An Open Letter To My Trans Son
We battled Cystic Fibrosis. I figuratively buried my daughter, celebrated the birth of a teenage son, and I’ll always choose love.
My little Quinn,
I spoke to you long before I met you. I named you in honor of my father, a man of countless virtues that I hoped to bestow upon you. I imagined you, a mess of smiles and dirty clothes, playing in the mud, building legos and challenging my abilities as a mom, all with the kindness and authenticity of your grandfather.
An ultrasound negated the deep connection I felt to you, and your name evolved to Maylie. I mourned the loss of the boy I imagined, but with time I began to anxiously and fully prepare for being a mom to my sweet little girl. You came out with all the anger a soul could muster, and filled the house with unrest. Unbeknownst to me, CF was ravaging your body. As I begged for reprieve from your discontentedness, you were in constant pain.
Your fire never diminished, it just evolved.
As you began to make choices, you pushed away dolls and gender feminine toys that were gifted to you. Your world revolved around Thomas the Train, Bob the Builder and “Mighty Machines.” I was a social worker; knowing that gender roles are prohibitive to authenticity, I felt compelled to raise you without judgement, supporting the interests and choices that embodied your true self. At four, you pushed further against gender norms, having all boys at your first birthday party. You begged me not to buy “girly stuff,” choosing a Thomas themed party.
Shortly after that party, CF truly entered our lives in a repressive, all-consuming sort of way. We had to make the difficult decision to take you out of school, forgo playdates, and walk away from that which molds our understanding of who we are and what defines us.
CF took center stage for the next eight years. Chronic disease became your life, your identity. It took over any small gap available for self-expression or understanding of who you were.
You became cystic fibrosis.
With the introduction of Trikafta last year, CF faded into the background and you saw yourself, unobstructed, for the first time. You were able to have interests. You were able to recognize that you were more than CF. But with that arose the deepest antipathy that I have ever had the misfortune to witness.
I am so sorry that when you look in the mirror you see a reflection that does not represent you. I am sorry that you feel such discord with the body you inhabit. I will not pretend to understand that kind of pain.
When you came to me that day by the creek, sobbing like a child, yet speaking with the wisdom of an elder, you clarified that which I had begun to suspect:
“I hate this body I am in, I was supposed to be a boy.”
Half the world says you’re too young to understand such a complex concept of gender, yet the other half feels that you should have made your preferences clear before you could speak in order for this to be your authentic truth. I believe that you did, yet, CF overpowered your perspicacious understanding of your own self.
Please know these “rules” that our society has constructed mean nothing to me. I am wholeheartedly with you on this journey. I will never question your ability to know who you are, no matter your age.
One may believe you are standing at a crossroad, one may believe there are two paths. But you have been tasked with an unfair reality: live authentically, or commit to a life full of lies and falsities — a life that steals part of your soul one agonizing day at a time.
I question the naivety of this word “choice” that is thrown around in response to our current situation. I believe that there was always just one path illuminated, the other path dark and foreboding, guiding you to choose lightness, even if it is no less of an arduous journey.
This year I had to figuratively bury my daughter and celebrate the birth of a teenage son. I will admit that this trial is not for the weak of heart, yet, as your mom, I understand that I carry the lighter end of this burden. Quinn, you are the true footman in this journey, I am simply here to serve as an espouser of support.
In full transparency, the first few weeks of this journey were spent trying to find a way out for you. I was looking for any possibility that this was a phase, a misunderstanding, a search for identity. But, I have too much respect for your innate wisdom to question this preeminent understanding of yourself. That being said, accepting you wholeheartedly does not mean this has been easy for me. I have been through an immense grieving process, but, I choose to support you.
I believe that being asked to change a name and commit to using new pronouns is a superior option to witnessing the pain that initiated this process.
Quinn, this may surprise you, but the most difficult thing I have been tasked with throughout this journey is not what one would expect, it is not accepting our new reality. It is actually holding my own emotions in check, not becoming jaded and angry while others who are watching through the proverbial window of transition request time to process their feelings.
My job as your mom is to support you through this rollercoaster of emotional upheaval, in which YOUR life has been turned inside out.
If I have time and energy after that, I’ll be quietly managing my own feelings.
I can tell you that when I do have time to be introspective, I no longer dissect the word “transgender.” I have closed the door on that. You are my son. My processing time is spent focusing on my fear that the people who love you won’t accept you, or will choose to see this as a choice or a phase rather than the bravest admission I have witnessed in a young human.
I will continue to teach the world every day that my acceptance of you is not a “gift.” It is not “being strong.” It’s simply called love. You are my human, no matter what.
Welcome back Quinn.
Love, Mom
