The Wall

When I first wake up, I live a few moments in the before, but this amnesia always fades, and I remember that my son is slipping away. It’s approaching two years since my then-19 year old son rejected his parents’ guidance and chose instead to dive into the trans agenda: the wrong sex hormones, the awful stereotyped wardrobe, and, in another kick in the gut, changing his name to an anime female character's.

PITT’s writers and readers, and various helpful podcasts, continue to offer wisdom and compassionate company during this long, surreal storm. Talking with supportive friends has been a life raft. My husband and I also support each other as we try each day to cope. We are grateful our daughter sees through the lies of gender ideology. Our rescued dog, blissfully unaware of the trans cult, offers daily canine therapy. “Are you identifying as a Chihuahua?” I ask my 40 pound mutt when she leaps onto my lap—and my husband and I share a reassuring laugh. But the ache is still there, lurking. We yearn for our son to grapple with his feelings in more constructive ways. As PITT parents know, the anguish of losing any child to the trans cult is persistent.

What can I add to the compelling essays that PITT parents have courageously shared? My nuanced, swirling tangle of grief.

Between the before and after the trans cult tsunami pummeled my son and my family is a wall of distress.

Here is my wall that invades and churns:

My son is my son. My mind is baffled by unnatural mangling of this obvious truth.

If only yearnings and regrets. Could my husband and I have sidestepped this nightmare? 

We were both good parents. We don’t deserve our son being stolen.

We did not know online social media was preying on him. 

Praying attempts: Please help my son wake up from his self-harm path.

My husband is sad, angry, and bitter. His pain is hard to bear.

Will my husband and son ever again enjoy nerdy talk, play chess, backpack? 

Physical and mental harm of vulnerable young people. Where is the public outcry? 

A lonely loss. Incredulous at others’ indifference, ignorance, and righteousness.  

Nine months pregnant, then labor and birth of my son. My effort was undermined. 

My duped son believes the obstetrician was mistaken that he is a boy. 

The trans cult attacks primal attachments of those it ensnares. It’s evil.

19 years of physicals to keep him healthy. Then wrong sex, sterilizing hormones. 

His lack of gratitude. Years of care and love. In college, he worships HRT poison.

He is indifferent to his parents’ suffering. His female fantasy matters more.

Do I feel sorry for my son or angry at him? Fluctuates throughout the day.

Is my love for my son shifting? Just questioning this feels awful.

An urge to share PITT articles, but fear pushing him away more.

What if he ghosts me someday? Estrangement would gut me.

Sting of a mother holding her little boy’s hand in a parking lot. 

Sting of seeing teenage boys and young men who have not been infected. 

Sting of his favorite pizza place, high school, bedroom, and so many places. 

Sting of my daughter across from his empty seat at the dinner table. 

Sting of the nuanced ways the trans cult stresses my marriage.

Sting of family photos that are extra precious, yet extra painful at the same time.

When I talk about my son and memories, he feels less gone. But this talking jabs.

When I avoid talking about my son and memories, he feels more gone. 

Will we ever have a family meal together again? 

Poignancy that my son’s paternal grandparents may not talk with him again.

Relief deceased parents were spared their grandson’s decline and my sorrow.

Disillusioned with my profession as a therapist: mental health has been captured. 

Rage at Planned Parenthood—their callous malpractice and greed.

Anger at the zeitgeist that sanctions my neurodivergent son’s self-harm.

Loathe the twisting of language to obscure reality.

How can he hurt his body? Strangers online, misguided “friends”, sick culture.

An email, a phone call, a lunch: even sparse contact squeezes my heart.

I love him, but I am repulsed by his small, hormone-induced breasts.

Cheated from the joy of my son, with many strengths, thriving as a young man.

Even if he wakes up from his trans trance, his college years will be gone.

If he doesn't wake up, he will live a diminished life based on a fantasy.

What will his future hold? A reasonable job? Mutilation? Suicide? Desisting? 

Will the sadness, anger, frustration, and unfolding pain ever end?

How much well-being can I salvage? Can my husband salvage?

How do I reclaim belief in my efficacy when I’m unable to help my son?

He believes his wrong sex hormones are “magic” pills. So childlike and naive. 

Wish there was magic to restore my son and my family. 

Wish for sustained relief from this mess of uncertainty and loss, which can feel beyond tears. 

Hold on to my thimble of hope. He’s just 20. Will his maturing unveil the lies?

But he’s on the autism spectrum. How much will his brain shift?

What am I needing to mourn? A web of heavy, intersecting threads of loss.

My family’s past, present, and future feels like shattered glass. 

This list is long. No wonder I'm depleted. 

I miss the before when I could sleep better.

I miss tucking in my son when he was little, and I could still keep him safe.