I sit on the floor in the corner of my room with a pencil and my journal, tears glide down my cheeks one after another.
I’m hiding.
I don’t want her…. I mean him to see me cry. He won’t understand why I need to release a rush of tears. He will see my ache and it will hurt him even more, and I don’t want that.
He just came out to our family as being transgender. And so overnight, my daughter is now my son.
So here I grieve, in the silence of a dark room away from my family.
Tears fall on the page before me as I begin to write.
I’m so sad.
That’s what my journal entry started with, those three words. And then suddenly, I couldn’t write fast enough to keep up with the flood of emotions just begging to escape.
“How could I ever want this for my baby. My child, who I’ve carried in my body, on my body and in my heart for so long.”
Waves of sadness quickly turn to anger, at God in particular. I ask:
“Why couldn’t she have just been born a boy? Why make her go through so much pain? She’s my baby and I can’t stand it. But you! You fucking created her…so why are you so cruel?”
And yes, God knows I cuss sometimes. He’s not afraid to be yelled at by the insignificant likes of me.
I’ve never wanted to protect anyone more than our child. I never wanted our first born to feel pain and heartache.
“She doesn’t deserve this. She’s too precious of a spirit, she’s too good for this earth. Too pure. So why does her journey have to be so hard?”
Why?
Car ride.
In a moment of courage a few days later. My husband and I are driving him back from therapy when I decide to ask him the question I asked God.
I say “Aren’t you mad at God about this? I mean he could have just made you a boy so you didn’t have to go through so much pain, yet he chose to make your sex and gender not align!”
Our son looks out his side window and replies “I had a talk with him about that, a while ago. I asked God why he made me transgender and he told me that if I hadn’t been born this way, I wouldn’t turn out to be the man he needs me to be.”
Those sweet words spoken by my 16-year-old instantly melt away layers of hurt and anger building up in my heart.
I’m glad he couldn’t see my face.
I was crying again but not because I was sad this time. This time it was because I could feel…
Hope.
TransMama 