I Don't Want My Children to be Trans

I don’t want my children to be trans.

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Not because I wouldn’t love them.

Not because I would reject them.

Not because there’s anything wrong with being trans.

But because I’ve seen the way the world treats people who are.

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I have a son, and I have a daughter. They're truly my sun and my moon. Like any good mother, I love every ounce of who they are; their curiosities, their stubbornness, the way they create and imagine and play. Their ferocity, and their growth. I envision a million futures for them; who they will become, what they will do with the passion and the heart that I'm trying to encourage in them. I imagine the lengths that they can go, the mountains they will climb, and the paths they will walk. I picture them building a happy life in doing what they love, with whoever they love by their side, their loving partner cheering them on and giving them a boost when they face battles that I can't be there for. I picture my children extending their hand to their partner in that same support.

But I don't like the world that they are walking into. At least, not as it stands now. Maybe things will be different in 10 years when my children are teenagers, but not right now. I don't want my children to be trans; not because it's shameful, but because it's dangerous in today's reality.

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If either of my children come to me and tell me "Mom, this is who I am," I will love them just the same. I will hold them in the same arms that held them as infants, and I will pull them close just as I did when they were smaller and had a bad dream. I will wrap my love and adoration around them like a shield.

I will defend them to my last breath, and support their right to their identity. I will be their sherpa as they navigate the terrain of this newfound world. There will be no hesitation in my battle to make sure they stay safe and whole. I will go to war if it means that they don't have to tear themselves apart.

But deep down, I will be struck by fear.

Not of them. Not of who they are.

I will fear for them. I will fear the way the world will treat them.

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I don't want to fear for them. I don't want to hear the words "Mom, I have a date," and have my heart skip a beat; not from excitement or joy, but from wondering if my daughter has shared her truth, and how her date will react when he finds out. I don't want to live in fear of ordinary moments. After all, dating as a woman is scary enough without the added context of trans-girlhood. I don't want to live on high alert, scouring headlines and waiting on check-in texts and calls. I don't want the late night phone call, "Ma'am, your daughter is in the hospital."

I don't want my son to carry the weight of the dysphoria that hides invisible beneath the surface. I don't want him to live in fear or confusion. I don't want him to wonder when, or if, he will be safe to come out to me, their friends, the world. I don't want him to experience the loneliness of transformation. I don't want my children to feel forced into a spotlight just for existing as who they are.

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I don't want my love and acceptance to have to be worn as armor.

I don't want my children to be considered brave just for living authentically.

But this is the world we live in. And I hate that for the trans children and adults of today.

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I speak from knowing the truth. I've experienced the cruelty that comes with being a member of the alphabet mafia. I know the pain of watching someone transition and blossom, only to stop their own heartbeat. I've heard the words used to diminish, to mock, and to degrade those I love.

(Taylor, I miss you.)

I've watched lawmakers use trans existence as political poker chips in a game where nobody but the politicians win. I've seen the data about the lives lost, the people hospitalized, the lives turned upside down by uncertainty.

(Julianna, I stand by you.)

I know the rejection that comes with living authentically. I've stood in the rallies, screaming myself hoarse to make sure that the people I love have the right to just exist as they were meant to, to have access to the care they need.

(J.K. Rowling, I hope you experience the pain you've inflicted for yourself, and I hope it damns you.)

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And so, I carry this ache with me. I pray to a thousand gods, hoping that my children are spared this pain. I would never love them less for their identity. I just know that the road they'd be walking takes their shoes away, and makes them walk over the shattered glass of constantly having to prove themselves, and the coals of non-acceptance.

There is a difference between love and safety. While they breathe, my children will have every ounce of the love that grows daily in my soul. While they live under the shelter of my wing, they will be protected fiercely and undeniably. I will take every blow for them, I will stand in front of the attack, I will be their brick wall against the bullets of hate.

But I fear the lack of safety that comes with not fitting the mold. I can't make this world safe all on my own. I can't guarantee that their lived experience won't be politicized, won't be belittled, won't be debated. I can't ensure that someone won't try to erase their identity from the history books.

This is the core of my fear. I can't guarantee that the world will love my children like I do.

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This is the raw, true, vulnerability of motherhood; I don't want them facing a world that will be so violent in it's hatred. I don't doubt the ability of my children to stand on their own two feet. I don't feel shame in my children possibly breaking the mold. I won't reject them for not fitting a predetermined outline of personhood. I want to protect them from it all, so that they can flourish into their own state of being.

But I can't. I can't ensure that they will never feel that pain.

So if that day ever comes, the only thing I can do is ensure them that they will always have my love, and that will never diminish. I will be the voice that tells them that they will always be good enough. That they're okay. That the world may be cruel, but they're safe in my shelter. I will never let my children wonder where I stand.

If I hear the words "Mom, this is who I am," I will listen. I will make the space. I will love them, and I will follow their lead. I will protect them with the ferocity of a full pride of lionesses. I will be unapologetic.

For today though... I will allow myself to be honest in my fear. The fear that lives inside every parent who knows what type of hellscape this world can be.

I am not ashamed of trans people. I have loved them deeply, I have cherished them fully, and I have rallied alongside them. I wish and I work to make this world worthy of the trans lives who are trying to plant roots and thrive.

Until this world finally wakes from it's nightmare, I will keep loving, keep protecting, keep standing. I will keep hoping for a future where this fear doesn't need to exist.