A Day in the Life of the club no one wants to join?

Today, another mom wrote to tell us that today is the day. Her daughter got top surgery today. This is dedicated to her, and to all the other dear moms and dads who daily live this grief. They are the silent heroes, the ones who love through the most painful journey.

Tell me your deepest, darkest fear. Go on, what is it? Death? Danger? Abandonment?

How about loss of control? Most of us fear being out of control. We like our lives in order, problems neatly wrapped up and solved. There is a professional for nearly every problem in modern life, and if you don't want to call a professional you can probably look it up on YouTube and find the solution neatly at your fingertips. I'll never forget the day I took my pressure washer apart and cleaned out the fuel line, all by myself, with the aid of a YouTube video. What a great feeling. Problem solved.

But nearly every day now, I deal with parents whose world has suddenly, irredeemably, spun out of control. The fear is palpable, because the stakes are ever so high. The What-Ifs come fast and furious.

What if she goes on hormones?

What if he never speaks to me again?

What if she has her breasts removed?

What if? These questions live in our brains, as parents of gender-confused kids. With everything we have, we try to stop this seemingly unstoppable train, before it crashes in front of our very eyes. Maybe if we find the right article, the best study, the perfect detransitioner video, maybe if we can present the facts of the very real health dangers, our child will come to her senses, and this nightmare will be over. We replay each conversation. Did we say the right thing? Did we listen well enough?

Can we find a therapist, a doctor, a mentor? Can we get our child away from the internet, get them into a better social group, model better self-acceptance? Maybe a change of schools will help. As we go through these options, we are confronted by a painful reality.

We should absolutely do all of these things, to one degree or another. We should do everything that we can. And yet, we are to some degree powerless. We don't control the thoughts, feelings, desires, or choices of anyone else, not even our children. We don't control the culture, this world that our kids are living in that seems to urge them down pathways that we are confident will hurt them deeply. We don't control the professionals who time and time again betray us. We don't control family members who believe that supporting our child means giving them what they are insisting that they want. We do what we can, but in the end, we are left with the unbearable reality of powerlessness. There is no guarantee that our kids will find their way out of the gender forest, and learn to love their bodies, just as they are. And this state of suspended uncertainty is excruciatingly difficult, especially since it most often goes on for years.

We ask ourselves so many questions. Should I give in on the pronouns? The name? Do I lay down the law, or should I just let things slide along and try to give her more space? Do I let her keep that friend that I'm pretty sure is a bad influence? There is this constant tightrope walk, where it seems that even one misplaced word or difficult conversation is going to cause the entire house to fall. Too lenient, and we might be helping them further down the path. Too strict, and the relationship could be threatened.

I wonder sometimes, how we sleep at all. Some of us don't, at least not much.

And then there are the days when the what-ifs become reality. The surgery date is announced. The pharmacy calls to say the prescription is ready. The child, loved and treasured, packs a bag and zooms off with a new family, presumably never to return. We replay the story in our heads. Did I mess up somehow? Why couldn't I stop it? Why were my prayers not answered? How can this even be happening?

There is just no way to describe the agony of the surgery day. Knowing that your child is moving forward with life altering irreversible surgery in an attempt to find gender happiness is agonizing. How do you spend this day, this day you never wanted to see? When every attempt has been thwarted, the date is set, and there is nothing else you can do?

I've wept with these parents. Sat on the phone with them, listened to their tears. I have no wise words of comfort, no answers except that I feel the pain. I couldn't stop that day from coming, either, so I know the pain. And I also know that tomorrow comes, the day after that dreaded day that you never ever wanted to see. The sun comes up again, the world goes on like always. But you are never the same. The thing you wanted to stop, that you begged God to please, please stop, that thing happened. And you couldn't stop it. That is powerlessness, at its very most basic level. There is a certain degree of release, I believe, in accepting that you cannot take responsibility for things that you are powerless to stop. If you could have done anything, you would have. There is no roadmap for this.

The story is not over, even after the things that seem like the biggest lines-to-never-be-crossed, are crossed. It's never too late for our kids to come home, come back, to find their way to wholeness. We may lose contact with them, at least for a period of time. We may stay in contact with them, even as they continue to live out an attempt to be the opposite sex. We may have to negotiate terms of engagement, relearn everything, continue to bleed. But at the core, this is our children's battle, and they are the ones who must find their way out of it. All we can do is make sure that there is a path home, however steep it might be.

Because if there is one thing greater than powerlessness, it is hope.