I can’t remember the last time I really talked about what it’s like to be the mom of trans kids. And I know exactly why. How many parents of trans kids feel like you’ve gotten really good at holding your breath until the worry goes away and knowing it’s time to purge when you almost pass out because it takes longer and longer to push said worry away?
At the surface, you’re taking pronoun adjustments and your continued trans education in stride. You’re doing the thing. A little deeper and you can’t shake the images of them being harassed and bullied because it’s happening and you’re powerless to protect them from every single incident.
Even deeper and we live in a country that is actively trying to kill them. My kids are endangered. My Black trans kid is tenfold. It kinda does feel like raising lion cubs. I have to teach them how to fight and also know that I can’t keep them in captivity because all I want is for them to be alive but they also need to fucking have a life.
“They’re so fucked,” I think.
“I’M so fucked,” I blurt aloud.
It tastes horrible in my mouth—to admit that I too am affected. It’s bullshit. I chose to have these kids. I signed up for some shit and I’m not going to re-neg now. I can’t afford to be affected. I can only afford to be a rock. A stoned-most-of-the-time rock.
But I have to purge. I need to take all this shit I’ve been holding and just put it the fuck down for five minutes every few months or so. Sure I could be doing it better but I’m fucking doing it. I’m allowing myself to admit that this is a lot and this. is. hard. And scary.
I’m scared.
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