Letters to my Children

I’m a transgender mother of five boys—ages 25, 21, 18, 14, and 1 at the time I came out and socially transitioned. Since then, my older children have found it difficult to be around me. From what I’ve heard, they feel deeply embarrassed.

At this point, I have no relationship with them. We don’t speak. The only times we might cross paths are during parent-time exchanges for my youngest, and even then, our interactions are brief and distant. With the four oldest, nothing meaningful remains.

I will someday die. When that time comes, it’s possible I will still have no relationship with you. And yet, I suspect there may come a day when you are no longer embarrassed by me. When that day arrives, will you feel regret? Will you mourn the time we lost?

So to the future child, I write.

I want to give you now-time with me, not the past we shared, not memories of days gone, but the today we didn’t get to share. These letters are imaginings, taking place across two different time zones. Not ones separated by geography, but by years.

May they return something to you—something you didn’t know you needed—when the time is right.

Mom