My greatest insecurity has nothing to do with being trans. It has to do with parenting. My father died when I was 15 years old, and so since my daughter passed that same age I have felt myself to be flying blind, making up parenthood as I go along. How much am I still exclusively taking care of them, and how much is it healthy that as developing adult selves they should start taking it upon themselves to take care of me? Some, it would seem. More as we go on. Soon we will be equals, loving each other equally across a little negligible fence of generation, hardly worth noticing.
I told my children that I felt myself to be a woman, and they responded with love, and that is perhaps the most precious gift I have even been given. I am still telling them. This is a long telling, with many steps. I will make sure they know that I am still the parent, they the offspring, but that will mean less and less as time goes on. It is an honor and a miracle to have lived long enough to learn this truth.
The biggest development of all is, for the first time in my life, as my children and my siblings and my friends respond warmly to my news, I begin to feel loved for who I truly am. What a remarkable, joyous sensation. I can hardly stand it. And yet, I begin to dare to rejoice.
And now the question is, what will I do with the time left me? It is a generous portion, with any luck. I can accomplish much. Time to get busy.
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