Sometimes motherhood means walking your child into the lion’s den – and letting her lead the way
“I just want to make sure you’re really sure. Once we bleach it, there’s no going back.” I warned.
She lifted her head, grabbed my hand, looked me square in the eyes and said:
“Mom, I’m SURE. Please stop asking because it’s making me feel less sure.”
So I bit my tongue and pinched my lips shut and went back to the task at hand.
My 14-yr-old was sitting on a tall stool out in the side yard, with an old sheet wrapped around her, and we were getting ready to dye her hair a vibrant hot pink. I’d gotten the tip on hair dye from a girl at the teen rehab center where I worked.
Although she’d been living as herself for 18 months by then, many people still spelled Nadia’s name backwards and used male pronouns for her. Including her Dad.
This did not make her feel any less sure of who she is.
Four days later was her first day of high school. At his insistence, she was returning to the district her Dad lived in, in a pricey, conservative area. She had dramatically fled the middle school down the street two years before, where the dress code was so strict that she kept getting detention for having her shirt untucked.
Now she was returning, post transition.
I woke up extra early that morning to make sure I was in a good space to support her. I coaxed her out of bed with calm energy and into the shower with plenty of time to spare. I made her a high-protein breakfast and packed her a big lunch.
It’s not about me, I reminded myself while she got dressed. Don’t add to the stress. Don’t ask too many questions. Just be there for her.
It’s impossible for me to imagine what it’s like to be a 14-yr-old trans girl, on her first day of high school, going back to the kids she went to elementary school and started middle school with, showing them her true self for the first time via hot pink hair and a cute top. Since she was not connected to them on social media, the big circle of guys she’d hung around with had basically no idea where she had gone when she left middle school, and had no glimpses of who she’d grown into.
As we were pulling into the drop-off line near the school, I winced at the sight of the school’s mascot smiling larger than life from the side of the gym. A Comanche Indian. In 2019.
My stomach turned.
I snuck a glance at my brave girl in the seat next to me. Her expression was hard to read.
“How’re you feeling?” I ventured, trying to keep my voice light.
“Excited!” she declared, with considerably more life force than I’d been expecting.
I looked over at her again, slightly aghast.
Surely she knew we were back in conservative Anaheim Hills.
Surely she knew how cruel kids could be at this age.
Surely I wasn’t sending her into the lion’s den, naively thinking they were going to welcome her with open arms.
Right!?
“You’re excited!?” I repeated, trying to stay curious.
She looked at me with the same certainty she’d had in the side yard.
“Yes! It’s a rare opportunity to be able to just show up as my true self and challenge so many people’s ignorance.”
Her confidence reminded me of who I was dealing with. Who I have always been raising. A light warrior with a capital W. An activist from birth.
She resisted authority before she could talk – literally. At 13 months, she’d only sign “please” or “I’m sorry” if she wasn’t reminded to.
Throughout her childhood, she would choose any consequence over submitting when she thought something was unfair. (It’s not like she forgot about the tuck-your-shirt-in rule.)
She’s grown into a master of words and wit and irony. Her Dad’s verbal abuse gave her a skin thick enough to be ready for anything these poor little rich kids could throw at her.
I saw that glint in her eye, and suddenly my nervousness shifted – from her to anyone who dared to challenge her truth. And the teachers who had to mediate it. And the administrators who would inevitably get involved. And her Dad when he showed up and saw her hot pink hair.
I hope they’re ready for her, I thought as I watched her skip off into the school, excited to shake some paradigms.
Since those days, there have been many times when I have struggled on my own path.
Times when I felt pressured by the people or the society around me to be more “normal”, more neurotypical, more driven, or more serious.
Sometimes I still spend several days locked in that same mental battle between resonance and “should”.
And then, inevitably, the passionate pink-haired girl from that day will walk through my mind and remind me that if my 14-year-old trans daughter can find the courage to live her authentic life and not apologize for it, then so can I.
I have a lot of stories about the incredible journey of being Nadia’s mother, but this is the foundation of all of them.
Nadia shows me, over and over, that the truest path doesn’t always look safe from the outside. It just feels right on the inside. And that it’s always a rare opportunity when you get to change the world just by showing up as your true self.
