child

Moments after this big reveal, as I sat with the knowledge that I was the mother of a queer daughter, we heard about the man in Los Angeles being stopped on his way to Pride with guns and bombs, and I suddenly realized that my daughter was now one of the millions of people at risk because of vile and unreasonable hatred about non-straight sexuality.

In the midst of a week that’s been rife with sadness and confusion, I am pleased to present to you a story that is unequivocally happy. A fairy tale ending, if you will.

Although I hesitate to admit it, I have a hard time believing that men can be victims of domestic violence, and I know that my stepfather Joe is at the root of my problem.

People sometimes blame my dad for me being transgender. In their view, I guess, my father being a good dad is the reason I don't feel comfortable in my own skin and battle gender dysphoria. To my mind, this makes no sense. I will say, though, looking back — I did learn a lot about masculinity from my dad.

My husband is worried about stigma, about Owen feeling different, about epilepsy being part of his identity. Those are sweet concerns, really. And I get it — I love the kid too. I’d never want to make his life harder in any way.

I am still a very spiritual person, but don’t necessarily agree with a lot of the things I was taught growing up — or the way it was shoved down our throats. So when Branden came along, we decided not to baptize him, because I just didn’t believe our sweet baby was born in sin. My husband wasn’t religious, and this was the right choice for us.

My mother saw in my brother a carbon copy of herself; every side-eye and negative comment was an echo of offensive remarks made about her own behavior as a child. Whenever my brother got into trouble for his disregard for authority or bad attitude, my mother saw it as a victory: My brother wasn’t just sticking up for himself, he was sticking up for my mother.

Just as you're learning to navigate the world by yourself, I guess it's time for me to relearn the ropes of motherhood. To patiently watch you find your wings, to sit in the shadows and watch you fly, to applaud you quietly from a distance, to embrace you when you decide to come back. Only to go off by yourself again.