A Little Compassion?

After I transitioned I heard from many who were confused, hurt and angry. Day after day, email after email, they let me know. All claimed to be writing out of concern, but their concern was often wrapped in barbed wire. After a season of receiving these messages of condemnation, I began protecting myself. More accurately, Cathy began protecting me.

There is a moment in the movie, The Danish Girl, in which Gerda, the protagonist of the movie and wife of a transgender spouse, speaks a line that brought me to tears. She told a surgeon, “Einar believes she is a woman, and I believe she is too.” The movie was excruciating to watch, because it was about a loving spouse’s faithfulness through pain, something I had been observing closely. While Cathy struggled mightily, she protected me fiercely and well.

We both came to know which letters and emails to open. If they were from non-Evangelicals, they were safe to read. If they were from Evangelicals, Cathy read them first. Many were deleted after she read them.

Ironically, since I transitioned Cathy has experienced as much rejection as I. Most Evangelicals have avoided Cathy like the proverbial plague. Some are angry she did not choose to condemn me. Others simply do not know what to say. But evidently, finding an encouraging word for Cathy is beyond their collective ability.

I find that silence to be incomprehensible. I mean, what did Cathy do? What was her infraction, spoken or unspoken? Was she judged and found lacking simply because she had the misfortune of having married someone who is transgender? Based on the lack of response, that is certainly a possibility.

I have tried to understand the silence that often plagues the Evangelical community in a way it does not affect others. I believe it is based in a narrow worldview that finds strong support for its own kind, but little support for those who fall outside self-imposed Evangelical walls. The response to Cathy is certainly not consistent with the teaching of Jesus. But it is consistent with a tribe whose actions arise from a narrowly sectarian understanding of life itself.

These are the same people terrified to admit evolution might be true, or that LGBTQ people might be a threat to no one, or that theological truth may not strictly be the possession of their own peculiar sect. With a tiny handful of exceptions, and you know who you are, the lack of a Christian response to Cathy might be based on a lot of things, but it is certainly not based on the teaching of Jesus. That response would be love and compassion, empathy and understanding.

If I sound angry, it is because I am. While Cathy protected our family, Evangelicals stayed on the sidelines, where they did not do one visible thing to comfort her.

When your ignorance about a subject causes you to avoid the Christian responsibility of showing love, then it is time to jettison your ignorance about a subject. Cathy’s non-religious friends did that in spades. As for most of the Evangelicals, it looks like personal comfort trumped compassion. I never would have expected it. I thought better of the members of my tribe. I knew they would reject me, but the rejection of Cathy has been unconscionable.

And so it sadly goes.

Parents and Adult Children

One of the most fascinating parts of my Doctor of Ministry program was the study of Family Systems Theory. Edwin H. Friedman’s book about family systems in the church, Generation to Generation, should be required reading for all pastors. Dealing with families is never easy, especially one’s own.

I have a good friend who has worked through great pain to maintain a relationship with her mother. With her father, she stopped trying. He had rejected his daughter for being true to herself. Now, after years of absence, he phoned her. He offered no apologies and acted as if the years of absence had been nothing. She found the call invasive, but being a person of high moral character, my friend is agonizing over whether or not to remain in touch. I explained to her my understanding of family.

A parent never stops being a parent. My three children are all over 35, but I am still the parent, with more life experience. That life experience does not give me a free pass to tell them what to do or how to live. In fact, it means just the opposite. Being a parent means accepting my children and their spouses as they are. As long as I am physically and mentally able, that is my responsibility.

My children, on the other hand, do not have such a responsibility toward me. They are adults, with their own children, to whom they are fully committed, as Cathy and I have been to them. Their relationship with their own nuclear family is more important than their relationship with us. We have no right to make demands of them. We have the responsibility to be available to them as they see fit.

Many in our culture do not see it that way. They quote the fifth commandment, which says children should honor their parents. The renowned psychiatrist Scott Peck said more human damage is done trying to follow that commandment than any other. I suppose the silver lining is that it keeps therapists employed.

I pointed out to my friend that she used the term “invasive” when describing the phone call she received from her father. I asked if she was in the habit of inviting invasive people into her life.  She readily replied, “In other situations, certainly not.  But is this different?”  I said she was the one who had to decide that.

In my counseling work I have many clients whose parents make ongoing demands of them. Often these parents were emotionally or physically absent during their child’s formative years. Yet they are convinced their adult child owes them something. It is difficult to hear their stories. I believe the parent owes everything. The child is under no obligation to meet the expressed or unexpressed needs of a parent. The child has more important work to do, finding their own way through career, marriage, parenting, and all the other responsibilities of adult life. Life is hard enough without worrying about meeting the emotional needs of codependent parents.

During my transition there were periods in which my children stayed away. I did not go after them. There was a lot to process and they needed the distance. Sometimes they still do. It is my responsibility to understand and accept that reality.  That is what it means to be a parent.

Families are complicated. A family can be a place of great connection, or a place of unbearable pain. It can be one’s touchstone, or its members can feel like ships passing in the night. Most of the time it is a little bit of both.

I have no idea whether or not my friend will stay in touch with her father. But then that is another area that is ultimately none of my business.  A good friend may offer advice when it is requested, but after that, faithfuless to the friendship demands one’s presence and availability, regardless of the decision that is made.

And so it goes…

Yourself as the Audience?

For decades I remained silent. On rare occasions I would share snippets of my struggle. I asked an Old Testament professor about the meaning of a passage about cross-dressing, “for a friend.” I told another professor enough for him to show compassion and give my circumstances a name. In my twenties, three friends knew a fair measure of my story. Interestingly, none of them have been in touch since I transitioned.

As I grew older I began therapy and confided less in friends. If I told them, I knew our relationships would never be the same. Based on the way they reacted after hearing the news, I was right. Evangelicals do not have maps for dealing with transgender individuals.

Talking with Cathy last week, we both lamented how often I was not fully there. When she looks at pictures of Paul, there is a sadness, not just because Paul is gone, but because a part of Paul was never really there. Until we had today’s comparison, I don’t think either one of us knew how true that was.

I have heard from closeted transgender individuals who still minister within my denomination. They saw the public ridicule I faced, and it affirmed their decision to remain in the closet. I do not blame them. Yet in their voices I hear a tragic loneliness that causes me to fear for their lives. I lament that they are not fully there.

It did me no good to hide. In John Steinbeck’s novel, East of Eden, Samuel Hamilton asks a penetrating question of Adam Trask, a man who suffered a great indignity. “Do you take pride in your hurt?’ Samuel asked. ‘Does it make you seem large and tragic? Well, think about it. Maybe you’re playing a part on a great stage with only yourself as the audience.”

Suffering alone leads to tragic self-absorption. It does us no favors. We are communal creatures and need to work out our lives in a safe place in which our true selves can`be reflected in the love of an accepting community.

Through my family, church, and friends, I have that community. On Wednesday I am meeting Mark Tidd, one of my pastors, at the Bacon Social House in Denver. I will have two of my granddaughters with me. Every time I think about the day my heart is warmed. I will have lunch with three people who take delight in me just as I am, no questions asked. And I will be eating candied bacon. What more could you ask?

Today, I am present to my life and the lives of those around me. Even on my darker days I have energy to bear burdens, share a little insight, and leave the world better than I found it. I live whole-heartedly.

This past weekend was the annual retreat for the staff and board of the Gay Christian Network. Over two days I spent 19 hours with 12 people working hard to plan a vibrant future for GCN. We want LGBTQ Christians to find the one thing lacking in the world they inhabit – hope.

GCN’s board includes a psychologist, three attorneys, two pastors, an accountant and two lobbyists. We are black and white, gay and straight, trans and cisgender. But the common bond that holds us together is our conviction that love wins.

I am silent no more, and I am a better person for it.  I end with the final stanza of another poem I wrote before transitioning:

 There is no way but east to west

No stopping time or turning back

No wishing for what’s left behind

Just hearts aflame unyielding

 

 

My Field of Hope

Last Thursday was fascinating. I had a wonderful lingering lunch with a good friend. Among other things, we talked about the mea culpa article in last week’s New Yorker written by Tony Schwartz, the ghostwriter of Donald Trump’s The Art of the Deal. It made me think of my own days not speaking out on LGBTQ issues.

On the way home I heard NPR report the news the NBA had made the decision, because of HB2, to move the 2017 All Star game out of North Carolina. It feels good to be affirmed by the NBA.  Then I had a three-hour dinner with a new friend who has become very dear to me. We talked about our mutual experience of working desperately to deny what we knew to be true. Our denial was based in love, but with time we found a deeper way to love, albeit with the necessity of passing through great pain. The evening brought laughter, tears and joy.

Our evening was briefly interrupted by a synchronistic moment when I saw, recognized, and introduced myself to the son of a friend from California. I had never met the son, but I instantly recognized his picture from social media. His mother had been in touch with me this past week, reaffirming her commitment to our long-term friendship, though my transition has been difficult for her to navigate. Her son seemed delightful. I was not surprised.

Tired, but full of love, I went home and had my spirit dashed as I watched portions of Trump’s endless speech, tribal fear-mongering at its worst. I thought, “Has our country really come to this?” Before I went to bed I checked social media and saw someone had commented on a picture of me preaching at my church. I clicked on the comment, which turned out to be a brief critical remark about a friend’s decision to “like” the picture. It hurt. I try to protect myself from such bigotry, but at least once each week something sneaks through condemning me for being…well…me.

So there it was, all in one day, love and acceptance, fear and rejection, laughter and joy, hatred and dismissal. These are the conditions of life, and they have always been with us. If you were an Irish-Catholic American in the 1850s, you were terrified of the hatred of the Know-Nothing Party. Yet if you were an abolitionist in the same decade, you knew you were about to bring down slavery. Hatred and judgment are always with us, but so is what my lunch friend calls “a field of hope.”

My field of hope is that we are better than the xenophobia we saw in Cleveland. We are better than the flippant chiding of a friend’s supportive “like.” We are capable of moving past our fear to what is good and fair and redemptive. We are able to move beyond what we think is love to a deeper, more honest and sustainable love. We are able to trust in the slow work of God, even when it deposits us in seasons of great pain. We are able to acknowledge the log in our own eye before we start spouting off about specks in the eye of another. On our better days we are capable of living like Jesus, and we are capable of increasing our number of better days.

I hold no illusions about the divisive spirit ripping through our nation. I experience its vitriol on a weekly basis. But I refuse to lose my field of hope. We can embrace uncomfortable love. We can believe in outrageous reconciliation. We can trust in the slow work of God.

And so it goes.

A Too Riveting Novel

When I was young I thought of life as a bell curve, ramping up to a point in one’s fifties and then beginning a long, slow slide toward an unwanted departure. Now that I am of a certain age, I realize there is no curve, just a line forward, no backtracking permitted. There are times I would like to hit the pause or rewind button, but forward is the only button that works. Whether I like it or not, it is the direction in which I must travel.

I wrote my first poetry at a time I desperately wanted to hit the pause button. I shared it with almost no one, and put the poetry away until long after I transitioned – last week actually. I reached for the poetry again when regular sentences no longer worked. Here are a few lines from the end of one poem:

And now the waning light of day

Illumines one slight trembling path

That seems maybe to know its way

To heal a soul at fall’s divide

 

We all decide in this sweet life

Who we will be what we will do

This long story unfolding

Like a too riveting novel

I was writing about my transition, though at the time I had no conscious recognition of that terrifying truth.

Every good story has a protagonist with a dream, and an antagonist intent on denying that dream. The story turns on the dread/hope axis, when the audience hopes for the best but dreads the worst. In a story, it is suspenseful. In life, it sucks.

I am tired. Don’t get me wrong. I am grateful for the gracious and merciful acceptance of many who have rescued me from a life focused on yesteryear. I am thankful for new work, meaningful and abundant. I am strengthened by deep and abiding new friendships. But I am tired. I know. You are tired too.

The malevolence made manifest on earth is frightening. Sometimes I sit and stare. Henry David Thoreau wrote, “The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation and go to the grave with the song still in them.” We are undone by all the suffering. Yet suffering has always been with us, a human constant. How we respond to suffering is the choice we are allowed to make. Do we let it define us, or do we accept the gift of its wisdom?

I often quote the words Dag Hammarskjold wrote shortly before his untimely death: “For all that has been, thanks. For all that shall be, yes.” Hammarskjold did not go to his grave with the song still in him. As one of the greatest peacemakers of the Cold War, he sang loud and clear.

Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, the brilliant theologian treated badly by the Catholic Church, also knew something about redemptive suffering. He wrote, “Above all, trust in the slow work of God…It is the law of all progress that it is made by passing through some stages of instability, and that it may take a very long time.”

There are days, months, maybe even years, when you sit and stare, overwhelmed by the relentless forwardness of it all. It’s all right. God is patient. She will sit and stare with you. It was during one of my staring seasons that I wrote this poem, reminded that we are never alone in these things:

Goodness

The good souls are always near

If you have eyes to see them

Though often they are cloaked in

Garments of some worn religion

 

Their goodness like beams of light

Passing through a cracked door

Falling soft on hidden places

Where all the deep scars lie

 

Pain knows pain and will not let

Its long and sordid tale abide

Treating wounds with gentle touch

The sisterhood of suffering

 

Goodness always travels well

Turning up in peculiar places like

Your own heart when you thought

You had nothing left to give

I Alone Must Decide

Last week it was my privilege to speak at the Wild Goose Festival in Hot Springs, North Carolina. If someone asked me to describe the Goose, I’d say it’s Woodstock meeting the coolest church camp ever! Over 3,000 people headed into the mountains of Western North Carolina for three days of camaraderie, inspiration, instruction and rain – because evidently you’re not allowed to have the Goose without rain.

On Thursday evening I told my story from the main stage. On Friday my son and I presented a workshop about my transition and its impact on our family. I was also on two other panels, but it was Thursday evening and Friday’s workshop that got me thinking.  Come to think of it, a lot of the Goose got me thinking.  It’s that kind of place.

Shortly before the festival I received two messages from old acquaintances taking me to task for my transition, confident I am doing great harm to others because of my disregard for the “clear” teaching of Scripture. The letters were the latest in a long string of stern reprimands from conservative Christians.

Less confronting, but in some ways more difficult, are my recent encounters with individuals with whom I worked in my previous life, good-hearted people who are now very uncomfortable in my presence. One said, “I still don’t know what I think about all of this.” Sadly, I cannot be the person to help. My friends David and Jen can help these honest questioners, but I cannot. They want Paul to help them understand it all, and Paul is no longer here. My allies are more than willing to come alongside these questioning souls, but I cannot invite them into my pastoral counseling office. I am called to speak out on transgender issues, but not to help old acquaintances come to grips with the loss of Paul.  For those few who are willing to go through such pain to “cross over” with me, I am profoundly grateful.

There is an irony in all of this. On one hand, I am speaking all over the nation, preaching again, lecturing in universities, and writing for the Huffington Post. I have more influence than ever. People affirm my courage, compassion and spirit. In fact, they are offering the kindest words that have ever been spoken to me. It means so very much, because these are seasoned saints who have experienced much pain and emerged with great wisdom. I am humbled by their affirming words.

But then I also receive these stern and sad messages from those who believe I am a lost soul.  They shake their heads and say, “Paul went off the tracks.” They imagine a life that is sad and lonely and full of despair. It bears no resemblance to the one I am actually living, full of friendships and purpose and joy. But from their limited worldview, it is all they can imagine.

I suppose this dichotomous response is what I should expect in an age of such polarization. My old world and new world don’t speak much. They are deeply suspicious of each other. Of course, the ultimate irony is that both claim to be following Jesus. But their messages are fundamentally different, and in the midst of the fray, I am the one who must decide which voices will carry my heart. I have made my choice.

I have decided to listen to those who love greatly, seeking first to understand before jumping to judgment. I have decided to be open to the honest questioners who are no longer comfortable being unquestionably obedient to doctrines set in stone. I have chosen to trust those whose actions show concern for the oppressed and powerless.

I have chosen to be influenced by those who have been divinely defeated, and have the scars to prove they were deemed worthy of a wrestling match with the Lord of the Universe. I have decided to follow those who believe knowledge and power mean nothing without wisdom and compassion. I have chosen to trust the ones who look the most like Jesus. Oh, I know some will say I have been deceived by Satan, but I know what I know. Love wins.

Keeping My Thoughts to Myself

Another thing about being female.

I used to strike up conversations with strangers about all kinds of subjects, sometimes substantive, other times esoteric. I might talk with a flight attendant about the clash of cultures when airlines merge. I might speak with a television executive about how disruptive we thought cable was, not realizing the real threat to broadcast television was the Internet. I might talk about the effects of global warming on the severity of hurricanes in the east. Once, I would have struck up a conversation about just about any topic.  Not anymore.

Don’t get me wrong. It’s not that I do not like to talk. I do. I do like to talk. I have amassed information about a lot of stuff. I don’t forget much. I like talking with people about what they have learned, particularly when my conversation partners can increase my knowledge base. The problem is not that I do not want to have a conversation. The problem is that I cannot find anyone who wants to talk with me.

Last week I tried an experiment on my flight from Charlotte to Denver. It’s an 8:20 PM departure American Airlines brings back every summer, and they can never figure out what to serve in first class. One year it’s a full meal. The next it’s nuts and a chocolate chip cookie. This year they changed the service yet again, to what they call “Lite Bites.”

A few years ago I had a conversation with two flight attendants about the problem with the 8:20 flight. They suggested I write the people at Chairman’s Preferred and suggest a solution. I did, and heard back from a company executive who said they had decided to return full meal service to the flight. Because two flight attendants and an in-service executive took me seriously, I was heard and the problem was solved.

So, after using the restroom on last week’s flight, I spoke to two flight attendants in first class and asked, “For the last couple of years this flight has had full meal service. I wonder what made them downgrade it to “Lite Bites?” Both shrugged and didn’t even look up. As I returned to my seat, one dismissively said, “No, this flight has never had full meal service, not ever.” And with that, the conversation was over.

And there you go. That is why I do not speak up anymore. I figured it out about a year after transitioning. People no longer care to hear what I have to say. So I keep my thoughts to myself. It’s not nearly as fun, but it beats being summarily dismissed by a young flight attendant who knows better, even though I’m the one who has been flying 100,000 miles a year since before she was a sparkle in her parents’ eyes.

Then again, who am I to complain? At least I am still getting my free upgrades to first class. I mean, they could be saying, “We’ve decided to save first class upgrades for men only. You know, people who know things.” In fact, come to think of it, that’s what society did say for several thousand years. Huh! How come I’m just now realizing that?

Oh, The Things I Did Not Know

Who knew I needed to become a woman to become more like Jesus!

Well-educated, successful white men have a power they do not recognize and from which it is difficult to escape. To explain, I am going to limit my comments to the good guys, not the narcissists we see on stage, the rapists who escape unpunished, or the mass murderers. I’m talking about the good fathers, caring husbands and thoughtful leaders we encounter in our ordinary days.

These are men who want to get it right. They do not want to lord it over others, muscle through an agenda, or wire a deal. Still, these good and generous men do not know how much American culture is tilted in their favor, and most are not likely to go through the pain necessary to bring about that awareness. That would require placing themselves in an environment in which they are the minority, and at a distinct disadvantage in being heard. It does happen, but those men are the exception, not the rule.

The problem is exacerbated within the Evangelical church, primarily because their scriptural interpretation leaves only men in power. No wonder the Evangelical church is painfully silent on issues like spousal abuse, equal pay for women, parental leave, racial and social justice, and a plethora of other societal ills. Men know these issues are important, but they do not personally feel the impact. It is hard to muster passion for an issue that does not hinder your own agenda.

I have been a female (or more accurately a transgender female) for a while now, long enough to have been made profoundly aware just how entitled I was. What is even more disconcerting is just how entitled I remain. I brought my cocky confidence with me.

For those who never knew Paul, most will tell you I was one of the good guys, sensitive and thoughtful. I wanted to hire women as senior pastors, and championed their presence on the board of the ministry I directed. And yet, every additional week as Paula makes me increasingly aware how misogynistic I remain. While in some ways I have always been Paula, in others I will always be becoming Paula. It is going to take a while to move beyond my privileged past.

I do not remain close with very many straight white men. There are a thousand reasons; one is because when I am among the more powerful, my default mode is to resurrect my entitlement. I do not find it becoming, nor do female friends who happen to be in the room.

I so wish I had known this sooner. Certainly Cathy tried to tell me – for decades. But through a lifetime of socialization, re-enforcement, and success, I did not hear her. As she watches my “Aha” moments multiply, I imagine it is all she can do to stop from slugging me.

For me, it is humbling, and properly so. I am grateful for the friends and co-workers who gently guide me into deeper awareness of my privilege, and I pray I will be able to repay them for their grace.

Some people are fixated with the causes of gender dysphoria, and whether or not it is right to transition. Frankly, I am tired of that conversation. I am more interested in the fact that transitioning has made me a better person. And who knows, maybe it is even making me a little more like Jesus. Now that would be worth a long conversation.

And so it goes.

Tired, Yet Amazed

I am tired.

I am tired of the Evangelicals who now say their prayers are with us.  If they weren’t with us before, except in their pleas that we fundamentally change who we are, I don’t want them now.  There are millions who truly feel the impact of this tragedy, who did not judge us before, and they do not judge us now.  Their prayers are coveted.

I am tired of those Americans who are not losing sleep over the worst mass shooting in American history.  Some of you feel removed from the tragedy because you think these victims are not like you.  Well, the truth is they are not like you.  They understand prejudice.  They understand what it feels like to be ostracized for nothing more than being who you are.

I am tired of hearing all of the NRA activists spouting bullet points from their marketing department.  Your words are being used for evil.  When it is easier to buy an assault rifle than get on an airplane, we have a massive problem.  What part of that do you not understand?

I am tired of politicians who will not do what they know to be right because they are terrified of the gun lobby.  For God’s sake, grow some balls.  If you can’t grow your own, you can have the ones I don’t use anymore.  But do the right thing.  Ban assault rifles and the ammunition clips that have no purpose other than to wreak havoc.  Well, that and make the men feel better who apparently lack the body parts already referenced.

I am tired of Donald Trump not being held accountable for his hate-filled rhetoric.  Do you really want his to be the public voice responding to tragedy?  And I am weary of the Evangelicals who know good and well they are going to vote for Trump, but do not have the guts to publicly say they are going to vote for a narcissistic, misogynistic, bigoted, bully.

I am tired of all the people who can manage to build up some rage if they think this is an Islamic based terror attack, but have already moved on if it is “only a hate crime.”

I am tired of the people who create enemies where none exist, banish scapegoats whose only crime is to be different than those in power, and only believe in a God who craves power, a loving God having been found lacking.

I am tired of living in a nation in which the late night comics have better things to say in response to this tragedy than pastors and politicians.

But then come to think of it, I am also amazed.

I am amazed to live in a country in which Jimmy Fallon and Stephen Colbert can speak spiritual truth with power.  It’s amazing to live in a place in which Anderson Cooper can break down in tears and the cameras do not cut to a robotic anchor with no opinion on the matter.

It is amazing to attend a church in which our founding pastor can call for a minute of silence before his sermon begins, and you are paradoxically filled with profound sorrow and overwhelming pride, because you know from the tone of his voice and the power of his own story, that this is a man who knows suffering, and knows how to redeem it.  And you know he will preach a sermon of stirring passion and love that replaces the stench of gunpowder with the sweet aroma of compassion.

It is amazing to hear the stories of 49 people who faced great trials, yet found a way to dance, because resilience had taken root in their hearts, hearts now welcomed into the arms of God.

I am amazed when I hear the words spoken and written by my own children, who preach love and acceptance, when they could be bitter and angry, because they have decided that when the tears have been shed and the sentences handed down, love still wins.

I am tired, but I am grateful to be alive in such a time as this, when I can join with other pilgrims on the fitful train of halting progress.  I am grateful I can look unto the eastern skies, and know this world can be redeemed by a 2,000 year old metanarrative that still flows forth from a crucified scapegoat and those dreamers and visionaries who follow him.

And so it goes.

Living With Character

There are a host of difficulties that accompany a gender transition, from tiny annoyances like needing an extra 30 minutes to get ready in the morning, to significant issues like losing your career and having to craft another. As a public figure I thought it was important to write openly, painfully, and honestly about the process of becoming Paula. Out of respect for their privacy, I have left my family out of the public conversation.

Recently I had to submit a biographical summary for a conference for which I am speaking. I realized while I still believe it is important to protect my family’s privacy, it is time to communicate more clearly on one issue that has actually been determined for some time.

Cathy and I no longer consider our selves to be married. We are no longer husband and wife, neither are we wife and wife. We are companions with a deep love and respect for each other. We enjoy our children and grandchildren, serve together counseling clients at RLT Pathways, and work together to bring healing to individuals who have been traumatized by physical, sexual, and spiritual abuse, justice to victims of discrimination, and a listening ear to those navigating through life’s difficulties.

This is a long and arduous journey. I am deeply grateful our family has remained unified and steadfast through this difficult time. I have written before that when it comes to family, there are no good choices. Either you lose a husband and father through death or a troubled existence, or you lose a part of that person through transition. Neither is okay, but most conclude one is preferable to the other.

Not long ago one of the early transgender pioneers, Dr. Renee Richards, reflected on her life as a transgender woman. She said, “If you could prevent the condition from ever getting started, that would be desirable.” Current studies point toward prenatal causes for gender dysphoria, but it will be a long time before exact causation is understood, and longer still before prenatal intervention is possible.

I agree with Dr. Richards. No one would choose this. If we could help future generations avoid being transgender, it would be for the best. In the meantime, we must play the hand we have been dealt, and try to live authentically based on the choices available to us.

I know some of you have additional questions about the relationship Cathy and I have today. However, I am sure you will understand this is not an issue for public discussion.

For all of us, life is difficult. How we choose to live in the face of life’s challenges is where our character is defined, for better or for worse. The character shown by my family has been extraordinary, as they have neither acquiesced to, nor rebelled against the expectations of others. They have made their own decisions, in their own time, with integrity. What more could one ask?