Grandmother, mother and daughter form hearts with their hands, showing intergenerational connection. PHOTO: Victor Golmer.
TRANS PARENT DAY is the first Sunday in November.
Established in 2009 as an inclusive alternative to traditional, gender-binary holidays like Mother’s Day and Father’s Day, it honours trans, non-binary, and gender-nonconforming parents and caregivers, as well as parents who have transgender children.
Former OTN Co-Chair has shared previously about how her children responded to her being trans. Here she reflects on her own mother’s journey from mystified to comprehension to ally, and shares advice for parents with trans children of all ages.
‘Mum, there is something you need to know.’
“It felt like the first time in my whole life that I’d been seen by her for who I was, and it was the first of many hugs that I received as her daughter instead of her sad and distressed son.”
You would hope that it would be a long-planned and meticulously executed piece of prize diplomacy, but alas, that’s rarely my style. Having recently decided that I needed to transition, I knew that my mother needed to know and that time to tell her was running short.
That day, something of a positive discussion about LGBTQIA+ folks had taken place. The other people who had been filling my kitchen had briefly stepped out to attend to other tasks. So, heart in my mouth and a glass of wine in my stomach, I very unexpectedly thought, ‘It’s now or never.’
Frightened, my mind raced to find the right words. Given that they are some of the scariest words that an LGBTQIA+ person can utter, they needed to multitask. Simultaneously, they had to convey the truth of me being trans, somehow prevent a potentially bad reaction, offer some comfort in case she began to grieve, some hope that I wasn’t ending the life I had built, and of which she was proud, and more.
How do you even begin to find such words? After all, was there a time when you had to tell your parents that you were straight, or cisgender? And if you did, was it accompanied by a deep fear that, once uttered, those words could implode your world?
So, having said I needed to say something, I stood poised, the worms still in the can. All it would take now was for me to lift the lid. I looked deeply into those kind but slightly nervous, somewhat anxious eyes. Eyes that I had known so well and loved for the previous forty years.
Fear welled up inside me. For an instant, I wondered if she’d already figured it out and this was going to be easy. But from the outside, my life, a marriage of nearly twenty years and three beautiful children, might have given her little reason to suspect what I was carrying. My coming out was probably the last thing she would have expected.
‘Do you already know what I’m about to say?’ I asked her. But she didn’t. So, I dived in and, with tears springing to my eyes and dread in my heart, explained that I am trans. I began to tell her what, for thirty-five years, since I was six, I’d been hiding away from her.
Explaining that I intended to transition would come a little later. For now, telling her this much felt enormous.
As a parent, how would that make you feel?
Perhaps, if you’d already had an inkling, there might be relief that your child finally felt able to tell you. But if you had no idea, would you wonder how you hadn’t known? Would you blame yourself?
It was that dilemma that I saw flit across my mum’s eyes that day, and I breathed a sigh of relief. It wasn’t disgust or anger, it was, ‘I should have known.’
As my story unfolded, the more resolute she became. In moments, she went from slightly mystified, to comprehension, to ally.
That doesn’t mean she understood everything immediately. Afterwards, she had her own feelings to work through and a different understanding of me to get used to.
I’m confident that her friends helped her with that process. But the hug she gave me in the moment felt like something new. It felt like the first time in my whole life that I’d been seen by her for who I was, and it was the first of many hugs that I received as her daughter instead of her sad and distressed son.
When I think about that embrace now, it helps me understand something of the love of God. Psalm 139 speaks of a God who knows us intimately, even before we can find the words to explain ourselves, and although coming out can feel terrifying, especially to a parent, we are never revealing something that surprises God. There is comfort in knowing that we are already fully known and deeply loved.
By the time I came out, I had spent years considering who I was, while my mum was only beginning to understand something I had lived with for decades. I chose to share the information in stages, telling her more of my story as she listened and asked questions, and her willingness to understand meant an enormous amount to me.
Then came the day when she met me, Sarah, for the first time, with my nerves very jagged and, I suspect, hers too. As I walked into the family home, she gave one quick double take before appraising me as a mother would her daughter. Choice of clothes, make-up and hair all received comments, kindness and motherly advice, and the affirmation was incredible.
Looking back, my mum gave me love before she understood everything, a willingness to listen, and acceptance that found its way into ordinary life. Eventually, when I told her that I wanted to transition, her response was priceless: ‘Thank goodness for that,’ she said. ‘You have been so sad and so grumpy for so long that you need to do this.’
I know that I was fortunate, because some people meet silence, disbelief or rejection when they come out, losing parental relationships they had hoped would hold them. When that rejection comes from Christian parents, words about God can become tangled up with the pain, making it harder to believe that we are loved.
If that has been your experience, I’m sorry. It does not mean you found the wrong words, chose the wrong moment or failed to explain yourself well enough. You deserve love and respect, and other people’s responses do not determine your worth before God.
If you are a parent reading this, I don’t tell my mum’s story to suggest that you should instantly understand everything. You may be surprised, frightened for your child or unsure what this means for your family or faith, and those feelings deserve care and somewhere to be heard. Your child, though, needs to know that your love is secure while you work through them: your prayers and support are needed more now than ever.
Whether your child is fifteen or fifty, ‘I love you. Thank you for telling me. I have a lot to learn, but I want to understand’ is a good beginning. Listening, asking questions kindly and checking who else knows before sharing their news will help you navigate what follows, while seeking support for yourself need not mean compromising their privacy. Through it all, keep making room for ordinary family life together.
There is something here for our communities of faith too, because the belonging that Open Table offers becomes tangible through ordinary kindness: being greeted by name, listened to and included, with room to explore faith while being ourselves. My mum’s kindness showed that she could see a life for us beyond that frightening conversation, and we can offer one another that same hope.
If your first response wasn’t the one you wish you’d given, there is still room to acknowledge the hurt, apologise and show through your actions that you want to do better. Rebuilding trust may take time, but our faith offers the possibility of repentance and new beginnings, reminding us that we do not have to understand everything about someone before we can begin to love them well.
