How Genspect’s Stella O’Malley helped me find my voice

My husband and I braced ourselves before walking into the high school. It was parent teacher interview night.

We looked around and then we relaxed a bit. It had been a few years since we were here, and no one seemed to remember us. The crowded halls and classrooms were a nice distraction. At home, we’re the anguished parents of a 19-year-old daughter who told us out-of-the-blue five years ago that she’s actually our son. But here, we could blend in with the other parents, talk about our younger son and normal things like tests and homework. We could focus on the mundane.

We took a seat in front of Mrs. Thompson, the grade 10 history teacher. She’s the best kind of teacher—smart, kind, funny, passionate about her subject.

“It’s so great to see you!” she said, offering a warm handshake. “I’m so glad, so glad that you’re here.” 

Something was off. She looked us in the eye, but then hesitated, and glanced sideways and down at the papers on her desk.

“With Steven in my class this year, I saw the last name and I remembered it,” Mrs. Thompson said. “I thought, where have I seen this name? And then I remembered—Mia. I asked him, that’s your sister, right? How’s Mia doing? And he told me, ‘That’s my brother. He’s my brother now, Miss. He’s trans.’”

Mrs. Thompson smiled at us, but we could see that she was also unsure. She continued, “And I said, ‘Oh wow.’ I remember Mia. She was one of those kids, as a teacher, you always remember. She was smart and sensitive, had good ideas and wanted to share them. But I could see how lonely she was, how unhappy and uncomfortable in her own skin.

“Steven told me, ‘My brother is doing great.’ That’s so exciting,” Mrs. Thompson said, with a slight pause. “I have students in my class—they’re saying that they’re non-binary, trans. I’m trying to understand it, figure out how to best support them.

“And you’re the parents, and I just want to know, what’s it like for you?”

My husband and I looked at each other. A tiny nod. Another deep breath and then I said it: “To tell you the truth, Mrs. Thompson, it’s really complicated.”

My brain was saying, don’t cry, don’t burst into tears and run from this room. I wasn’t sure if I could make it. It was like an out-of-body experience. I could hear myself talking.

“You know, Mrs. Thompson, I’m all for gender non-conforming kids. Boys who want to play with dolls or wear dresses. Girls who don’t want to do either. But now those kids get told that they were born in the wrong body and they’re the opposite sex. It’s all quite regressive and that concerns me.”

That’s my voice. But the words came from Stella O’Malley, Genspect’s brilliant and indomitable psychotherapist and author. She held a Q&A session the week before, with two dozen parents, all in desperate pain. How on Earth do we talk about this? How do we tell a little bit without scaring people off?

Stella gave us marching orders: have a three-minute pitch. Keep it short. Land a good point or two and then zip it. Plant a few seeds, that’s all.

I took notes that day. Then I practiced. In the shower. On my morning walk. Over and over again. And now – suddenly – it was show time.

I smiled at Mrs. Thompson and shook my head. “It’s so hard Mrs. Thompson, because at first, I didn’t know about this either. But I’ve been learning and educating myself.”

“What’s really hard is that she’s so young and she told us that she needs a double mastectomy and testosterone—as soon as possible. But – did you know, Mrs. Thompson – there are young people who’ve gone through with those procedures, and they regret it?”

“Oh,” said Mrs. Thompson. “I didn’t know.” Her brow is furrowed.

“And did you know that when parents don’t agree right away, to a new name and pronouns, people say that you’re transphobic and you don’t love your kids?”

“No, I didn’t.” We could see her thinking this over. Then she said, “That’s so hard.”

Time to soften it up a bit. “We love her so much,” I said quickly. “You know what a great kid she is. She’s got big dreams and she’s happy and want to see her flourish, but we’re concerned about this.”

Now I needed to let Mrs. Thompson talk. “They’re so young,” she said, thinking out loud. “Just getting started in life. I really didn’t make good decisions until I got older. And I was a tom boy.”

I couldn’t resist. There was one more thing I needed to say: “It’s so wonderful to hear your memories of Mia and talk about her with you tonight. I haven’t said her name to her face for five years.”

Mrs. Thompson looked at us directly. “I have a five-year old. I can’t imagine what that would be like,” she said.

Then my husband landed the most important point of all. “We’ve explained our concerns and we know she doesn’t agree. But in our house, we do our best to love and respect each other. It’s difficult but we’re managing,” he said. “She’s getting older and she’ll make her own decisions. Even when we don’t like it, we’ll always be here for her.”

Mrs. Thompson was silent, thinking this over. Then, her face brightened.

“You know,” she said. “To me, she’ll always be Mia. That’s who she was when I taught her and that’s who she’ll always be to me. She’ll always be Mia.”

It’s music to my ears.

Mrs. Thompson gave me her email address and we agreed to keep in touch. I have more to tell her. But that’s for another day.

In the meantime, thank you Mrs. Thompson, for listening.

And thank you Stella, for helping me find my voice.