A Coming Home-Again

We drove two and a half hours to the coast with Anika’s photography class for whale watching. Leo was wildly overstimulated and sensory-seeking. The car ride was long, and the wait to board the boat required every skill I’ve honed over the years with them. I worried about how the next four hours would unfold.

But as the boat began to move, I watched Leo regulate. The vibration of the motor, the sound of the water surrounding us, the rocking lullaby of the waves—all of it seemed to hold them.

Leo grew quiet, gazing out at the ocean. Then they turned to me and said, “It’s like a coming home.”

I asked what they meant, and Leo explained: “This is the beginning of life. We were created here.”

As only Leo can, they reminded me how to be fully present. I told them how I always cry when I first see the ocean. I began, “I’m always overcome by—” and Leo interrupted, finishing the thought: “Its power.”

I nodded. We both grew quiet again. I looked at Leo and whispered, “It is a coming home.”
Leo smiled, and together we turned back toward the water. The boat carried us forward with more gentleness, more patience, more joy.

Later, my dad came by and I shared what Leo had said. I translated to his language: “I am the ocean and the ocean is I.” He nodded and said simply, “That’s it.”

For me, standing before the ocean always brings awe. I long to bow before its power and beauty. It reminds me of my own worthiness. We are made of the same. How humbling to feel part of it all—and at the same time, to feel as if I am an equal to all that beauty.

My dad and children stood side by side- scanning the ocean for whales. I watched them laugh and giggle together. And then, without warning, the voice again echoes inside of me: moments like these are fleeting. My whole being wanted to grasp it, hold it, not let go.

My heart's clench was broken by a juvenile humpback surfacing beside the boat. I didn’t reach for my phone. I knew I didn’t have time. All I could do was witness—and remember.

As global warming tightens its grip, as the ocean faces its death, a baby humpback still plays. Fleeting moments but they are not lost. They are within us.

How silly it is to grasp-the ocean lives here. And isn’t that what it all means? Isn’t it all a coming home again?

The Observer

A message from the marionettist 

Please know I wish I could walk beside you

And for awhile in late morning I believe I can

Movement echos with belief

Inevitably by afternoon heat radiates my muscles

Doubt grows to acceptance

The world is no longer my domain

Caged without bars

Service to my family has been my purpose

But it dissolves

My role now unable to be played

My absence is now the burden 

By evening I only pretend to be there

My body a barrier

Disconnection to those I love

Relationships strained

Pain waves radiate

I watch it all before me

The trails I want to walk

A voyeur to my life

Silence muffles the pain

Engagement no longer an option

Retreat

I wonder if this is it now

Death while alive

The marionettist grips on to the last of bit of involvement

But even that slips away

I exist and observe

Remember This

A few weeks ago, Aviana, Anika and I went to the Hozier concert at Fenway Park in downtown Boston. As the concert got going I was taken aback that nearly everyone had their phones pointed at the stage. Small clips, your favorite song—fine. But the whole show? It struck me as proof of how much the younger generation struggles to be present without documenting it.

At the same time, I recognized that I, too, wanted to document the moment—but not the performance. What I wanted to capture was my daughters.

So often, I see them wrestle with taking up space in the world. I remind them constantly. When they leave in the mornings, I yell, “Remember to take up space today!”—usually followed by an eye roll. But I wonder if they know what I mean: what it looks like for a woman to be unapologetic—in her body, her emotions, her needs, her opinions. To own her power.

I can’t fully articulate it in words, but I know it when I see it, and I know it when I feel it. It’s magic. It’s the purest form of contentment. As a mother, watching your child step into themselves with grace and confidence is one of life’s most rewarding moments.

The concert itself was the hottest four hours of my life. We danced in 100-degree heat, plus humidity, plus 30,000 people. It felt like being trapped in a massive, wet sauna surrounded by radiating bodies. People danced, sang, and wiped sweat. Makeup melted, clothes clung. Vanity disappeared. Music remained.

Then Hozier paused to speak. He reflected on the state of the world, on the connections between American and Irish independence, on the sacrifices made so we could live in a free democracy where all have the right to prosper.

The crowd erupted in agreement at every pause. And yet, I couldn’t help noticing the disconnect. This was a mostly white, young, economically secure crowd—people who, in truth, are not actively working to protect the freedoms of minorities or to confront genocide happening now. They are living privilege and, often, unwilling to change the power dynamics that benefit them.

It made me wonder: what is the point of famous people saying these things if the cheers don’t translate to action? If ideals don’t become practice? (I include myself here—I, too, live with privilege and struggle to find meaningful ways to create change.)

But as my thoughts churned, I looked back at my daughters. They were clapping, whistling, yelling out. And I realized: this is where change begins. With awareness. With cheering. With a spark. And from there, it grows.

At that moment, I only saw them. I could see their light without the weight the world tries to place on them. They weren’t just connecting with the crowd; they were connecting with their own voices, their values. And as the music started again, they danced more freely. Free of society’s expectations. Free of their struggle. Free of the self-critical voice they often carry.

I was proud. Proud of who they are, proud of what they value, proud of the good they will create.

And then, like a lightning bolt, it hit me again: moments like this are fleeting.

I am preparing for the second greatest change of my life—second only to becoming their mother. Soon, I will no longer be raising my children. Soon they’ll go to concerts with friends, partners and hopefully together. Soon they’ll decide how they want to show up in the world, what causes they’ll fight for.

I’ll still watch, but from afar. I’ll hear their stories in phone calls, in check-ins, in the moments when they still need their mom. I’ll see glimpses in photos. I will hopefully become a welcomed guest in their life.

I know this is right, but my chest aches at the thought. 

As my breath returned to rhythm and I wiped tears from my face, I put my phone away, centered myself in the moment before me, and whispered to them both:

“Remember this.”

Home Is Where I Am

It’s been a bit and A LOT has happened. Now that things are finally calming, I find myself reflecting on the last two years. My nervous system is taking a much needed exhale. 

In the Fall of 2023 I had out-patient surgery. Once in recovery, I was not feeling well but the staff pushed me to get up in preparation for leaving. They had called Jared back and were starting to transfer me to a wheelchair when blood started squirting out of my incision line. They put me back into the bed and tried to control the bleeding. The one nurse caring for me and the front secretary helped apply pressure to my abdomen. My vitals were getting worse, I was not fully conscious and I was in a lot of pain. They made the decision to bring me back into surgery to stop the bleeding. I lost a lot of blood and my body had gone through a lot. Recovery was long and painful. Jared and I both had to process the psychological impact of me almost dying.

By March 2024 I was finally feeling back to myself. But just as we all began to heal from one traumatic experience, our dog Maple, that was the heart of our family, was killed in a hit and run in front of our house. It will be one of the darkest days of all of our lives. Losing Maple and the grief that followed left me gutted. Watching my kids process trauma and grief was torturous. Maple was my soul dog. She healed my broken heart. The trauma of her death, mixed with the void she left behind, turned our life upside down. 

On top of this, we felt the loss of people we loved around us. The vision we had held of a life in Rio Rancho was no more. Days, weeks, and months went by with the absence of family and friends. All of this loss made us rethink every aspect of the life we choose to live.

Jared was having a crisis of conscience and identity when it came to his job working his Government IT job. He is not an engineer. He does not develop weapons. But he was becoming increasingly troubled supporting the military-industrial complex. We watched the news and saw dead kids in Palestine every day. His job was part of the bureaucracy supporting this genocide. He told me that he was always troubled with this job. That there are a lot of ways to rationalize the work. But at the end of the day, he contributed to war, death, and destruction. He felt stuck between a well paying job needed to support his family and living his values.

On my birthday we went to a concert. Micheal Franti & Spearhead were playing in Santa Fe. They shared messages of love, the importance of family, and the beauty of living your values. They challenged everyone to take the risk to create the life of our dreams and to offer the world our gifts. The messages resonated deeply with us. Something magical happened that night. We danced, we cried, we released all that happened and we listened to our “knowing”.

We knew we had to move. That house represented so much pain. And it was never us. It was never the community we wanted. We no longer wanted to play it safe. Money, good jobs, security, moving up the ladder or existing in the status quo would not make us happy. Maple’s testament to our family was an unwavering desire to follow our dreams. We took one hell of a risk. Jared and I both left our jobs, we left family and friends, we sold our house, we sold most of our belongings, and we moved across the country. 

We wanted our kids to be in a progressive area where they could feel fully free to be who they wanted to be. We wanted a smaller community, lakes and rivers, four seasons, a slower pace of life, no more freeways, no more road rage, no more cookie cutter houses, no more strip malls, no more HOAs. We wanted a place that felt like home. Brattleboro, Vermont has been exactly that. We feel welcomed and supported. We know our neighbors. We rake leaves and shovel snow for our elderly neighbor. She drops off treats and tells us we are the greatest gift to her life this year. We go to the co-op and see people we know. Nature hugs us with trees, running water, animals, and the stars light up the night sky. The snow is magical and the cold encourages us to cultivate a cozy home to hibernate in. We see electric vehicles instead of trump flags flying on trucks. We rarely see police but instead social programs that line the street. We see a community that is deeply invested in making the world a better place for everyone.

There have been many voices that have not understood the decisions we have made or the priorities we hold. Though it was not our intention, we are not blind to the fact that people were deeply hurt by our move, or simply just did not understand it. Our decision was not made lightly. We took months and a lot of soul searching to feel assured that it was the right decision for us at this time.

Not once have I thought, this was crazy or a bad decision. It was a magical calling we felt and that we answered with a fervent ‘YES!’ We still don’t know many people yet but it feels like home. Rio Rancho felt disconnected and hollow. It lacked a soul. It was not a community or place I would ever want to call home. The people serve themselves and feel no connection to anything larger than the truck they drive or the HOA they call “home”.

We left our huge sterile house that lacked character or a history for this amazing little house we now call home. We are the third owners of a home built in 1880. The seller passed, the sister of the previous owner, declined a cash offer equal to ours. She knew her sister would want a family to enjoy the house and did not want another home becoming a rental property serving to only enrich the already wealthy. But the house needed work. It had areas where the floor was rotten, bathrooms that were not functioning, five layers of wallpaper on every wall, a roof needing repair, mold growing on walls, renovation and restoration needed to be done in every square foot. BUT, as they say, it had good bones. The original woodwork was intact, it had a near perfect layout, and amazing neighbors that welcomed us. After six months of renovations it is absolutely gorgeous. We mended ourselves alongside this house. We continued the house's story. This house now holds our laughter, joy, creativity, and sorrows. This house has become our home. 

I was diagnosed with Fibromyalgia a couple years ago after years of unexplained muscle pain. On top of this both hips are highly arthritic.I struggle putting words to what it feels like living with chronic pain. Pain is the most isolating circumstance I have ever experienced. More than being a single parent, mental health struggles, or the raising of young kids. My attention and awareness is always in my body.

Last fall Jared and I went to our first local concert. We got there early to make sure to claim two of the very limited seats available. I had accepted that my days of dancing for hours are in the past. I was determined to find a way to actively experience life in the ways I love. As the music started, I shifted my body back and forth to the beat while sitting. I watched all those around me dancing. I felt invisible within a bubble that surrounded me. As the night moved forward I decided to give myself a couple songs to dance. A couple turned into more. I consciously knew I would pay for days if I continued to dance but a larger voice was heard, “Myah dance when you can! Be here now. Feel your body move.” Again the world around me melted away. It was me and the music. I felt all the nights of dancing in my life. I felt joy. I felt the expression of sensuality and creativity. The laughter of all those nights echoed in me. For a moment, I willingly belonged in my body.

My disability is not normally visible to others but sometimes I wish it was. It seems easier to exist differently when others know. When in public and I struggle standing, I feel seen. Jared says he can gauge how I am doing by my eyes. I pay attention to how quiet and withdrawn I feel. 

We went to New York City in December to see the Christmas lights. I did okay walking around the first couple days but on the third day my pain hit a level I have never felt. As I stood in a subway, waiting on a train, my legs shook, tears fell, I became my pain. The kids all helped support me walking and made sure I did not fall. I struggle so deeply with having them help me. It feels codependent and a role reversal that I am uncomfortable with. Jared was busy trying to figure out a way to get me back to the hotel as fast as he could. I saw his panic and I saw the kids' concern. I spent all my energy trying to not scare the kids or show them just how bad it was. But it was a battle I was losing. It felt like an out of body experience. I was an observer to a scene that was now mine.

Jared and I have had many conversations about how to handle these moments. How to protect the kids. How to have Jared keep caring for himself. The reality is that I am not an able bodied person and Jared has to pick up a lot more responsibility with everything. At the time, I could not work and I could no longer contribute at home like I once did. I have to pace myself. Prioritize every bit of energy I put out. 

My doctor is working hard to make sure nothing has been missed in my diagnosis and to help me with pain management. He gave me some new medications that I use only when things get really bad. Those moments seemed to be occurring more and more. I am so very thankful to have options that help me stay engaged with life. In moments I would normally retreat to my room, I can now get some relief to help me stay present with my family. Jared told me he saw a glimpse of the “old Myah” after I treated my pain. I was sad to know that others can see my personality disappearing. I too felt more distant from her each day. 

I went to see a new local orthopedic doctor. All the doctors before have said that I am too young for a hip replacement. I fully expected to walk into that office and be told the same thing. That I had to live with my hip pain for the next 20 years. That did not happen. The doctor fully listened to my experience, did a physical examination of my range of motion and my clicky hip. He said, “It's pretty clear to me what the problem is. You need a new hip.” My x-rays showed advanced arthritis that no amount of NSAIDS or physical therapy could fix. I got my new hip in March. It was the easiest surgery I have recovered from. Within a month, I was more mobile than before. 

We have gone to amazing concerts this summer. I have done things I no longer thought I would be able to do physically. I have danced. Yes, I have paid for it, but not for days. I have figured out if I take a dose of steroids on days I want to be more physically active, I recover much faster. I feel like my life has been given back to me. 

The kids are doing well. Not once have they told us that they wish we would have not moved. They are finding their way in this amazing community that has accepted them for who they are and the gifts they give to the world. We lived in a huge metropolitan area but this little town of Brattleboro has offered more than I could imagine; theater, Boys and Girls Club, photography, teen events, schools, amazing teachers and special ed staff.

Jared is my beloved, my safe space, my constant, my best friend. My kids are joy, they are hope, they are my teacher, they are my why. My dad is my cheerleader, my therapist, my wise force, my friend. My pets are my companions. I am held. I am loved. I am home. 

I am reminded of the dialectic, that two seemingly opposing things can both be true. That life is full of pain for me AND I feel the most content with life than I ever have. I have far less people in my life AND I feel less alone than I have in a long time. Money is much tighter AND I am immensely fortunate. I feel grief AND I feel joy. Life is lived in the dialectic. We are never here or there. We are everywhere. I see the beauty in all. I am so very grateful. I am home. It is good. 

I embrace the lights’ return to our life. I am grateful for the opportunity to rest, to reflect, to notice. I am thankful for all those that have come into my life to help me heal my heart and care for my body. I am thankful for those who share my joy. Home is more than a building, belongings or a place that houses your body. Home is the people I love, the community I choose, the nature that embraces me, the pets that give me joy, the ones that walked before me and the ones that will walk ahead of me. Home is where I belong. Home is where I am.

To Write is to Know

One can not be in a state of constant dissociation and also write. To write we have to be connected to our knowing, our truth, and for me, my story. Writing for me is a state of mindfulness and tellingly I have not written in five years. I was asked recently by one of my therapists what the downside of being mindful is. My instant reaction was that there is none. Mindfulness is always the goal, is it not? But when I got quiet, an answer came: “Because I can no longer disassociate.” My answer is not wrong, but also not right. Our nervous system needs a break. We need times of rest and to disengage to be able to heal. Clearly extended periods of disassociation is not a good thing. But the thing about mindfulness is that you can be mindful of doing (or not doing) anything. That is in itself mindfulness. 

It feels good to write again. It’s hard to believe how long it has been. I have a tendency to write once I feel like I have gotten through an experience. It’s when I’m on the other side and have reflected on my growth that words seem to percolate out of me. The last few years have been some of my hardest. 

My mental health has been a huge challenge lately. Five years ago I was misdiagnosed as bi-polar. A psychiatrist had a fifteen minute conversation with me, diagnosed me and thus began a snowball of destructive care for a disease I did not have. I was taken off the one drug I feel actually did something in fear that it would activate my “mania” and in the next several years was placed on almost every mood stabilizer out there. I had huge reactions to these medications, some so horrible I needed to be hospitalized. Nothing seemed to be getting better, I was suicidal, depressed, anxious, I gained forty pounds from the drugs, my brain chemistry was completely out of whack and I felt hopeless. 

I continued to try different psychiatrists until I found one who took the time to dive into my history. He asked me about my trauma history, my mood regulation, my medical history, how and when I got different diagnoses. After a long evaluation, he looked at me and said, “You don’t have bi-polar. You have complex trauma and you use manic energy to cope and gain a sense of control. You are not clinically manic in any way. You are hella anxious. You need the right meds, therapy and coping skills.” He stated that the fact that the mood stabilizers had not been doing anything, should have given previous doctors a clue of a misdiagnosis. Instead they just increased doses, added new medications, and pushed stronger meds. At one time I was taking twelve drugs. At this time I struggled simply following a conversation and staying awake. It amazes me just how limited medical providers' knowledge of trauma is and how it can manifest. Trauma can look like anything. It is a shape shiftier and unless you take the time, it can be missed.

I’m now back on my previous medication that worked and other drugs that help with PTSD. I’m off all mood stabilizers. My ADD is being treated. I take a class every week on coping skills. My psychiatrist found me amazing trauma specialists. I have seen many therapists in my life and got pretty good at the “talk therapy” rigmarole but my current therapist is actively treating the problem vs talking about the symptoms. I typically don’t come in and discuss my week. We get to work, he uses the technique of brain spotting with me. I am learning to be triggered and to sit in discomfort without moving from it. It is literally changing the way I think and how I show up in the world. My emotions are not this big scary place they once were and though it is hard at times for me, I’m feeling.

Recently I had an episode of heavy cleaning and organizing that went on for days. I got scared. I asked my therapist again, “Are you sure this is not mania?” I was reassured, “No, it simply means you are activated. You are processing something. Honor that and stop worrying about what things mean.” We laughed because telling me to stop thinking about anything is just funny.

I have learned to tell a different story to myself about my trauma. For so long I saw myself as this passive victim in situation after situation. I thought my reactions always led me to self sabotage and in the end, failure. It has been above all what has haunted me. Why can’t I finish school? Why do I struggle with maintaining a good job? Why have I not built the career I dream of? Why do I let my trauma control me? Here is what I have come to realize, those are some god damn loaded unfair questions that come straight from the patriarchy. 

When trauma or large triggers have happened, I have refocused my energy to the most important things in my life. When I was raped my sophomore year in college by a cop who threatened my life, I went home to be safe and heal. I wrote a letter to the editor of the school newspaper a week later calling attention to the college’s choice to protect itself over me. I filed a police report even after being told, “I will hurt you if I have to” by a cop and the college administration saying, “We think he or other cops could try to shut you up.” When my daughter was a baby and extremely sick in the hospital, I was kicked out of nursing school for missing too many classes. I made complaints to the administration and called for policy changes for parents. When my husband almost died repeatedly, I let my business as a birth educator dissolve to care for him. When I went to UNM and a professor made sexist comments that a women on campus was to blame for being raped because she turned down an offer to be walked to her car after a night class, I filled a Title 7 complaint against the University, won and forced his early retirement. This was never a matter of me giving into trauma. I have always chosen the path that took more courage. When I say I fought the system at every turn, I truly did. I did let trauma change me but it never controlled me. I was given the opportunity to show up to the world with authenticity and a willingness to be vulnerable. I have always chosen to share my story and be part of the change I dreamed of.

My vision of success was based on the ideal of the patriarchy. Do something that you are passionate about, make money, be recognized, be good at what I do, make a difference, advance, ect. This was never my truth. What was meant for me was to find my voice. I choose to focus on myself, my family, and my belief in the call for justice. I hope my voice made it possible for others to experience a more just world. I now listen to my KNOWING and follow that voice. I believe that if I truly listen, my knowing will NEVER lead me to the wrong decision. My success is not based on what I DO, it's in who I am. Mothering was NEVER my fall back plan, it was my calling. It saved me and brought me home to myself.

After writing the above, I hear voices come into my head. It’s too honest, too bolstering, too vulnerable, it's all ego. Specifically I think of what women will say. I can see them rolling their eyes. As I step into my whole story, I can not withhold sharing the role that women have placed in shaming me. We collectively silence women when they discuss trauma and it is insidious. I have had women question why I did not scream or fight the night of my rape and even accuse me of making it up. I have had a “friend” feed my rapist details of my mental process so he could better manipulate me in the weeks after in an attempt to prevent charges from being pressed. I have had a woman tell me that torture victims have healed and moved on better than me. While getting a pelvic, I had a female doctor who, with disdain in her voice, told me that I should be grateful that I can at least have kids after my rape because she never could. I have had a woman compare the literal blood we bleed from being raped, stating hers to be more traumatic. I really wonder what threatens women so much in my story. 

As human beings we often respond to the trauma of an individual or a group of people by creating that trauma in others. It is the ancient way of social hierarchy. We have chosen to dominate others before loving others. We have chosen to push down vs lift up. We have chosen to shame vs show empathy. Our way out has always been to take the power of others. To free ourselves from all trauma, be it historical, societal or personal trauma, we must first heal ourselves. We truly can not love others more than we love ourselves because our capacity for love has not been fully materialized. We also can not show up for others more than we can show up for ourselves. With that work we can turn our energy to also uplifting others who suffer. That work always starts with recognizing a trauma survivor's individual story as truth. The impact of traumatic events varies considerably from person to person. There are many factors in how trauma is processed in the brain. The importance of the immediate aftermath can not be understated. Rejection of a woman’s story and lack of immediate support causes extreme fragmentation. 

When my daughter was about three. She and her sister were playing outside in the yard at their grandparents home. After a few minutes, I looked around the yard and realized I could not see her anywhere. We all began searching and panic began to set in. My dad eventually found her. She had been running through the chicken coop and the door shut behind her. For about fifteen minutes she was terrorized by a mean rooster. She was physically fine but she was traumatized. My dad is a social worker and has responded to acute crisis his whole life. He looked at me and said we need to respond fully right now to all of her needs so this does not have a lasting effect. We all held her, listened to how scary it was, let her cry, created a plan so it could not happen again, reassured her that she was safe and eventually relocated that rooster deep into the woods. She still talks about that day and how scared she was. We can laugh about it now but we know how significant it was for her. I wonder what the effect would have been if I would have told her it was her fault for going in there, that she was over exaggerating how bad it was, that she could have just opened the door, that she can stop putting on a show with all her tears. Our society needs to respond to trauma completely differently. We must choose love, acceptance, empathy, reassurance and safety. 

We all hold our own stories and the stories of all the women that have come before us. My ability to let go of the patriarchal dictation of what success is, to rewrite the script, to be vulnerable, to love myself, fuck…to even talk about it; brings others to awareness to the work untouched inside of them. These women that have directly challenged me, wished to push me down and judged me; I choose to love. I choose to love them because they are me. They are the voices in my head telling me I am a failure and my experience should not be discussed openly. Some of us are not yet ready to do the work and some of us may never be. I wasn’t ready for a long time, until now. I am working on offering myself unconditional love and the nurturing I so desperately need.  I offer myself forgiveness for so many mistakes. And because I can love my brokenness, I can love yours. Today I love me, I love my trauma for all the opportunities to find myself and will continue to challenge myself to love others that need it the most.

Someone told me recently as a weapon that respect must be earned. I fundamentally disagree. Respect is seeing the divine in us all, respect is witnessing that we all carry darkness and light. Respect is about our stories. Respect is the gift we give each other to show we are inherently and unconditionally worthy. We are worthy just because we are. That is the work I continue to choose. 

Most days my spirit is lighter. I feel grounded, connected, excited for what comes next and have a more loving relationship with myself. I listen to my knowing. I speak what I like and what I need. I am no longer willing to betray myself for anyone else. I, above all, can count on me. My voice is worthy. It’s not that life isn’t hard! God damn is it hard but I’m not sure that is what this is about. I know now that life is a mixture of bad, good and mostly neutral. My goal is not some Hallmark idea of living a life full of happiness and joy.  Life is about walking the path with grace and gratitude. It’s about facing our shadows and finding the light. Above all else, it’s about love. Love is the divine, the sacred, the magic, the knowing, the point of it all. I feel a great shift in me. I really don’t think about suicide any more, I think about living. I am no longer running from discomfort, I am no longer numb. I rest when I need it and I return here to my writing. 

About Elle

I have resisted discussing Elle’s transition publicly out of a lot of fear. It didn’t feel like mine to comment on and my process seemed trivial to hers. With that said I didn’t give myself room to honor my story. I also didn’t speak my support in the way I truly feel. Elle’s gender identity was no surprise to me. Because we didn’t talk about it publicly, I know people pictured Elle coming up to me one day announcing they were a woman. I then think people thought I went and found a man to replace Elle. I could not control what people thought but I tried to show up with as much love as I could. Elle told me they were gender fluid on our second date. There were never any secrets. Our marriage was a harbor for Elle to express her feminie energy. I supported and created space for Elle to present female. I bought clothes, did make up and made love with Elle for the fifteen years we were together. But we did this all behind closed doors.

We were a queer couple living in the closet. Elle believed for most of that time that a full transition wasn’t something she wanted. I did find that comforting and believed it to be true. After reflecting for the past few years I have come to understand that I am attracted to gentle masculine energy. Even as a bi woman, it's the masculine energy in women that attracts me. I have felt so much shame for this. I feared I wasn’t this socially progressive person who can radically accept everyone. I was supposed to love Elle for Elle. I told myself that Jake and Elle are the same person thus my romantic love should be the same. I didn’t give myself enough credit. Radically accepting everyone does not mean being attracted to everyone. I fell in love with a dynamic loving masculine man. I created a life with Jake and I did miss him. The more I felt like Jake was disappearing, the more grief I felt and that followed with so much shame.

When we lived in Minnesota Elle struggled with dysphoria and it was literally killing her. They were sicker by the day with an auto-immune disease. I held them multiple times thinking they were going to die in my arms. I had accepted that I most likely was going to be a widow with three young kids. Thinking that the weather was a huge factor in her illness we took a leap to leave our community, family and home to save Elle’s life. We moved to Santa Fe, NM. A year after living here Elle was becoming stronger. She had a colonoscopy that didn’t show Crohn’s disease. They stopped having flares and came off all their medications. It was everything we hoped for. We both see now the true toll on Jake's body was hating himself.

On a road trip early in our time as New Mexicans, Elle turned to me and said that she would like to start hormones. I was genuinely excited. Who doesn’t want a husband with secret BOOBS? Elle explained again they don’t want to do a full transition but want to see if their brain gets the hormones it craves if the dysphoria would lessen. I saw her fear in this choice but she was ready. I don’t think I have ever been more proud of Elle than at that moment. As time moved forward, Jake seemed to be disappearing and Elle began to show up more often. I know she has always been Elle but I got to see her more. It was a confusing time. I woke up each day not knowing who I would interact with. How they carried their body, their voice, the way they communicated, their sexual desires and their contentment for life would shift. I missed my husband and I felt horrible for it.

I had always respected Elle’s request to stay in the closet. Her whole life she has been ashamed of who she is. I had grown up in a socially progressive community and had the queer community all around me. Elle was raised in conservative area and had never been shown acceptance of who she was. We also had eleven years of social progression between us. But there became a time where I was no longer comfortable living in the closet. I wanted to scream to the world that we were a queer family, that I loved a trans women and I inherently was queer myself. I needed community and support. Elle wasn’t ready yet. This was a breaking point. The toll of living in the closet was a lot on our relationship.

Elle and I had many problems completely unrelated to her gender identity, like any long term couple. In a hope to find a more supportive community for us, we also lived in the closet as a polyamorous couple. We had both dated and loved others. Again it may have looked one way to the outside world but there were no secrets. My relationship with George was not a reaction to Elle's transition but simply a way of life we had agreed upon from the very beginning. So much of my life was hidden away and with it my authentic identity. I was no longer willing to walk through life presenting a lie. We began our individual journey to find ourselves. I tried many things to find myself but I know now that journey was truly inside of myself. Elle has shared with me that my desire to end our romantic relationship set them free, maybe it did for us both. It was a wake up call to our own truth and pushed us forward to be the authentic woman we were.

Elle and I taught our kids to love everyone. They knew about different sexualities and gender identities from the moment they were born. But their parents' gender identity was kept from them till Elle and I started to grow apart. Their Mapa, the kids loving name for Elle, started to let themselves be seen and our kids have never once expressed anything but support. I was worried for them. Will they be bullied and accepted? How will this affect them? Will they be safe? But it has become one of their many superpowers. The kids have learned to love and accept others in a way I could only dream. They have become my teacher.

Aviana shared with me recently that people do stare at them in public with their other mom. She had begun to confront people defending their mom. Saying things like, “What are you staring at?” We know how many trans women are victims of hate crimes. I was scared and I had to talk with my kids about safety. I had to explain that many people hate trans women like their mom and we can’t challenge strangers. This was one of the hardest conversations of my life. Preparing your children for hate and potential violence because of their Mapa's gender.

Last summer Elle had a concert in the Railyard. George and I brought all the kids. The kids were so proud of their mom being their total authentic self in front of so many people performing. We danced and laughed. You could feel and see the joy. When she got off the stage the kids ran to her and hugged her. In that moment I felt so much pride for the family we created, for the love we will always share, for Elle’s journey, for the love my children have. Afterwards, we all chatted and Elle left for home with the kids. I followed her, carrying all the kids' stuff as they all walked hand and hand to the car. They passed a couple walking. This couple stopped, turned around, stared and then laughed profusely. I was horrified and prepared all of my responses in my head. But I looked past them to my family and none of them noticed. Nothing could touch the love they were floating on. I knew I could not protect my kids from the world but I had taught them to live their truths without shame.

A few months ago Avi came out as gay to me. Fitting with her generation, she came out in a text meme sitting right next to me on the couch. I looked over to her and tears flowed down her face. I said, “Is this real? Are you coming out to me?” She nodded in confirmation and I pulled her into me. I have never been more proud of her. I confirmed she was loved, accepted and even more celebrated. I want nothing more than for you to be you.

Elle and I can now both stand on top of the mountain and say “This is who I am.” We cheer each other on. We have struggles but we love as big as we can. I am so proud of who you are Elle. Thank you for teaching us all how to be our authentic self, even in a world that may not always accept it. Your ability to simply live your truth allows us all to live our own. Thank you for teaching our daughter that she gets to be unapologetically herself. Hell, thanks for teaching me that I get to be unapologetically myself. I wish I could offer you and our kids a more loving world. I wish I could always know you will be safe in body and spirit. But today and every day, I choose love. You are not alone. Be free. Be you. Be Elle.