Echoes of Ideological Estrangement: A Mother’s Heart and The First Phone Call

It’d been over a year since I’d heard from my 16-year-old daughter. I haven't seen her since 2023, however our home felt like an emotional war zone before she split that final time. She discarded me as her mother, and claimed to be my son instead, believing she was born in the wrong body. 

Each time she left she was introduced to networks of “support” that fed into her discontentment, and I watched as her mental health unraveled further as she found people eager to convince her that she was better off without her “unsupportive” family. They offered her a kind of freedom that only deepened the divide, building a wall between us. 

She found the love bombers, the trauma bonders, the glitter families. She was taught that she could gain financial support and teenage freedom by claiming her family didn't accept this new identity. Once I discovered her new phone number, she quickly blocked me. 

For the last year, I’ve been living in rotating and overlapping states of grief, wrestling with shame over slight feelings of relief, but mostly hopelessness, defeat, fear, and a deep, smoldering animosity for those who made this outcome a possibility. Grief for the daughter who once trusted me, loved me, needed me. Grief for the relationship stolen from us. 

And relief, because my home no longer feels like a battleground, I don’t have to dance around the insidious lies, watching helplessly as a cult poisons her mind in my own home. But hopelessness and fear hit hard too, the fear of losing her forever to the damages they have and will continue to inflict upon her.

I am far from blind to the reality that even though I’m no longer in the same room, they continue to dim her fire, brand her with labels, and feed her false diagnoses. The battle rages on, but I am now stripped of any ability to shield her and dread more days passing without change. 

I’ve spent countless hours trying to make sense of this nightmare, regurgitating memories, photos, stories, and endless what-ifs. I’ve tried to prepare myself for the slim chance of hearing her voice again, but many days bring new waves of sadness, defeat, and anger - anger that those who claimed to help have led her so far away from not only her family and me, but also from her true self.

In Oregon, this is allowed.  Here, a child can decide, and a mother’s love, protection, rules, and discipline are no match for the laws that allow kids to disappear into a system that encourages them to turn their backs on family if that family disagrees with or even questions the gospel of gender ideology.

Child Protective Services investigates for “mental injury”. If they can’t succeed in stealing your child, the kids are still trained to use the magic words like “suicide”. Then youth services swoops in, guiding the kid down these paths to hide and medicalize. The police don't look for runaways and the schools won’t give you access to your child if they claim they feel unsafe. 

So, I’ve continued to work at a job that endorses a belief system completely out of alignment with mine, a medical company that manages the state-funded medical insurances paying for these gender-affirming surgeries, even if the person is underage, with a clause that they will not pay for anything if the member is unhappy with the outcomes. 

I’ve become more trauma-informed, studied addiction, learned this is just another form of addiction, got a coaching certification, studied somatic practices, and imagined over and over what I would say if I ever got the chance to speak to my daughter again. 

I imagined conversations where I wasn’t filled with panic, sadness or rage but came from a place of calm, heart-centered love and truth instead. Conversations that were different from all the ones that had shattered us before.

Then, 412 days after I last spoke to my daughter, on a Friday in October, I discovered she still had my phone blocked. I tried yet again, masking my number, and dialed hers. I braced myself for the usual voicemail, but this time was different. This time, she answered, but did not say hello, just silence on the other end. The stillness between us hung in the air before I finally broke it with a hesitant, “Hello?” She responded, a bit confused. Maybe she thought the “no caller ID” was a scam, or maybe she suspected it was me. 

This particular day and conversation came right after another call from a CPS caseworker. A new report had been filed, false accusations again. This man, part of a profit-driven scheme, addressed my daughter by the name she’d chosen, referred to her as “he,” and began reading through a page and a half of allegations. 

I ask him. “Are you even aware that my kid” (careful to not fall into their trap of using “wrong” language or I could be accused of abuse) “hasn’t lived with me for over a year? That neither you, nor any program in this state has helped bring [preferred name] home?” He hesitated, clueless about the full picture. How could he not know? This is our fourth investigation in just two years.

"Sir," I said, trying to hold back my frustration, “are you aware that [preferred name]’s legal name is actually [birth name]?” He wasn’t. I had to provide him with our previous case number so he could verify what I already knew—that we are not a safety threat, that she chose to leave, refusing the last worker’s help to keep our family together.

Yet, once again, they wouldn’t tell me what school she was attending or where she’s been living due to accusations that I had stalked her or attempted to abduct her. It’s a narrative that fits too neatly into the state's ideology, casting me as the villain for wanting my daughter safe, unharmed, and home.

It feels like everything is stacked against parents like me. I can’t just go get my child. I can’t even hire someone to bring her home or take her to a mental health facility. The laws protect her right to stay on the streets, with other families, in the very system that keeps her broken and enabled.

Everyone from CPS to the police have told me the same things: I should “reach out to my son, accept him for who he is, and rebuild the relationship.” As if those words, spoken to a grieving mother, could undo the pain, the fear, the loss of my daughter.

They are the ones trying to change her, so tell me—who truly accepts her? Those profiting from this belief that she was born wrong, or the mother who brought her into this world and has loved her unconditionally?

When she picked up that phone, my heart raced. I had been practicing for this moment for over a year, somatically preparing myself to stay calm, to breathe through the pain. She asked who this was, “This is your mother,” I said softly, “are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m good,” she replied. I held onto her voice, even though it felt distant, slightly unfamiliar. I told her I heard she wasn’t okay, that CPS had reached out to me again. She shrugged it off, saying something about not wanting the school to call me when she missed days.

My rage simmered beneath the surface, but I kept it hidden. I stayed steady. I told her I missed her, that she was welcome to come home. I told her I loved her and would care about her for the rest of my life. I told her I want her in my life. She responded saying she didn’t want me in her life.

This time, it wasn’t through CPS or a caseworker or a teacher, but from her own lips that I heard of her wish to not have me in her life - something I thought if she truly wants that she needs to tell me herself. And yet still, it shattered me.

Now, I am left to pick up the pieces. Left to fend off accusations, to deal with CPS investigations, to wonder if I’ll ever see her again. Left to navigate a system that has turned its back on parents like me—parents who only wanted to love and protect their children. 

I am tired. Tired of fighting, tired of defending myself against lies, tired of the silence and exclusion that follow every attempt I make to reach her. She is still my daughter, no matter what name she goes by, no matter how far she tries to run. 

I offered her a solution: emancipation. Maybe if she had the independence she wanted, the state would stop being the wall between us. She asked if I’d agree to it. In that moment, I wanted to scream. What rights did I even have left as her mother anyway? But I swallowed my bitterness, staying calm and collected. I told her I didn’t want a war, just peace for both of us.

Some might think I’m giving up by suggesting this. But what choice do I have? A friend pointed out that maybe this would free me from being her scapegoat, her tool to manipulate or rebel against. Maybe it would end the CPS harassment, the false accusations, the endless cycle of trauma.

She didn’t agree to anything. She’s still clinging to the system that keeps her afloat, that lets her stay a victim. They’ve given her every reason to stay right where she is, dependent on state-funded programs, labeled as a homeless youth, an unaccompanied minor, adrift, another poor trans kid who was “kicked out” or “unsafe” in the unaccepting abusive parents’ home.  Why would she give that narrative up?

But maybe, someday, she’ll want more. Maybe she’ll tire of being a victim. Maybe she’ll want her life back. Until then, I have to keep moving through my own emotions. I have to find a way to survive this grief, this loss, this rage. I refuse to let the hate live in my body for long.

The trauma this social crisis has caused so many is unspeakable and hidden from mainstream media. The damage done to our children, to families, is deep. But somehow, I have to believe there will come a time when we need strong, embodied people to help rebuild. People who find love to outweigh the anger, even when it’s hard. Even when it feels impossible.

I will miss my daughter for the rest of my life, because even if she comes back one day, nothing will ever be the same again. I will feel sorrow and find the love that lives within that. There will be resilience there, harnessing the courage to cultivate warmth, love, and strength in the damage done to her body and mind. 

This is where my heart stands, broken but beating. I’m living through the ashes of sorrow, building resilience in the midst of loss. I share this not for pity, but for those who might understand the silent grief of estrangement when it comes to an ideological system profiting from families like mine, and the journey of trying to stay open-hearted in a world that feels upside down and closed off. 

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