Lately, the world feels heavy.
I pour my breakfast cereal, glance at the headlines, and the air itself seems to shift. I take my cereal to my desk, tuck a blanket around my lap, and scroll through the news. Every day I read stories that hit too close to home, about decisions being made about people like my children, and my chest tightens before I even realize I've stopped breathing.
When you're the parent of a transgender child, these moments can feel especially sharp. Every new piece of legislation or public argument can add to the weight on your shoulders. You wonder how much your child hears, what they're absorbing, and how to help them make sense of it all when you're struggling to make sense of it yourself.
Outside, the trees have begun shedding their leaves. The light has softened. There's beauty in the change, but also that quiet ache that comes with letting go of what once felt certain. Lateley, I've been thinking about how parenting a transgender child often feels like standing in the middle of something beautiful and uncertain all at once.
I've learned that when the world feels scary, our children don't need us to have all the answers. What they need is our presence, steady, warm, and real.
Sometimes that means sitting together in the quiet, acknowledging that things feel uncertain. Sometimes it means turning off the news and turning toward each other. It's doing things together like making dinner, watching a favorite show, or laughing at the dog's latest antics. Ordinary moments become small acts of hope.
When my children were younger, I used to think that protecting them meant keeping the hard things out. Now I understand that protection often looks like being a steady presence within the storm. It's saying, "Yes, the world can be a frightening place, but when you come here you are safe. And remember that you are always loved."
It's okay if you don't know what to say in these uncertain times. None of us has lived through anything like this before, and sometimes it feels too overwhelming for words. You can start with something simple like:
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"I know things feel heavy right now."
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"I don't have all the answers, but I'm here."
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"You're not alone in this."
Our kids don't need us to be fearless; they need to see that love can exist alongside fear. That even when the world feels uncertain, there is still kindness, laughter, and connection. When we look around, we still find safety, and beauty to behold.
I try to focus on the small things that are still good: the smell of soup simmering on the stove, my husband's voice on a call in his office, the dog waiting patiently by the kitchen door. These little pieces of everyday life remind me that even in seasons of fear, there is still joy, still hope, still love at work.
Some days, hope feels fragile. But even fragile hope is still hope.
When the world feels scary, I take another breath, tuck my blanket closer around me, and remind myself we are not alone in this. Love is still stronger. It always has been.
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