychiatrist and has been under the care of a therapist for over a year now. This is who she is. I will not put your feelings and thoughts ahead of those of my child. Her health and well-being matter to me more than anyone else’s comfort. I will not justify her existence as she is to anyone. She is my child and I love her no matter what body she’s in, no matter what name she uses, no matter what gender appears on her identification.

If you’d like to have an honest, open discussion, I’m willing to engage. I will not discuss what’s happening to her, to her body. Her journey is hers to discuss and share, if and when she wants. I will continue to talk about my journey as her mom.

It is a dangerous time to be a transgender person. It is a terrifying time to be the parent of a transgender person. It is awkward to go from talking about my “son” to now talking about my daughter. It awkward when people ask my how my children are doing, people who’ve known N her whole life and they suddenly are confused by my calling her N and using “she” and “her”. But if she can have the strength to live her life as she is, to have courage to go out into the world that doesn’t generally accept her as she is, want her as she is, then I can deal with the awkwardness of some conversations.

Am I sorry if this sounds defensive? Maybe a wee bit. I already know we have people in our lives who not only know what’s been going on the past year, but they have been supporting and cheering us on, loving our N for the courage and strength she’s shown to live her authentic life as her true self. We are now putting it out into the world, beyond our very-immediate family and inner circle, come what may. I know there will be some (maybe many?) who will not accept this reality in our family, will not accept N as she is. Those can see their way out. Is that harsh? Maybe. But my child comes first, before anyone else’s beliefs or comfort.

Pride hits a little different when some of those letters in the acronym describe your family. Here we are. Take us as we are, or not. I’m proud of ALL my children – my son, and my two daughters.

The 7’s

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I had a birthday last week. It wasn’t a big birthday, and it was relatively quiet. I don’t typically mind having a birthday. As my Daddy used to say, it’s better than the alternative (not being alive for another birthday) and I generally take them in stride. What I have noticed is it’s usually the 7’s birthdays that give me some hesitation and struggle.

It started when I turned seventeen. I was so ready to be done with and out of our very-small town, ready for the next journey in my life. I had one more year of high school yet, and knew it would be somewhat challenging. I’d had some major friend drama the spring before and it was spilling over into basically every part of high school, including the cheerleading squad I was on for my Senior year. I knew academics would push me – I was in the race for Valedictorian and Salutatorian and the competition was rough going. We had another round of SAT’s, college applications, and so on. I also had the internal emotional pressure, sense of failure over never having dated anyone much less have a boyfriend. It made me feel somewhat immature, at the same time I knew there were more important things in life for me to be focused on. I don’t know why I struggled so deeply with that birthday. I still have the whole world, so much life in front of me. But I was in a funk for a few months at least. It was also kind of a lonely birthday – my birthday always fell a few weeks after we got out of school for the summer, and people/my friends were usually gone on summer vacations or busy with summer jobs. Honestly, I don’t remember what we did or didn’t do to celebrate. I just remember I struggled with it.

Twenty-seven wasn’t a whole lot different. I had left home, gone to and finished college, started a career, moved out of my mother’s house (into my brother’s). But I had just the year before ended a three-year relationship I’d thought would be the one that lead to marriage. I felt I was behind in life. Most of my friends were married, or had been married, had children, careers they truly enjoyed, were buying houses, beginning to travel. I had a career I didn’t love, was in debt, living in my brother’s home and nowhere near being able to buy my own home, an unreliable car, a career I did not love, and some health issues that were ongoing. I just wasn’t where I’d expected to be at that point in my life, and here I was now in my LATE 20’s. I felt like I was coming up against a finish line I was completely unprepared for. I just thought I’d be further in life. It made me sad and depressed, lonely, disheartened.

It’s amazing the difference ten years of life will bring. By the time I reached thirty-seven, I was married (and had been for 8 years), we had three children, and had bought or second and forever home. I’d left my career after baby #3. Did I still struggle with turning 37? A bit, yes. Life was relatively good, but aging and thinking about aging is weird. I still felt I’d missed the boat on some of life, had not met my own expectations for my life. But I knew I had a good life, a good marriage, incredible children, a beautiful home, amazing friends. At 37 I still struggled with self-esteem and self-image, HARD. I sometimes felt lost in being a wife and mom. Our lives were busy, and about to get busier, as far as the kids’ school and activities. And, my god, I was going to be FORTY in three years!! It seemed so overwhelming. So 37 was easier than 17 and 27 had been, but still gave me pause.

Then came 47. Oof….that one was so difficult. I was staring 50 in the face. I wasn’t young anymore, and was really starting to feel middle-aged. Perimenopause had begun. Our teenage daughter was driving me to distraction – she was such a challenge. I was exhausted, feeling all the feelings, and just in a general malaise. The one thing I did like about being in my 40’s was learning to not care as much about what other people might think about me. I was better at setting boundaries. I had fewer effs to give, and it was freeing. I still struggled emotionally with the thought of being in my late forties – just aging and the idea of aging.

If you’re keeping track, you may have figured out where I am as far as my age. I will say, this was the first seven I didn’t really struggle with at all. I’m in a very good place in life. I’m happy. More than happy, I am content. I know how privileged a life I lead not just financially, but in the partner I have, the friends I’m surrounded with, my relationships with my children, the things I get to do, and see, and be. I retired at the beginning of this year and having each day be my own for the most part has had a huge impact on my outlook on life. Do I see 60 staring me down? Yep. Is acknowledging I’m in my “late” 50’s sting a bit? Also yep. But I am happier with me. I have even fewer effs to give, and am VERY good at setting and sticking to boundaries. I’ve learned to only spend my time and energy and care on the people and things that give the same in return and have earned it. Aging is still a thing – the body doesn’t look the same, the face has some spots and wrinkles I didn’t used to have, 10pm seems like a very reasonable bedtime, going out after 8pm seems aggressive, conversations with friends of an age now include discussions of our injuries, aches, and health conditions as well as our hormone patches and things we blame on menopause. Friends of my children I’ve watched grow up are getting married and having babies of their own. We are actively planning retirement life (Spouse still has 8-10 years left working full time), and prioritizing travel locations.

Did you have a specific year that always gave you trouble? How are you handling aging?

Missed Milestones

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Lately, I have been seeing a lot of graduation photos and posts. I didn’t think much of it at the beginning – it is, after all, that time of year. But then I began seeing all the college graduation posts of N’s peers -friends and people they went all the way through compulsory schooling with – and it kind of took my breath away for a minute.

N took their last finals at the local community college. It isn’t official, but they have technically earned an AA degree. And that’s where it will end. They have determined they will not pursue further collegiate education. It’s fine. College isn’t for everyone. Not everyone who’s successful in life has a Bachelor’s or higher degree. N hasn’t quite found their path yet, but they know they are done with schooling. They will take a winemaking/viticulture class in the Fall at another community college, but it isn’t for any grade or credit. They are done. To be honest, I don’t have the energy or motivation to push the issue. They are an adult, for all intents and purposes, and we are allowing them to make the decision.

Often, I can almost forget their autism and the impact of the outside world on them. Oh, we see their social delays, anxieties, emotional age that lags far behind that of their peers. It’s just who they are. We haven’t had to deal with it in an educational forum for four years. Seeing all the college graduation photos of kids I’ve known since N was in kindergarten just reminds me our world is not like that of neurotypical kids/young adults. The contrast is more evident when your child isn’t reaching those same life milestones.

We always knew N would have a different path. Somehow, though, I had convinced myself they would reach a point they’d be less “different”, more capable. I still imagined them going off to a four-year university at some point. Over the last couple of years, we’ve become aware that was not a likely prospect. It isn’t off the table completely. They could do it f they chose, with supports of course, especially if said school were far away from home. But they’ve decided they are just done with school. Fine – I get it. I just need to come to terms once again with their journey looking oh so different than many of their peers.

I guess calling this a “missed milestone” infers someone is less than if they don’t go to college and graduate. I don’t mean that in the least. That’s not my intention with this discussion and sharing of where we are. My point is, in spite of N’s autism, I had always pictured them going off to college like their siblings have done, as many of their friends have done. The visual reminders that that will not be is what has hit me lately. It’s another thing N won’t be doing, another sign of their difference.

Side note – WordPress now does “memories” like you’d see on social media apps, linking other posts I’ve written on June 1st over the years. One that came up was titled “Diffability” talking of the time we were flying and N saw on their pre-board pass it was for people with any disability. We had a discussion about that word, and how they didn’t see themselves as disabled. We came up with another word – diffability – as they are just differently-abled, not necessarily disabled. It served as a good reminder for today’s topic. This part of the journey is just another sign of their different abilities, and we will see where this road takes them.

PS – Happy Pride Month!!

Why would you buy a lake house in Tennessee?

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We live in Southern California. Spouse and I are both born and raised Californians. He went to college in Arizona, but other than that, neither of us have lived anywhere but California. Never felt the need nor desire to leave our beloved state, particularly where we live now. I mean where else can you go from the beach to the desert to the mountains in one day? Plus, beach. I don’t really need to say more, unless you hate the beach, which then I would get. But, two years ago in March, we bought a lake house in Tennessee. And I absolutely love it.

We have to fly four hours to Nashville, then get a rental car and drive 90 minutes to get to our lake house. I know – it doesn’t make much sense. Why here? There are plenty of lake houses closer to San Diego than here. Spouse does have an office in Franklin, TN. That’s really what started us coming out here to begin with. We’ve talked about a vacation/mountain/beach/lake house for years. That discussion began when we started lakefront/beach front bargain hunt renovation shows on HGTV. It made me realize how much I wanted that life, that kind of retreat. I didn’t think it would really ever be in the cards for us until we started coming to TN for his work, and then just started looking around at lakes out here, and casually researching the realty websites. Almost four years ago, we spent four days on the lake we now have a house, in an Airbnb, just checking out the lake and the area. I fell in love. We started actively looking. Then Spouse decided our resources were better spent elsewhere. I mean WHY would we fly four hours and then drive nearly two more to get to a second home? I put it out of my mind, until Christmas 2023, when one of my gifts was a site map of a potential property. I cried…..our retreat, our vacation spot, a place to bring family and friends and create memories. Three months later, we were signing papers, not on that property on that site map he’d given me, but on a house that came fully furnished and stocked with linens and every kitchen supply you’d need. It had belonged to a couple just a bit older than us – a second home for their family to come together and just be, before the patriarch had a sudden, widow-maker heart attack and passed. The home they’d created felt designed just for us. We met Maggie, the previous owner, the first weekend we spent here. We promised her it would be a place of family, fun, friends, making memories. We have a photo of their family hanging in a spot of honor in the house. She has a photo of our group the first Memorial Weekend we were here.

We’re in Tennessee this week. Spouse had a conference for work, and visited his office here as well. We spent two days in Nashville. Yesterday, we drove down to our house to get it ready for the upcoming holiday weekend when family and friends will again join us for a long weekend on the lake. As we drove yesterday, I began to feel a peace I feel in few places in the world – home, my parents’ house in Arizona, whenever we visit any island in Hawaii, and now here. First of all, Tennessee is so green. California can be green, but much of the summer, the hills around us turn brown in the heat. Not so here. Second, it’s just slower here. Third, it is DARK and so quiet where we live on the lake. There aren’t a ton of streetlights, there isn’t any speakable road noise like we have on even the quietest nights at home. The first night here, I woke in the middle of the night and thought I’d lost my vision – it was pitch black in our bedroom, and completely silent. Fourth – any time I can be on, in or near water, my soul is just happy.

I think that’s the deal – why something that makes no sense on paper makes complete sense. My whole system relaxes when I’m here. I can breathe. I can just be. I have peace, especially when I’m here, surrounded by so many people I love, creating memories and just living in the same space for a few days. There are books, games, lake floatin, meals together, watching baseball, talking, walks, and 27-second hugs (iykyk). Why would we buy a lake house in Tennessee when we live in Southern California? This is why.

I’m finding this very sus

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I have been on estrogen for 7-ish years or so. You know…perimenopause, menopause and all the subsequent BS they do to women’s bodies. I had a partial (if you want to call having ONE ovary left out of everything “partial”) hysterectomy a dozen years or so ago which was the best decision ever. But then, as one does, all the hot flashes, night sweats, weight gain, mood swings, brain fog and just about EVERY other peri/menopause symptom hit all at once about three years after. Off to my annual exam I go. My fabulous NP at the gyn office started me on a very-low dose estrogen pill. It worked wonders, mostly. This past fall, we decided to up that dosage, and, because I have family history on both sides of cardiac conditions, she switched me over to the transdermal patch. Yay! No more pill taking! And she lived happily ever after, until she didn’t.

Record scratch! Three months into using the wonder that is the estrogen patch, my pharmacy cancelled my refill, without explanation. So I went in to ask what the hell was up? The tech explained that dosage of the patch was on backorder, as in gone, poof, dried up supply, and no clue when they’d have it back in stock. Awesome. Called the doc’s office, and they spent three days tracking down any pharmacy that had access to a supply of the patches. I finally got a call they’d moved my prescription over to Walmart – side bar…..who looks forward to going into Walmart once a month? NOT ME!. But there you have it. Walmart, here I come. Which was great, until it wasn’t. Last week, I went to refill via my lovely app, and it kept getting cancelled. So I once again. march my way into a pharmacy to ask what’s the deal. They too are now out of the dang things, with no idea when they will be able to get them back in stock.

I spent an hour on the phone yesterday. I won’t go into all the details, just suffice it to say it shouldn’t be this hard to get a medication. Like seriously. How are we constantly running out of stock of a med a lot of women rely on? Now, ever since it was first prescribed for me (the estrogen patches, not estrogen in general), I have been seeing ads all over the place for them. Now, I’m grateful there is finally real conversation around perimenopause and menopause. I’m also totally on board with women taking those conversations and advocating for themselves with their doctors, asking questions of the experts, getting what they need. The fact we as women have been dealing with so much for so long, and been told “sorry about your luck” for forever is utter BS. It’s ridiculous our symptoms have been chalked up to something we just have to put up with. No one researching, no one discussing, no one really talking to us about our options, much less giving us space to feel the feels about this stage of life.

What I’m thinking is so completely sus is not being able to get the transdermal patches. I have to have this version of estrogen, particularly due to the deep family history of cardiac issues. I don’t have the option to take the pills, and I don’t like the potential of problems using the cream or gel form. Why can’t we get this? Why is it on backorder everywhere? I’ve heard numerous things. One, the demand is so much higher because we are talking more about menopause and women are asking for the estrogen patches. Two, women know to ask for the patches because of the increase in targeted ads. Have you seen these ads? They’re all over my social media and tv, as well as in my podcasts feed. Yay drugs for women getting attention! Booo that attention is making it nearly impossible for me to get my prescription filled. Three, and this one I heard just this week, the pharmaceutical companies make very little profit on this medication so they aren’t inclined to make a lot of it. Not a money-maker for them, at least until the demand exceeds the supply and then women are doing whatever it takes to be find them and get those prescriptions filled. We are once again paying a tax for being female.

You know if this were a drug for men, it would be readily available, always, and inexpensive. I’m finding it very sus that I’m having to work so hard to keep getting it. And I know I’m not alone. I know one of my sisters and one of my best friends has been going through the same struggle. Why? Is there some secret plot going on to make women of a certain age go completely off the rails? This will be the one thing that will make me go down the rabbit hole of conspiracy theories……why estrogen patches are disappearing and estrogen patch prescriptions are incapable of being filled. Nothing else has pushed me around the bend over the last eleven years, but this will do it for sure. WHERE HAS ALL THE ESTROGEN GONE????!!!!

I Don’t Use it for That

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We’re going to take a sharp turn away from the heaviness of the last few posts. We can all use some lighter fare from time to time, yes? If you’ve been around the Herd for any amount of time, you might know the adventures we typically get up to, the disasters that befall us, the weird things that happen, the absolutely clumsy hot-messedness that is us is just a fact of life and typically provides the humor without us having to work at it. We may come across as very put together, but I am here to let you know we are indeed not put together, in the least. There’s a lot of duct tape involved in the presentation (proverbial, not literal, just to be sure).

I saw a Reel the other day talking about people of a certain age (okay, people my age – I am solidly middle-aged, pushing into straight up old) and the phone. First, that phone was attached to a wall. The only way you could walk around while on the phone was if your parents ponied up for the extra long cord, of if you were one of those “rich” families who could afford a cordless but even those didn’t arrive until the mid-to-late-80’s if I’m remembering correctly. Second, you might be able to add a second line to your house (again, if you were one of the rich people), but otherwise, it was one call at a time to anyone living in that same house. I vaguely remember when call waiting became a thing, but I feel like that was a 90’s thing. Third, there was no such thing as caller ID. You got what you got when you answered a ringing phone, picking it up with no clue who might be on the other end of that call. Can you even imagine?

Bear with me as I take a brief tangent to help you understand what comes next. I am basically an introvert. I might come across as a little extroverted, but no, I’m a fairly shy person underneath it all. It was paralyzing when I was younger, something I’ve spent years working on. But wouldn’t you know, this English Lit major, right out of college, somehow decided becoming an insurance claims rep was a solid career choice for her. Sure. This was in the early 90’s. I worked in auto claims for nearly ten years and homeowners claims for two. Much of that job was spent on the phone – explaining coverage, benefits, processes, payments, taking statements, negotiating with insureds and claimants, other claim reps, repair shops, and rental car companies. We HAD to answer the phone, unless we were officially on break, and/or had specifically asked our unit secretary to take our calls for a set amount of time while we worked on something else. And, you guessed it, no caller ID. It might be anyone on the other end of that line…..they could be asking for something simple, or calling you to scream at you. Trust me, in insurance claims, it was a LOT of that second thing. I spent nearly twelve years getting yelled at, cussed at, questioned, disparaged, insulted pretty much at least once a day, every day. I slowly over those years began to hate the phone, any phone. I would twitch when a phone rang near me. I would get that flight-or-fight response, and have so much anxiety.Can you imagine my delight when caller ID came into being? At least I could mentally prepare myself for what was coming at me, not that I knew every number calling me, but still…..life improved as far as the phone was concerned.

I left the insurance industry when our youngest was born. I just couldn’t do it anymore, and maternity leave (trust me, I took EVERY minute of leave I was allowed, including paid family leave) seemed like a good transition out of the insurance workforce. We still had a home phone line, as well as our cell phones, with caller ID. Spouse couldn’t understand why I hated answering our home phone. And as texting came into being, and utilized more and more, along with email and social media, I hardly ever talk on the phone at all. People will ask, “Can I call you?” I will straight up look at them and say, “I don’t use my phone for that.” In all seriousness….I do NOT use my phone for that if I can avoid it, and truth be told, I can find any reason to avoid calls, even when I know the person calling me.

I hate talking on the phone. If it can be an email or text – and really, what can’t? – please send me those. Fire off text after text, or even send a voice memo. But please don’t ask me to take a call. Send me reels, memes, instant messages, pictures, video. But please don’t ask me to talk on the phone. I don’t use it for that. You should see what I go through when I actually have to make a call. I mentally prepare and go over more than a couple of times, what I’m going to say. If I have to schedule appointments, I’ll usually block them into my planner to get them all done in one day so I can then go about the rest of my week or month without having to talk on the phone. I have gotten comfortable with FaceTime, because the adult children away at their schools and jobs – I need to have my eyeballs on their faces. I’ll talk to my Mom L on FaceTime too, but those are the only exceptions, typically.

You should have seen my face when I realized I could make my phone have spam calls not even ring through! Fewer moments of panic every day. If you aren’t in my phone, I won’t be answering your call. If you are in my phone, you have about a 50/50 chance of me picking up. I really just completely hate the phone part of my phone. You know how a lot of parents get their preteens/teens those brick cell phones that ONLY let them make and take calls so they can keep them from social media and the internet? Can I get the opposite of that please? I want my phone to do everything but be a phone. Please. Can we make that a thing? I can’t be the only one who doesn’t use their phone for that.

Black vintage candlestick telephone with rotary dial on wooden desk

When It’s Yours

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March 31st was Transgender Day of Visibility. I’d seen it on social media in years past, but didn’t really pay attention to it….until last week. Suddenly, it applies to our family. Suddenly, it is a day that matters personally. It hits different when a “day” applies to your child. It’s just different when it’s yours.

Transgender people aren’t new to me. It’s not as if I’ve never understood what this day might mean to this particular community. I am well aware the dangers transgender people face each and every day out in the world. I can’t count how many news stories I’ve seen and read documenting the discrimination, and aggression – verbal and physical – towards trans people, heard of the ever-limited rights of trans people, that they’re more likely to unalive themselves or be murdered simply for trying to exist as they are. But it’s different when it’s your kid. It’s personal when it’s your kid.

Not long after N began to talk with us about their gender dysphoria, I had a full meltdown of my own, not because I don’t want them to be who they are, feel safe in our family to take their own journey where it takes them, but because I know too well the things they will face in our world, particularly with the current administration and with the very-conservative Christian right. I broke down in fearful tears, literally for my child’s life. The life they want to live is dangerous, in so many ways…..physically, mentally, emotionally. If and when they walk out into the world as the gender they are in their mind and soul, they will face so much negativity, discrimination, so many threats. My heart needs desperately to protect them, but I cannot do that at the cost of telling them they cannot be who they are.

It’s just different when it’s your kid, your family.

I remember one morning, years ago, running past the high school down the road. There’s a marquee sign out front of that school (as with basically every other school in the world), with upcoming events, important dates, the school motto, etc. It hit me that late-spring morning that sign was now part of my life. Big Man would be starting school there that Fall. Those dates now mattered to me, to our calendar. I had the same feeling last week when all the social media posts/stories pertaining to Trans Day of Visibility showed up all day in my feed. Oh my god……this is my child. This day means them, this day means us. This day is now ours too. Not quite the same as that high school marquee, whose significance left our lives five years after that first recognition, but the same initial a-ha moment. It’s just different when it’s yours.

To be honest, I have lived in fear for this child’s life for many years. The reasons for that fear have changed a little. This new fear is nothing new, it just has a different source. When N started to show just how different they were from their peers, and the bullying started, I was fearful how bad it could possibly get as they moved through their school years. I feared what they might see or hear on the internet in addition to whatever they might face at school. Then the suicidal ideation started, and I feared – still fear – we would lose them to that spiral. Now, that fear is both internal – that they will take their own life – as well as external – that someone will assault them simply for being who they are. I have read/seen too many reports of the murders of trans people, targeted violence for being “different”. But those reports hit differently when it’s your kid.

It’s just different when it’s yours….when those things in the world now mean you, your family, your child. It’s not “them”, it’s “us”, it’s real, it’s different.

Fundamentally

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I have been contemplating grief quite a bit lately. It’s been just over two years since Mom-Mom passed, five-and-a-half years since Daddy died. It seems there’s a theme to my reading this year I didn’t seek out, and yet four or five of the books I’ve recently read deal directly or indirectly with grief and loss. I was having a conversation with another reader about a book I very recently read that dealt very directly with grief and the grieving process – how grief just fundamentally changes us. I’m sure there’s some scientific study out there that may confirm we’re changed even chemically by grief and loss. I haven’t felt the same since that very early morning Daddy took his last breath, nor when I walked away from Mom-Mom that last time, getting that call just hours after I’d said goodbye, told her it was okay for her to go, and left my sister’s house.

I’ve read and heard in various ways we shouldn’t avoid our grief or try to negate it when we’ve lost someone – it is a sign of the wealth of those memories and that love that we grieve them. For me, the process was a slow letting go of knowing they were there for me, just a text, phone call or drive away. But I have been different – so very different – for years now. I still will have those thoughts of, “Oh, I need to call Daddy and tell him about this or that (or whatever I’m seeing/doing/feeling” only to remember I can’t call him anymore, and haven’t been able to for a long time now. The other day, I caught myself wondering what I should get Mom-Mom for Mother’s Day this year. This will be our third Mother’s Day without her.

One book I recently read had a line that made me gasp when I read it, because it said so eloquently what I couldn’t process or put into words in those very early days/weeks of loss. It goes, “but when death knocked at our door, I wanted people to know. Maybe so they could act a little kinder and be more understanding when I stood in the supermarket unable to choose between brands of biscuits, but also because I wanted the pain to be visible because it was all I had left of my mum.” DAMN! (PS, the book is This Book Made Me Think of You, by Libby Page). In another chapter she writes, “My grief is un regalo – a gift. He gave it to me. It is our memories. Our love. I don’t want to put it down. I carry it gently.”

Initial grief for me has been a quiet storm, intense, overwhelming. It kept me separate from the “normal” world, unconnected, untethered. Every little thing felt too much. Even my skin felt overly sensitive. Everything was too loud, too bright, too close. I huddled within myself. Words were too much – seeing them, hearing them, even reading them. Music with words just sent me into a spiral. Movies and tv shows seemed either too silly, too superficial, or entirely too deep and close to the pain I was feeling. The brain fog was so intense, I found myself standing in rooms I didn’t remember walking into, holding things I didn’t remember picking up. I knew to give myself grace and space, but it was so damn heavy. I’d wake, forgetting for a moment, or feeling it had just been a nightmare during the night, only to recall it was all too real.

Time has helped with the deepest of that grief, but again, grief fundamentally changes us. I am not who I was before, and I’m okay with that. I don’t want to be that person, not that she was a horrible person, ungrateful, or mean. I am simply changed. I carry my grief gently now, with memories, with love, by carrying their essences with me. I also try to be kinder and more giving-of-grace when I see someone having a day, or standing in the middle of the grocery aisle seemingly lost in thought while blocking the way. They may be in the midst of those early days of grief. As TJ Klune said in his book Somewhere Beyond the Sea, “it’s okay not to be okay, along as it doesn’t become all we know.” And then Allen Levi in Theo of Golden said, “life would and must go on, even if altogether new and subject to a grief that would be present with every step.”

My grief will be present with every step. I am fundamentally changed. And I know when loss comes my way again, as it will, that grief too will come with me, will be “un regalo” a gift of the life and memories I have/had with that person.

Do I owe it to them?

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Five years ago, give or take, I wrote about a Different Kind of Coming Out in which shared that Little Man, now Z, had come out to us and his friends/school/community as non-binary and pansexual. They changed their name from E to Z. We rode the wave as supportive, loving parents do. The Z quietly slipped away less than a year later, reverting back to E and he/him pronouns. Definitely still in the queer community, and when they got their drivers license, requested the X for their gender. They’ve had a boyfriend for over two years now, but it’s been crickets on the rest, until this past summer. And now I am back in that confused-but-trying parental space of new language, and wondering who I owe what, as far as explanations, conversations, information.

To put it plainly, last summer, Z was diagnosed with gender dysphoria. What that means is the body we see, and what they see when they look in the mirror at themselves does not match the gender they are in their brain. We were unaware of this struggle, but they have told us they have felt this since they were rather young. They are in therapy and have been since this diagnosis. We have met with their therapist with them, and are doing our best to understand and be supportive. This is still our child regardless of gender, sexuality, appearance, name. They did ask to wear makeup – eyeliner and mascara – which we’ve honored. They asked to use a different name, which we’re working on. They asked to start HRT – we’ve said no for now. More on that in a minute.

This isn’t my journey, and yet it is. Because Z – whom we will now call N – lives at home, and is just part of my everyday life, everyday conversations, it is my journey. They come up in regular conversations with friends and acquaintances, with people we see every day/most days and people we see infrequently. Honestly, I don’t know how to talk about them, with most of these people. But then I asked myself, do I owe it to them? Do I owe them our truth, or our truth for now, however that turns out? Do I just use the old name and old pronouns with some because it’s easier rather than going into a very long explanation, or if I believe they may be “unsafe” for my gender dysphoric child? I want to honor my child and who they are, no matter where this journey takes them, but at the same time, I need to protect them. To whom do we owe any explanation about our kids anyways?

I just struggle – one of my own hangups, besides protecting my children, is the comfort of others. I also avoid confrontation of any kind. And, to be honest, not knowing where this path is going to take N makes it challenging for me to just use their new name without any kind of explanation. Sometimes that makes it just easier to use their old name and pronouns so I can avoid any confusion, any conflict, any strangeness. But again, why do I owe the comfort of others more than I owe honoring my own child? I just never know in any given moment of any conversation about this child what I should say and how I should say it. That doesn’t mean to say I am ashamed or embarrassed of this development at all. It’s just not your run-of-the-mill topic, ya know? You don’t run into it every day.

Here’s the other part of the conversation – N is an adult. They are on their own path, as they have always been. We are walking a fine line of being supportive while they work through this, and holding the line on some things. They have asked to do hormone replacement therapy – yes, to transition. We have said not now……and set some boundaries and expectations. We want them to be in therapy for a good while working through all that is and can be as far as their gender dysphoria and what transitioning will mean, physically, mentally, and emotionally. We want to make sure their current wants “stick” if that makes sense. We have also told them we will not be paying for any medications, thus they need to get a full-time job and keep it for longer than six months. They need to show us they are a responsible adult who can truly be independent and take care of themselves. We aren’t there yet on any of those things. We have come to the agreement to use their new name, they/them pronouns, and keep open minds to what they’re going through. What I will not do is tell my child we don’t believe them, don’t accept them, don’t trust them. We have been down the road of them having suicidal ideation before. Once you go through that, it is never far from your mind. I live in a half-fear status when it comes to N. I will not do anything that pushes those thoughts back to the forefront for N, nor will I allow anyone in our lives to potentially push them into that corner. Gender dysphoric/trans people have a very high rate of suicide and I won’t be one whose lack of understanding and support makes my child a statistic. I will protect them at all costs – do whatever it takes to keep them in this world. They are my priority over anyone else’s capacity to care, attempt to understand, or be comfortable.

So if you know us, and suddenly we aren’t talking about E, but rather N, just know this is what it’s about. You may not accept it, you may not approve of it, you may not understand it. This is our truth, our journey, our path. We’ve had the most supportive network and community their entire lives. I’m sure that will hold even with this new path. If I seem lost or confused when my children come up, just know I am processing what words and how in any given moment I speak of them.

Unchurched

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“I believe in God the Father Almighty”

I was born and raised in the Lutheran Church. Baptized at nine years old, confirmed at thirteen years old. Served as an acolyte for years, was in the Youth Choir, then later sang on the worship team until we had two babies and moved from Northern CA to Southern CA.

“And in Jesus Christ, His only Son, our Lord.”

My best friend through Middle and High Schools was a Baptist preacher’s daughter. We went to youth group on Wednesday nights, church Sunday morning and evening, church camp in the Summer and Winter, and I attended a private Christian college my first two years of undergrad.

“I believe in the Holy Spirit, the holy Christian church, the communion of saints, the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body, and the life everlasting.”

When we moved to San Diego, we joined a Lutheran Church. I needed the familiar. It never felt like a church home, however. Little Man was baptized there. I sang in the choir for a bit. But when the church became political (advising how we should vote and whom we should vote for if we were “good Lutherans”) we left. We began attending a non-denominational church that grew out of a CoC, and for a good number of years, it felt like a solid spiritual home, for me anyways. Well, mostly. It’s difficult when you slowly become the only person in your family practicing an active faith.

I began to hear uncomfortable and discomforting things during the 2016 election – not necessarily in the church I was attending, but in the Christian community in general. The conservative Christian community I’d known since high school was becoming….way more conservative, to the point of extreme. For some, it was a one-issue decision, which I couldn’t understand given EVERYTHING else on a certain candidate’s platform that was decidedly un-Christian. The person we’d never thought could even make it through the primaries was now the candidate, and then elected. Things got ugly. The excuses and adamance I heard from the Christian community in support of him stymied me. I couldn’t grasp, couldn’t understand. This man seemed the furthest thing from Christian, and almost immediately following the inauguration in 2017, the policies put in place by the administration didn’t feel very Christ-like. I wanted reassurance in my church community this was not Christian behavior. I heard nothing, or at least not enough to make me feel like I wasn’t losing my mind or over-reacting.

2020 arrived, and with it, Covid with the fear, the shutdowns, the rules. Church moved online, understandably. I appreciated the efforts of my church to stay engaged with its members, to keep worship going, keep sharing the message each Sunday as we churched from home via Facebook streaming. As time went on, there was quite a bit of noise within the community with regard to the lockdowns – how churches should be excluded from the rules of congregating, or that the rules were unfair, unnecessary. There was also anti-masking pushback, etc. I didn’t attend in person until spring of 2021, and was astonished. As soon as people entered the doors, masks were removed, as if Covid still wasn’t an issue. This was a community with at-risk members….very young children and babies, older members with fragile health. That didn’t seem to matter. Masks off, singing, hugging, sitting right next to people from other families/households. It felt so discordant…..this was a community that was supposed to be taking care of those who needed it most, those most at risk, a community that was supposed to care more than anyone else. I’m talking the church community in general, not just the church I was attending. Rather, they seemed to proudly flaunt their actions as “free” from government, and beyond rules because they were a church of Christian followers.

Now I have children who identify as part of the LGBTQ+ community. I haven’t always believed the church was wrong on its stance that homosexuality is a sin. I grew up in a strict purity culture that was very legalistic. As I grew into adulthood, knew more and more human beings who were gay, lesbian, bi-sexual, etc, I grew to understand their love, who they love, how they love isn’t sinful. It’s just who they are. They were created and born that way. I firmly believed they should have the same rights to marriage and life as heterosexual couples. The very first service I returned to church, the sermon was on marriage, and clearly stated that the only marriage sanctioned by God is that between one man and one woman. I sat back, stunned. I mean, I knew this was the stance, but to hear it blatantly, especially knowing I had two children at home for whom love and marriage would likely look different, my heart just hurt. It felt so wrong, almost intentionally painful, and again, not the God I believed in. I left church that day not knowing it would be one of the last times I would sit in a service, in church community. I went back maybe twice more in the spring and summer of 2021. Then I quietly left. For the first time in my life, church didn’t feel safe. It didn’t feel very Christian. It didn’t reflect what my faith was telling me was true. It didn’t seem to imitate the values of Jesus I had been raised on. I was grieving the loss of that community of faith, but I couldn’t keep going to a place that moved further and further from the God I knew. By the end of 2021, I had fully left the church. I haven’t been back.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about my faith. I still pray daily. I have been lax on my Bible reading in recent years but that is personal. I engage in faith conversations with others who have struggled in recent years to connect with the church community. Evangelicalism just doesn’t feel very Christian anymore. I’ve watched the American “church” move more and more towards Christian Nationalism, and I want no part of that. It feels in the last ten years that too many Christians are giving Christians a bad name. Saying you’re a Christian who isn’t political is a) very privileged and b) actually a political choice. Christians cannot bury their heads because it’s more convenient that way, or because they don’t want to engage in debate or conversation that can be uncomfortable. Sorry for the aside.

What I’m seeing and hearing other Christians defend these days is diametrically opposed to the teachings of Jesus to do for the least of these, to love your neighbor, to care for the poor, the ill, the orphaned, the widowed, the aged. Instead, I hear and see ugliness…abusive and racist and fear-mongering behavior, in the name of Jesus. Or there is just silence where there should be yelling in the streets against these abuses. Christians should be on the front line of fighting for those who need defending, rather than standing alongside those in masks with guns who are terrorizing families, those trying to take the rights away from human beings, those stealing from those who are already without. It doesn’t make me inclined to return to the church community. I’ve thought frequently over the last two years how much I miss being in community with others of the faith. I just don’t feel the energy, the drive to search for a community that aligns with me, particularly given all that is happening in our world. I know I’m not alone.

I am unchurched. I have been unchurched. Someday, I will return, I am sure. I trust God will lead me to a community that feels like home, that feels attached to the teachings and life of Jesus. In the meantime, I remind myself that:

I believe in God the Father almighty, maker of heaven and earth. And in Jesus Christ, his only Son, Our Lord, who was conceived by the Holy Spirit, born of the Virgin Mary, suffered under Pontius Pilate, was crucified, died and was buried. He descended into Hell. On the third day He rose again from the dead. He ascended into Heaven and sits at the right hand of God the Father Almighty. From thence He shall come to judge the living and dead. I believe in the Holy Spirit, the holy Christian Church, the communion of saints, the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body, and life everlasting. Amen.