Voices of Sorrow: Understanding a Parent's Grief and Pride in the Face of Transition

There are countless aspects of our experience as parents that can lead us into a deep well of anguish, a profound state of distress. Indeed, many days it feels as though every single component of this experience is simply unbearable. But if I must pinpoint the element that causes me the absolute most distress, the very core of my suffering, it is undeniably the part that I noticed first. The very first sign that something was wrong, a harbinger of doom, that has only worsened over time, until now it seems impossible to imagine it ever getting better.

There are so many elements about my child—my daughter—no, my son!—that cause me immense pain and suffering. Her—excuse me, his—artificially softened skin, the fat that rests on his hips like the curves of a woman's figure, his breasts—larger even than his mother’s!—that are now at risk for breast cancer—a condition he would probably never have had to consider, had those nefarious doctors never prescribed him those foul, harmful hormones.

How waiters and cashiers and other strangers mistakenly call him by the wrong pronouns, seeing only a woman in the body that should rightfully belong to my baby boy. How his so-called "boyfriend" only serves to encourage this delusion, as he encourages hers. It is all so terrible. So absolutely horrifying. So completely dreadful. So horrific. But not terrific. None of this is in any way terrific.

Yet, the least terrific thing of all, the most agonizing part, the aspect that causes me the greatest pain, the thing that makes simply existing feel unbearable, the thing that creates a chasm of hurt so deep it makes my own child feel like a stranger, the most advanced form of that initial harbinger of trouble that I so ignorantly overlooked—that is what hurts me the most.

It is, indeed, unbearable to witness, yet I can't help but love him all the same. Isn’t it ironic? Don't you think? How the thing that causes me the most excruciating pain, the deepest sorrow in my heart, also fills me with a profound sense of pride as I see my child, my baby, growing up? Yet, it is all an illusion.

The aspect that hurts me the most, when my son visits us, is not something you can see. It’s not his soft, smooth face, his long, flowing hair, his chemically-altered breasts, or even his trendy fashion choices—trendy choices that, amusingly, were all the rage when I was his age. None of these things. Nor is it something you can physically feel. Not the palpable sense of brokenness that comes from seeing my baby boy, once so masculine, now appearing so effeminate and girlish. Not the profound sense of love I still have for him, nor the nebulous, coarse, cloudy barrier that seems to have infected and clouded that love. No, though all these aspects contribute to the pain, they are not the root cause of my suffering.

What hurts me the most is what I hear. It is not merely the sound of his voice, but the very essence of it when he says he loves me, when he insists that I am wrong, that if I would only "accept her," everything would be fine. It is his voice that causes me the greatest anguish, because it is not his true voice. It belongs to this strange woman who has overtaken his body, who has taken my son from me. It’s absolutely horrible, and yet, I love her. I even love her voice, the voice that causes me so much pain. Her voice—the very first part of my son that she took from him.

It all began two years ago. I did not immediately understand what was happening. At first, I mistook it for mere nervousness. His voice was still the same as it had always been, still his. But then, occasionally, when I would surprise him or when he was distracted, his voice would change. Just a little, not drastically, but it would be higher, buzzier. Gradually, so subtly that I could hardly notice, this new voice became his normal. But it wasn’t exactly that voice; it was slightly different from that. The buzzing gradually disappeared; the pitch moderated to a lower tone. He sounded like a young teenager, but he was fully nineteen years old.

This “de-aging” process continued. When he first returned home from his third year of college, his voice sounded like that of a child. And when he talked with his brother or when surprised, he would not sound like a child but rather like a sick woman—sick, not in the head, but in the throat. But HE was sick in the head, though I had yet to realize it. By that time, he had begun injecting himself with estrogen chemicals, just weeks before. I was unaware. I drove him back to school after the break, and did not see him for several months. When I did see him again, he had changed significantly. His voice had fully transformed into that of a woman, and I realized the extent of the change.

It took me an inordinately long time to recognize this change because it was so slow, so gradual. The illness had taken hold over two years, changing him so subtly that I failed to notice the extent of the transformation. But then, this strange woman revealed herself. No longer my son. But he was still my son. He is still my son. He always will be my son. And I will be here for him, for my son, when that vile girl, that horrid creature, my beloved daughter, that cruel demon, leaves him. I will be here to support him.

Because I love him. I try to help him, but it is an arduous task. Because I love him as he is, no matter what. I can’t help it. Even now, as he has seemingly become his own killer-in-life, I can't help but feel pride in how he has grown, despite it all. Even though using his original name, the name so lovingly given to him at birth, now brings an uncomfortable silence.

It is peculiar. The thing that hurts me most in the world is hearing my child’s voice. But not hearing it—being deprived of that voice—hurts me almost as much. It is cruel, this expectation placed upon us parents, forced to navigate this painful reality when we love our children so profoundly. It is heart-wrenching to see them in this state. But it is also agonizing to witness their distress when we try to offer help. It is not merely an ordinary kind of upset; it feels as though I share my own suffering with him when I attempt to reach out. I would not wish the agony of being in this situation on my worst enemy. So how am I expected to endure it with my beloved son?

I don't know, but I will. Even if it takes until I am seventy-seven, I will always hold out hope for my son, try to help him, as best as I can bear. It is all I CAN do, so it is everything I WILL do.

Thank you for reading.