Watching My Daughter Become My Son
A mother’s perspective of gender transition
In 1995, having had 4 children — 3 boys and 1 girl, at the age of 30, I had my last child, a girl. A little sister for my daughter and another sister for the boys to tease! She was just perfect.
As early as nursery school, I realised she wasn’t like the other little girls. Didn’t like dolls, or pink clothes, pretend kitchens or ‘princess’ stories. Didn’t want to play ‘dress-up’ with her sister. Much preferring to get dirty, play ‘rough’ as my Gran would have called it, and mostly played football with boys — frequently being put in goal and getting smacked full-force in the face with a basketball, ouch!. That didn’t stop her brothers from teasing her, of course. She was always a determined child, refusing to give up until she had succeeded in the task at hand, from homework to puzzles.
When she was 6, I left the family home and moved into a flat with my partner, who also had 2 children. Although all the kids stayed in their family homes with the other parents during the week, for practical purposes, my youngest three and my partner’s two came to stay with us every weekend and school holidays.
She was sometimes quiet and I often wondered if it was because she was the youngest of five, the others doing the talking for her when she was a baby, or whether it was because of me leaving. We have talked, all the children assure me they’re alright with it, but I know some were bullied because of my leaving.
The Primary school years were a bit of a mix. Obviously smart, yet she clearly had so many issues relating to the way she looked, mainly to do with her teeth. She was referred to an orthodontist but it was going to take time to fix. Still, there were things she hated about herself, and when her periods began, I think it began to crystallise her thoughts and feelings. She was utterly disgusted by the whole thing and was unfortunate enough to suffer from heavy periods.
Teenage Struggles
In the high school years, she identified as an ‘emo’. Dark make-up, clothing, ‘thrash metal’, etc. Guitar lessons followed and by 15 she told me she was gay. It was around this time she had her first relationship, with a girl — one of a group of girls that she’d met from outside the area. I don’t know the details as privacy has always been a part of her make-up too, but I do know it didn’t end well and she got hurt. If I ever meet THAT girl…
I went to Parents evenings where she played the piano in front of her school cohort and the staff. The piano! Guitar lessons, but self-taught piano. Then the saxophone and the Ukulele.
She passed 12 GCSE’s easily and said she wanted to go to college.
Everything changed one evening when I saw the vicious, deep scars on her legs and arms.
Horrified, I asked what had happened, imagining all sorts of scenarios. Eventually, she admitted they were self-harming scars, that she cut herself to take away the pain.
I cannot explain to you what that realisation does to a mother.
The guilt — how did I not see the scarring before? How could I not know my baby was hurting? What sort of crap mother was I anyway? Then the crushing pain — to know your child is so unhappy that they are injuring themselves, badly.
I was angry that someone so smart could be so stupid at the same time. Hurt, that she thought she couldn’t approach me with her problems, and ashamed, that I had been negligent in my duty of care because I hadn’t seen it coming.
We talked. Really talked. And I came to understand the nature of her unhappiness. For a long time, she had felt like she wasn’t in the right body, she felt she was a male. At first I struggled to comprehend — not because I’m an idiot or bigot, but because I loved her and I couldn’t understand why she didn’t. It wasn’t about me though, nor her. The pain and sheer effort required to maintain the pretence had taken its toll, the physical results were the self-harming. Goodness only knows what mental torment my child had been going through.
What mother wants that for their child?
I slowly understood that I would have to say goodbye to the girl I had given birth to. I’m not going to lie, I went through a period of mourning for her and I might have mangled the pronouns for a while but I never flinched in my support for Alexander.
To Higher Education and Beyond
As he was still under 18, Alex was referred to Tavistock in London, the Children’s Health service that deals with transgender care. He had already been living as a male for a while so the legal side of changing identification went quite smoothly. Then, once he turned 18, he was transferred to the adult services at Charing Cross Identity Clinic.
We went to London a couple of times where Alex had appointments with consultants. He went in and spoke to them privately and I waited in the waiting room, with people at all different stages of transition — now that was an eye-opener! We stayed in a Premier Inn and I drove him crazy with my ditziness on the London Underground.
In those couple of years, Alex had moved in with us permanently, went to college to study music production, and played bass guitar in a band. I went to watch the band one night at a club in the town centre. They played Stevie Wonder’s ‘Superstition’ and everyone got up and danced. It was amazing, I was so proud. His confidence was growing and he morphed into a very determined individual.
Alex had been prescribed testosterone injections, so his appearance began to change. He’d been seeing the orthodontist for over two years and had been wearing a brace to straighten his teeth. Then he underwent dental surgery. He had teeth removed, his jawbone shortened and steel pins inserted — it was terrifying for me, but he was so calm.
Even after the operation, when he was vomiting blood, I ran around screaming, “Help! Help!” Alex was mortified that I’d made a fuss! Although his face remained swollen for a while, once it had gone down his appearance had definitely altered. He had straight, white teeth, a more masculine jawline, and he started experimenting with growing his facial hair.
The testosterone made his body hair grow, his voice got deeper — then it didn’t, then it did. He began an Undergraduate degree, fully Alexander Beynon Boswell. I was so pleased he chose the middle name of Beynon, it was my beloved Uncle’s name, having been in the family for generations. Alex worked hard, part-time in the evenings at a casino to supplement his student loan. It began to look like he was really enjoying life.
Throughout this time Alex had continued to have consultations with professionals in London, and the time had come for the double mastectomy. We had talked about it at length, Alex explaining that the physical aspects of being female were abhorrent to him — not going to lie again — I was slightly offended. What is wrong with ‘women’s bits’ exactly?! Well, turns out if you’re a bloke, it’s pretty rotten — and why should he apologise for my ignorance anyway?
I worried that he’d change his mind when it was too late. I was scared something would happen during the operation — still having nightmares from the dentistry! Once again, with that dauntless bravery that saw him ride every roller-coaster in every fairground, he dived into major surgery for the second time.
The operation took place at a very nice, private hospital in London. The food was amazing — nothing like the grey, unappetising mush we get contracted in at NHS establishments. Once again, I worried the entire time he was in surgery, and was very grateful when he was wheeled back to his room beeping and clicking away.
Although we had a bit of a blip when one side of his body was draining properly but the other one wasn’t, and he had to be rushed back to theatre, he was released from hospital the next day. We spent another couple of days at the hotel while he recovered enough to travel, then we came home on the Megabus. Almost immediately, the change in him was profound. A fully adult man now stood before me.
Life with My Transgender Son
Alex had a couple of relationships with guys that I wasn’t fond of, but nothing serious came of them. He got jobs in finance and banking but wasn’t settled, so we talked about him earning a Masters degree. There was no better time — his living costs were minimal as he was living with us.
He went vegan one ‘Veganuary’ and hasn’t looked at my bacon sarnies since. It’s been three years now! His confidence and self-identity continued to flourish and grow while he completed his Master’s degree, and now he’s begun a PhD. He is self-financing through his writing and is building his skills and talents steadily.
With the same dry, witty sense of humour, the same intolerance of idiocy, Alex has guided me, helped me, and has always been patient with me as I navigate an unfamiliar world.
He is a warm, loyal, sensitive, intelligent young man whom I am very proud of, and I am certain his future is bright. I could not be more pleased.
I love him dearly.
P.S Thanks Alexander Boswell for fact checking
