3,687,840 minutes since Allison shared her truth with us. It was 10:30 at night on June 15, 2016. Just after our oldest graduated high school. Decorations put away from a momentous graduation party, I had settled in to relax for the first time in ages. Our youngest had just completed 7th grade after spending the year recovering from brain surgery to remove a brain tumor. Our oldest was headed to college, and my body had started the strange process of relaxing...and breathing.
Allison came down stairs and was pacing frantically, wringing her hands. Her nerves were practically visible, living on the outside of her body. My heart rate began climbing instinctively as if I already knew what was coming. "What's going on babe, everything okay?" I said and then braced myself for what was coming.
"I marked this date on my calendar and promised myself that I was going to tell you today no matter what. I've been trying to find the courage to talk to you all day," she said from the body that looked more he than she. I quickly made a mental note that my husband was fast asleep, and I asked myself "why do bad things happen only after he's gone to bed?" I steadied my voice and told her it was okay. Whatever it was, we could deal with it.
"I am transgender, and no matter how hard I tried not to be, or how much I pretended, it's who I am and I need your help to figure out the next steps." And there it was. The uncertainty, the fear, the secret I knew in my soul she had been hiding for far too long. Strangely a calm came over me. Not my typical response when faced with a crisis or unexpected change. Not how I responded the first time she tried to share this with me. Not by a longshot.
Eighteen months before, when our youngest's health had taken a scary turn and his seizures were growing with intensity, I found a handwritten booklet at my bedroom door. Having creative children, I had been accustomed to finding crafty masterpieces from the kids so this didn't strike me as odd. The contents of this 6-page essay I'd like to keep private, but suffice it to say she explained that she had been feeling more like a girl than a boy since her preschool days, and that the weight of knowing this and holding it so deep within herself had taken its toll. She knew there was a lot to figure out and she wanted to keep it private for now until we had a game plan. I laid awake all night and as soon as I heard her moving around at 5 a.m. I burst into her room near hysterical. If there were a script written for how not to respond, it would have been this. The weight of our youngest's undiagnosed mystery illness, a year of not sleeping, suffocating anxiety, and now this--it was just too much. My fear and overwhelm poured from my eyes. She immediately retreated and recanted. I scared her back into herself. But I knew. I always knew this was coming back around.
The night she revealed herself to me--for the second and final time--I sat on the floor with her for over an hour. We spoke candidly and calmly. We joked. And I did everything I could to tell her it would be okay. We would figure it out. We loved her no matter what and wanted her to be happy above all else. I wish I could tell you that it was smooth sailing from there. My husband and I both had our moments when fear and disbelief would settle in. When we would grill her with questions as we tried to reconcile how the cowboy boot wearing, truck and train obsessed, rough and tumble toddler could be anything but male.
For reasons I'll explain in future blog posts, we spent the next eleven months worrying, learning, growing and coming to terms with what transgender meant and we did it all privately. Other than trusted medical professionals, therapists and my brother, in whom I confided nearly everything, we didn't tell a soul. Not even our other two children. At first, Allison was on board with this plan--or at least that's what she wanted us to believe. Most likely because she thought we'd be more comfortable this way. But as we saw her mental health deteriorate alarmingly, and discovered through research that life expectancy for transgender people was just 32 at the time (due to violence or death by suicide), we knew she needed to start living her truth sooner rather than later.
In June of 2017, we participated in our first Pride celebration as a family. It was overwhelming for so many reasons. I was afraid that my attendance would be reported back to my employer who made it clear they would fire me for showing public support of her. I was overwhelmed by the sites that can only be seen at a Pride event--the costumes, the signs, the "I don't give any f*&^s" contagion as these beautiful, courageous souls lived their truths out loud. I cried the entire time but not for the reasons you think. When I saw more than 100,000 people out to celebrate the LGBTQ+ community, I felt the hope of a love-filled world that could accept her.
Fast forward to yesterday, when our family attended our fifth Pride event. I still cried throughout the day. This abundant dose of love is especially poignant now given the rampant trans hate spread like wildfire throughout the U.S. At one point when we were walking with my employer (no, not that one) in the parade, I turned teary-eyed to my husband and said "I wish I could bottle all of this and sprinkle it throughout the year." "Sounds like a blog post," he responded.
So that's where we are, still drunk on Pride love. Exhausted from the 15,000 steps taken. And fiercely holding on to the love and hope for better, quieter, more accepting days ahead.