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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!!

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.

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.

Therapy

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Our family moved from a large city to a very small town when I was ten years old, my sister eight, and my brother fourteen. To say it was an upheaval and traumatizing doesn’t even begin to touch the level of impact it had on all three of us. We know now our parents were doing their best for our family, and I am glad I spent half of my childhood in that small town, but it was very difficult. It took me a few years to feel settled, like I belonged, had my own space and friends. I don’t fully grasp the deep scars it left on my siblings, particularly my brother.

I was just-turned eighteen, and had just graduated from high school when my parents split up. If I’m being honest, they probably should have separated when I was nine or ten (maybe that was part of the impetus for the move – a reset and restart of sorts?). They came back from a weekend away in Reno, had a huge blowout fight – which was extremely abnormal for them as they never fought, ever, in my memory – and that was that. That was the end. Just over two months later, I left for college, a five-plus hour drive away from home. I felt the guilt of leaving, starting my own life to a certain extent while my parents were suffering at home, while my sister was the only kid left at home to endure the fallout.

College is an adjustment on its own. Add the normal childhood trauma, as well as my parents’ divorce, feeling torn between two (or three) worlds, the struggle to learn how to study in an entirely different way, and to accept that school was going to be more difficult than it had been for years, feeling like a failure, in addition to an eating disorder exacerbated by all of the above, and by my second semester of my first year, I was a train wreck.

I was in my tennis class and had the mother of all meltdowns. The instructor/coach pulled me from the courts to a bench in the shade. He said something like, “This seems like more than not being able to hit a tennis ball where you want it consistently.” I huddled into a heap of tears on that bench. No one besides my closest friends knew what was going on at home. No one really had bothered to look deep enough. We were all so caught up in studying, having fun, experiencing life away from home for the first time. At home, it never felt we children were able to need deeply, to show strong emotion. That coach let me cry it out for a good bit, then said to me, “I think you need to talk with someone,” once I gave him a brief picture of what was going on in my baby-adult life. This is more than one person can deal with on her own. He prayed with me (I went to a private Christian college my first two years of school), excused me from tennis for the rest of the day, and sent me back to my dorm room. Later that day, my Resident Director came to my room with a number to call – the on-campus therapist.

That was my entry into therapy. It wasn’t a magic pill by any means, but having someone to talk with, someone outside of my circle/family, someone who didn’t judge me, judge my parents but rather just let me work through things was life-altering. It didn’t fix everything immediately. It would be years before those hurts were more easily managed. Of course, in the way of life, there would be new hurts to come along. Back to therapy.

I don’t know who I’d be, how damaged I would still be if I hadn’t had that coach set me on a road out of that space, introducing me to therapy. I know plenty of people who don’t believe in therapy, in talking things through with a professional. I know plenty of people who don’t think it’s a viable option for them. To each their own I guess. Therapy is work. It’s scary telling someone you don’t know your issues, what’s happened in your life. It’s scary and it’s work, and then you’re given work so you can get to the root of your issues, learn to manage them and/or your responses to triggers. I still encourage people to seek it out, if they’re at all inclined. It saved me.

I’ve spent the past couple of years thinking about that childhood as I try to figure out why I feel the way I do sometimes, my reactions to situations and other people. I haven’t gone back to therapy, but I have taken that toolkit back out I was given so long ago, the things I learned in therapy in college, right after, and as a young mom. There was a situation last week (not an emergency or anything, just a situation) in which someone I know was struggling with something that wasn’t really a problem but more of an inconvenience. They were extremely frustrated in the moment. I knew it was more than just that immediate problem. I also knew it wasn’t my job to fix everything for them – logistically there was no way I could fix it, but even in theory, I couldn’t fix it. But I felt my whole body tighten, my heart begin to race. I recognized my reaction for what it was – my need to manage everything, to make everything perfect for everyone in my life so they’re never inconvenienced or unhappy, and feeling like it’s my failure if something goes wrong for them. I noticed that reaction, and then made myself stay quiet. I wasn’t there to solve the problem for them. I didn’t have to solve the problem for them. They weren’t asking me to solve the problem for them. They just wanted me to be there while they worked through the problem. I made myself NOT try fix it. I told myself their inconvenience was NOT my failure, and I breathed. Thank you, therapy.

Therapy doesn’t make us perfect, doesn’t make us “healed.” It doesn’t make it so we never have bad reactions or emotional responses. It doesn’t make us stop feeling those feelings. It just helps us recognize and then change the destructive reactions. It’s not that I ALWAYS can do what I did in the moment the other day. But it gave me those tools, helped me recognized my own patterns. To that coach whose name I couldn’t recall if I tried, and that first therapist, I thank you deeply.

“Nothing weighs more than someone else’s belief in you.”

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I retired 22 days ago. Still feels weird to say that. I don’t consider myself technically old enough to be retired. I definitely don’t consider myself “old”, and yet here we are. I am retired. In the months leading up to my last day, it felt I was constantly being asked, “What are you going to do?” How does one justify their existence when the children are done being raised, but you are not being productive in the way the world understands ie a paycheck or something tangible to show you’ve DONE something with your time? I knew I would be busy. I knew I had plans. But even those sounded the tiniest bit lame when I said them out loud, even moreso when I said them out loud to successful businesswomen. Was I doing the right thing, walking away from something I’m good at, leaving behind a ten-year career even if it wasn’t a C-Suite type of career (I left that life behind a very long time ago, when baby 3 arrived in under 4 years)?

What plans do I have to fill my days? First, I plan to slow down. For over 25 years, life has been lived at a pace set by others….career, spouse, home, children and all their various schooling and activities, pets, family responsibilities, volunteer responsibilities I’d signed up for. Mornings were a five-alarm fire drill from the moment the phone starting beeping its wakeup call until the children were dropped off, but only to rush me into getting all the things done in the few hours I had while they were at school, followed by the next fire drill of getting them to and from extracurriculars, feeding, herding through homework and bedtime, taking just enough of a breath to get ready for the next day. I still have an alarm set for weekday mornings, but it’s set back over an hour from those busy school days, and half an hour from the past four years, post having children in compulsory school. I don’t jump right out of bed….I allow myself to slowly wake up, clearing texts and emails that come in over night, checking my sleep app, and the weather for the day before rolling out of bed to brush teeth, put on the exercise clothes, start the coffee, and get the dogs their treats and breakfasts before feeding myself. I take time to journal a few lines in my planner most days, play my New York Times games (Wordle, Strands, Connections and the Mini, in that order), and grab my current non-fiction reading selection for 10-15 minutes. I’ve spent the first few weeks of the new year organizing/reorganizing, getting the donation truck here, putting away holidays, celebrating my retirement over a long weekend visit from my bestie. Now I am just settling in to the plans I had set for myself.

I went to our club yesterday to sign up for golf lessons. Spouse is an avid golfer, and I want to at the very least not embarrass him on the course, and keep up the pace of the game. I’ve had clubs and gone out a few times a year for maybe ten years? But I’ve never had a lesson, sooooooooo…..lessons it is! Just waiting to hear back from the club pro to schedule the first lesson.

I have been journaling more in general. It feels good, centering, cathartic, healthy. The house is less cluttered, more clean, than it’s been in years. I have the time every day to wash those few dishes, actually put the laundry away that no longer languishes in the dryer for days at a time (if it even makes it that far). The new puppy is taken outside frequently in a solid effort to get her potty trained. She’s a teacup Yorkie, so you know that is a huge challenge. Yorkies aren’t known for being easily potty trained. Challenge accepted.

The other thing I am doing….I knew I had to put it out there, verbally and in writing, to hold myself accountable. I am writing a book. I am trying to write a book. I am working on writing a book. I feel like an imposter of the highest order, just saying it out loud. I don’t know it will ever be published, but I promised myself when I was young and writing in my very first journal that someday, I would put my words out into the world. My biggest dream was to be an author, a real one. My daughter has known this wish of mine for years. She knows I had pushed off my dreams for career and motherhood. She knows now is the time. She knows what I’m writing about, and she believes in me. I do feel that as a weight, but not in a bad way. It pushes me…..I want her to see her mom live a lifelong dream, whether or not my words ever see a shelf in a bookstore. I have to try. I have to overcome my own fear and insecurity and at least try. Each day I don’t write, I feel the weight of ignoring my dreams and wishes, of shoving hopes down. It’s not just the weight of her belief in me though, it’s that of friends and family I’ve told of this thing I want to do, to be. They believe in me, in my ability.

I don’t know my thoughts and words will ever be published, out there for the world to see, judge, buy. But I have to try. I have to do this for me, for those who believe in me. That’s what pushes me to my computer, not every day, but right now, at least one day a week, to put those words down and craft them into something like a book that hopefully someday people will hold in their hands.

PS….the quote titling this post is out of my favorite book of 2025 (heck, it’s in my top ten of all time), My Friends by Fredrik Backman.

A Small Thank You to the Tism

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My friends with young adult children and I have been talking lately about the things we don’t miss from our kids being younger. Among the things we miss least (or not at all) is all the driving around – school drop off and pick up, and the hauling around to all the various activites/practices/rehearsals/classes/camps. For. The. Love. The time I am NOT spending in the car anymore is so much better spent these days. I’m still thankful for it, and it has been nearly four years since the last time I had to do a school drop off or pick up, and even longer since the last time I took a child to the dance studio, golf practice, or any kind of meet/rehearsal/game.

From the time they were old enough, we had all three kids in all the activities….dance, little league baseball, soccer, golf camp, Y camp, swim lessons. You name it, we did it, or at least tried for one season. The back of my SUV always had blankets, camp chairs, snacks, various uniform parts, water jugs/bottles, and the wagon to haul it all. We essentially lived in the car on weekdays, starting our days with school drop off at 7:45am, getting home from our last practice often around 8pm or later as they got older. I could never finish any projects at home because as soon as I’d start something, we’d have to leave to take or pick up from one thing or another. I felt like my world was in constant chaos, everything halfway done, if I even started it at all – laundry, dishes, cleaning, grocery shopping.

From the age of five until about eight, we had Z in all the activities as well, painful as it often was, and let me tell you, it was very frequently PAINFUL. As Z got older, we began to realize it just wasn’t worth it. We were torturing them, their teammates, their coaches, ourselves, for very little gain. Their peers were outpacing them in ability and size to the point it was a danger to our child. They just couldn’t keep up, and didn’t care to keep up. When it came time to register them for Minor B baseball (coach pitch at the beginning of the season, and kid-pitch by the end), we knew we were done with baseball. That following summer, we made the decision to pull them from soccer as well. Suddenly, they weren’t doing any extracurriculars.

Z is on the spectrum. They also are ADHD, oppositional/defiant, and have executive function disorder, as well as sensory issues. They are also our youngest – they were going to get slightly different parenting as it was. But add in all those other issues, and everything just looks different.

Why a small thank you the Tism? When I think about Z NOT being all those things, and what life might have looked like if they had been neurotypical, I get even more tired. With just two kids doing all the activities all the way through high school, I was exhausted and often overwhelmed. I can’t even imagine adding all of that for a third, youngest kid. It’s not that we didn’t have things for them….when they were first diagnosed on the spectrum, we had weekly therapy, monthly psychiatrist visits, IEP meetings, med checks, on top of all the “normal” doctor, dentist, parent/teacher conferences and school stuff. We did not have two or three practices a week and games on the weekend to add to the chaos.

So, thank you, Tism, for giving me one small reprieve.

Are we really talking about this again????

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VACCINES DO NOT CAUSE AUTISM

TYLENOL DOES NOT CAUSE AUTISM

MY CHILD DOES NOT NEED TO BE “CURED” OF HIS AUTISM SPECTRUM DISORDER

I seriously cannot believe these discussions are, well, up for discussion again. It’s frustrating. It’s infuriating. More importantly, it’s dangerous to the mental health of the mothers of autistic people. It’s frightfully dangerous to autistic people. For the love of all that is holy, can we please stop?

When Z was diagnosed in second grade, it was somewhat devastating. At the same time, it was a relief. We finally had the answers to why he struggled so deeply, to why things were so hard. We had the key to getting him the help he needed to learn to function in a world not made for near-diverse people. I never saw it as a death sentence. I never saw it as something to be cured……my child was then, and is still now, perfect and perfectly amazing. I only saw the opportunity to gain tools to put in his toolbox so he could manage life more easily.

Did I question what I may have done to “make” him that way? Yes…..because I think all good mothers question what we may have done wrong. Then again, that’s society’s fault….we’ve been trained since birth that if something goes awry, it’s our fault. There is so much blame placed upon the shoulders of women. But I digress…yes, I did wonder if I’d done something, or not done something that resulted in our child being on the spectrum. Then I took a close look at close family, particularly Spouse. Let me tell you, they are enough proof the autism is genetic in some way. Seriously. They’re all brilliant, but yeah, gatherings are spectrum-y. Spouse is spectrum-y. I looked no further for ways to blame myself. Even if there were a “cause” besides genetics, knowing that cause wouldn’t change anything. He simply is autistic. Knowing a reason wouldn’t change that fact.

In many ways, I feel our family. has been gifted this child. I love the way he sees the world. We did not get the non-verbal type of autism. We got the overly-verbal type of autism (well, he chooses when he wants to converse, but his vocabulary has always been pretty ridiculous, from the moment he started speaking). He has a way of making connections of what he takes in my brain would never even recognize much less verbalize. He notices things we don’t. He is insanely smart, sarcastic, hilarious.

Having an autistic child has taught me patience when I’m out and about in the world. Before autism, I may have been judge-y of other parents. Now, I know that you just never know what’s going on in someone’s life. What may appear bad/questionable parenting when a child is losing their ish may very well be a mother or father just trying their best to manage an autistic meltdown. Kid with an iPad and headphones on all the time may be managing sensory overload or issues rather than parents who are just trying to keep their kid quiet or disengaged. I have more compassion and empathy for having raised an autistic child.

Here’s the thing….He doesn’t “have” autism. He IS autistic. There is a huge difference. Having assumes you could also not have. Being is a whole other story. He is autistic. He will always be autistic. It just is who he is. He will never not be autistic. And I’m fine with that. Yes, getting him through childhood was rough. There were days I didn’t know we were going to get through. It was hard. It was also beautiful at times…understanding the gift of him making progress, of him connecting, of him reaching milestones….I wouldn’t change him. I would just have made things easier than they were, than they can oftentimes still be.

So, say it with me…..Vaccines do not cause autism. Tylenol does not cause autism. Autistic people are not a drain on society. Moms don’t need to be blamed. Autism is not a crisis in American society. We are blessed with their gifts, their brilliance, their being. Now, can we please put this discussion to bed forever?