A melancholy tale; my shattered child

I sit at a table in a restaurant with my family. My daughter is home from college for the weekend. I watch her eat. She grew into a beautiful young woman so fast. It feels like just yesterday that I was in the hospital holding her tiny body in my arms. It was almost twenty-one years ago. My son, her younger brother, says something to her. He calls her by her name, the name I so lovingly chose before she was even born. She responds, her beautiful feminine voice is music to my ears, even if it is the voice of a 20-year-old woman, and not the little toddler that I remember. I love her even more than I am capable of feeling, no matter her age. I am happy for a moment, but then I come back to reality. I realize that this cannot be it, I cannot be experiencing this beautiful moment. I don't have a daughter; I never had a daughter! I have two boys, no – young men now, with man names and man voices and handsome manly faces.

This is not my child, this young woman who sits before me, with her beautiful voice, her secondhand women's denim jacket, her beautiful face. It can't be! But it is. It is not my daughter but my eldest SON, sitting there before me. I should find it grotesque, this young boy turned by cross-sex hormones and time into a beautiful young woman. Everything about the way he looks, the way he talks, sounding just like any other 20-year-old woman, the way people call him "her," the synthetic-estrogen-induced gynocomastia on his chest that looks just like healthy breasts, that so many women his age choose to cut off! I should scream, want to tear my eyes out at the terrible sight before me, but I cannot. I cannot help myself; I find him the most beautiful thing in the world. I hear strangers refer to him, my male son, as a woman. And I am happy. I am happy because he is happy, because I cannot help but be happy by his happiness. Some days he's happier than I have seen him in years. Other days he is miserable. I cannot function on those days. I worry that that is preventing me from giving him the help he deserves, but I try my best when he is happy. When he is happy, I cannot help but be happy for him, even though I know it is wrong, it is really hurting him. When I see his feminine appearance, in all respects like a tall woman, not at all like the obvious men in dresses I am used to seeing, I can't help but love him. I should find it grotesque, even more so because he is so convincing in his disguise. That is what it is, after all. But I cannot. I cannot help but love my child, even when that love gets in the way of loving him.

That is what it is doing. I love my son but I refuse to affirm his "gender," I encourage him to desist as soon as possible. But I love my son, I see him happy, I see him fulfilled, and I am happy. Even when his happiness is false, even when it seems like his life is so bright. The long-term effects of the "gender-affirming care" that is making him so seemingly happy are not known for sure, and what we do know is very concerning. His happiness won't last. I know this, and I try to warn him. I never expected him to fall for this cult. But he did.

No, he didn't. This is a nightmare. This cannot be real, I must be dreaming, I must be having a bad dream. If I'm not, then the whole world's gone mad. I cannot comprehend the horror that is before me. It is all hitting me at once, here, eating dinner with my family. No, this can't be my son. He would never do this! He would never be captured by this evil ideology! He would never fall for these lies he used to make fun of.

But you did, didn't you? You did fall for the lies of the trans activists. Were all those jokes you made about how you could "identify as a woman" in the most absurd situations more than jokes? Did I miss the signs? Did I fail to save you before you fell into this dangerous ideology?

You have thrown away the name your father and I lovingly picked, pondering for many days and nights, eliminating hundreds of other options. We spent hours considering how to spell it. You threw it away. You don't even care about how your trans-name is spelled as you spell it differently every time you write it. And as some cruel joke you chose the name I wanted to name you if you were a girl. You are not a girl. You were always a boy.

You seem happy. You seem carefree. But I know that you know you are wrong, deep down inside you. Your boyfriend told me about times at night when you just cry, for an hour at a time, lying in his arms. When you were little you did that in my arms. But then you cried because you were hungry or tired. Now you cry because you can feel the synthetic hormones hurting you, little by little. My shattered child.

I know you are hurting, because I know you. I raised you for twenty years. I also know you well enough to know that I cannot convince you to desist. You are your mother's son, strong-willed and intelligent. You will not detransition because of my prodding. You must come to that conclusion yourself.

And I will be there for you. I will be there to pick up the pieces with you. I will be there, if I have to cross the ocean seven times over. I will be there for you, my son, if I have to kill Death itself to live long enough to help you detransition. Until then, I will be cautious. I will refuse to call you by your trans-name. I will awkwardly avoid using your trans pronouns. And I will endure the pain of seeing you harm yourself. And regarding you eventually deciding to detransition yourself? I trust you, my beloved son.

Tearful love,
Mom