Memories From This Day

There’s something deeply comforting about routine, especially when everything else feels uncertain or formidable. Routine has become my anchor for getting through the day.

Waking before anyone else. Saying a prayer. Making the same breakfast. Walking the same route. Checking emails at the same time.

These small acts create a rhythm that helps quiet the turmoil I feel inside. It’s not that the pain disappears, but within the structure of routine, I feel safe. In that repetition—even when done on autopilot—there’s reassurance: life is still moving forward, and somehow, so am I.

But one part of my routine breaks that sense of safety: a daily email from OneDrive prompting me to “look back at your memories from this day.” Photos taken the same day from previous years are randomly selected, summarized, and sent to my inbox every morning.

I always hesitate before opening. I can’t predict whether I’ll feel a wave of sadness, nostalgia, or something in between. The unpredictability is what makes me pause. How will I feel looking back today? Am I strong enough? Am I alone, so if the tears come, my loved ones will not have to watch me fall apart again?

That uncertainty can be paralyzing. Most times, the images that once brought joy in reminiscence are now reminders of what’s been lost.

Pictures of my sweet boy at all stages of life. I never know which version of him will appear: my beautiful baby, my wide-eyed toddler, my curious little boy, or the handsome young man he has grown to be.

In them, he is always smiling—a bright, beautiful smile. He was a happy kid, even when life threw challenges. He was perfect just as he was.

I open the emails, searching the pictures for something I missed—a hint of struggle, a shadow of sadness, a tinge of nonconformity. But I see none. Only joy and self-assuredness. A happy child surrounded by a loving family.

When my son left for college, I had some feelings of trepidation about sending him out into the world. I felt that I raised him with a good foundation of a belief in God and in himself. He was grounded, I believed. He will be just fine, I told myself. He is launching, Mom, I reminded my heart. Let him go.

Then the pandemic hit.

He seemed to be navigating through the challenges of lockdown and its aftermath—a time that took a toll on all of us in different ways. A toll, I fear, that will be collected throughout our lifetimes. He said he was fine. He seemed fine. He excelled academically and held down a job. He graduated and had plans for the future.

I didn’t see this coming.

The announcement came out of the blue. He now says it was all wrong. That he was born in the wrong body. All of the memories and pictures full of confident smiles and happiness are false, counterfeit.

The secure, happy young man I sent off to college is now someone I do not recognize. We are not estranged, but the connection now feels strange. There are whispers and flashes of my son as he used to be—but his personality has changed so drastically, I feel like I’m speaking to a stranger.

A bond that once was so strong is now fragile.

He is so deeply entrenched in his new identity that it is difficult to hold onto hope. A hope that he will come back to reality and try to explore his sense of self without believing he can change his biology through harmful medicalization.

The headwinds feel so strong. This is an ideology that contradicts truth and science—and it has woven itself into our schools, our healthcare, our government, our media, and even our places of worship. The very institutions I once turned to for information, counsel, and support now feel distant or unsafe.

I feel lost. I feel betrayed.

I don’t know the answer—or if he will even be receptive to anything I say. Because I am upset and non-affirming, he considers me toxic and hurtful. I pray to say the right things, to find the right help, and most of all, that he will turn and see:

I was always here.
The one who set boundaries within reality.
The one who said, “Let’s find you real help.”
The one who said, “I love you always and forever, no matter what.”

Most days, it’s hard to muster the strength to rise and get out of bed. The fear of what lies ahead for him—and the worry that he’s not facing the underlying cause and pain that led to such a drastic change—can debilitate me. But I take a deep breath, and then autopilot kicks in. I start my day just as I did the day before.

First to rise. A prayer. Breakfast. A walk. Emails—with a quick look back at memories to view life as it was before.

Looking back to hold onto hope.

Then I dry my tears and lift my head, just as the rest of my family wakes and greets me with a smile.

Life is going on. And somehow, so am I.