Love Lives Here

by Amanda Jette Knox

  I had been dreading this moment. It’s one thing to tell your kids they have a sister, but to tell them they have two moms is an entirely different matter. I was quite sure Zoë wasn’t looking forward to it either.

  Aerik, Alexis and Jackson were all seated nervously in the living room, awaiting the big news we were about to share.

  “I’m trans,” Zoë stated. “I’m a woman. I’ve always known I was a woman—I just didn’t let myself think about it. I stuffed it deep down and hid it from everybody, including me. What this means is that like Alexis, I’m going to need to start living as myself.” She delivered the news in a calm, measured way.

  There was a pause while our children absorbed what they had just heard.

  Then finally, a small eight-year-old voice said, “You mean, I don’t have a daddy?”

  Jackson’s composure crumbled at the realization and he began sobbing into his little hands, kneeling on the floor. A piece of his own identity, something he knew for sure—that he had a mom and a dad—had just changed forever.

  I started to get up from the couch and hug him, but Aerik was there in a heartbeat. He wrapped his long, big-brother arms around his weeping little brother.

  “It’s okay, buddy,” he said tenderly, as a tear slipped down his own face. “It’s going to be okay.”

  Alexis was crying too.

  “Are you all right?” Zoë asked her.

  “I know they’re both crying because they’re sad,” she said. “I understand why. But I’m just so happy for you. I know what this means. I know what it took for you to do this. You’re going to feel so much better.”

  The wisdom of lived experience poured out of a twelve-year-old girl. Zoë reached out and held her hand.

  For the second time in less than two years, I watched change hit our family. There was fear, uncertainty and sadness. But more than anything, what I saw was unconditional love and support. People being there for each other, even while trying to process a dramatic revelation. In that moment, I knew our kids were going to be just fine. How could they not be? With love, compassion, understanding and resiliency, they had every tool they needed to move into our new normal.

  “I’m sure you have questions,” Zoë said. “You can go ahead and ask them.”

  “What does this mean for our family?” Aerik asked, letting go of his little brother and taking a seat on the sofa again. “Are you two splitting up?”

  Zoë looked at me to answer. Fair enough. She knew what she wanted, and that was us. The decision came down to what I wanted.

  I didn’t want to lie to them; that wouldn’t be fair. If I said something to appease their worries now and told them something different down the road, I would only be prolonging their pain. No, I had to be honest with them. For the past few weeks, my gut had been telling me it was over. What was it saying now? I searched deep, excavating what I felt, and laid it out for them.

  “That’s not the plan,” I said, surprising myself a little. “We have a lot to figure out, but we love each other.” I smiled at Zoë, who smiled back with a subtle look of surprise. Relief filled our children’s faces.

  I had come back around, through shock and sadness and anger, to a place where I was willing to give it my all. I still didn’t know what that meant, but I knew where my heart was: here, with the people in this room.

  Jackson was still on the floor, wiping his tears. Zoë got up from her chair and moved over to him.

  “Buddy,” she said softly. “I’m sorry I’m not your dad. I know that’s a big realization, and it’s okay if you’re angry about it.”

  “I’m not angry,” he said. “I’m sad. I thought I had a dad.”

  “I know you did,” she replied. “But you still have two parents who love you. That hasn’t changed, right?”

  “Right,” came the reply. “I just don’t know what you are to me now.”

  “Well, I’m a woman just like Mom” she replied, rubbing his back. “So I guess that makes me your other mom.”

  “Okay,” he said, taking it in. He hugged her.

  “That’s my next question,” said Aerik. “What do we call you? Mom is already Mom.”

  “What about Mama?” offered Alexis. “Like on The Fosters.” She had turned all of us on to that show. It was a heartwarming teen drama about a same-sex couple raising a mix of biological, adopted and fostered children. One of the mothers was called “Mom” and the other “Mama.”

  “I like it,” said Zoë.

  “That works,” the other two agreed.

  They then asked her if she had a name picked out for herself.

  “I’m going with Zoë,” she said, smiling. “Zoë Michelle Knox.”

  “Nice,” said Alexis.

  “I tried to talk her out of the Michelle part.” I rolled my eyes.

  “What’s wrong with Michelle?” Aerik asked.

  “Mom thinks Michelle is a mean-girl name,” Zoë replied.

  “It is a mean-girl name!” I shot back.

  “Mom, you’re weird,” Jackson said matter-of-factly.

  That was the day the kids found out they had two moms. In the span of only a few minutes, they had expressed their feelings, supported one another, given her a new name, reaffirmed their love for our family and reminded us all how strange I am. I can’t think of many other moments when I have been prouder to be their parent.

  * * *

  —

  There were harder days over the next few weeks and months, of course. When a loved one transitions, a family transitions too. Part of that involves letting go of who you thought someone was and embracing who she is.

  Early on, I described that process as something resembling grief. I no longer do. Many in the trans community have asked loved ones to reframe these emotions. Grief implies that the person is gone, after all, but they haven’t died. They may look different, have a different name and use different pronouns, but they’re still here—and often in better shape than before they came out. In this sense, mourning them seems excessive.

  But letting go was a big part of the process for everyone after Zoë started her transition. I had to let go of the idea of having a husband and being in a heterosexual relationship. Our children had to let go of the idea of having a father, and the societal norm of living with opposite-sex parents.

  Our biggest concern was that the kids would hide their feelings and pretend everything was fine so they wouldn’t hurt their mama. Having already been through a loved one’s transition, they knew it was a challenging time for the person transitioning. They might feel they were adding to Zoë’s already full plate.

  We made a point of checking in with them individually and as a group as often as possible. “We just want you to know it’s okay to not be okay all the time,” Zoë and I would remind them.

  “I have my own feelings too,” I once said to Jackson as he, Zoë and I sat on our queen-size bed. “Remember how much I cried in the first few weeks after Mama came out?”

  “I thought you had cancer or something,” Jackson said.

  “Not cancer. Just a case of the sads,” I replied.

  “I felt sad at first too,” he said. “Just a little. I thought I had a dad. I’m going to miss that.”

  Zoë nodded. “I’m sure you are, buddy.”

  “But I’ve been doing some thinking,” Jackson continued. “And you know what’s great about having two moms?”

  “What’s that?” Zoë and I asked in unison.

  He reached over and hugged us both. “Everything.”

  * * *

  —

  Our entire family began the exhausting period of living two lives: the one we knew was true, and the one the rest of the world thought was true.

  Because there was still so much to do before Zoë could present as herself full time, we needed to keep her identity private. This meant that inside the home, she was Zoë or Mama. Outside the home, everyone still knew her as her former self.

  Zoë played a role all day at work, with a
name and pronouns that didn’t fit, then came home to dress and be referred to in a way that made her more comfortable. The daily switch was emotionally taxing. The more she embraced her true gender, the harder it was to pretend to be another, even if she had been doing it her entire life.

  It was tough for the rest of us too. When we went out as a family, we had to be careful not to slip up with names or pronouns. The more internalized Zoë’s womanhood and motherhood became to all of us, the less acceptable it felt to dishonour that by calling her “him” or “he” or “Dad.” We became adept at gender-neutral language.

  While doing my advocacy work, I referred to her as my spouse, my partner or my children’s other parent. I also avoided using masculine pronouns whenever possible. If I couldn’t refer to Zoë as her proper gender yet, I would do my best not to misgender her. The kids switched to using “parents” instead of “Mom and Dad.” Even little Jackson switched over his language at school. He didn’t have to—nobody asked him to or even suggested it—but he did it because it felt right.

  It was time for Zoë to start telling the people closest to her. She called her parents in Peterborough to give them the news. She could have told them in person, but she chose the phone because she knew it would give them more space to react honestly without her in the room. She knew this wouldn’t be easy, but her parents are kind and supportive people. They love their children and grandchildren, including the granddaughter they didn’t know they had until she was eleven. Having some understanding of trans issues made it easier for them to hear and understand what Zoë was saying.

  Still, they had thought Zoë was their eldest son. Finding out this wasn’t true hit them hard. They immediately told her they loved her and supported her but would need some time to process it all. As a parent of a trans child myself, I understood this. When you’ve known your child for over forty years as someone of one gender, it takes time to adjust to a new reality. But they reiterated that they were 100 percent behind her.

  When it came time to tell my parents about Zoë, it was different than telling them about Alexis. It meant answering questions about our relationship, and therefore questions about me.

  “We hope to stay together,” I said to them. “But if we break up, it’s not because she’s trans. Her being a woman isn’t a deal-breaker.”

  In other words, Mom and Dad, I’m not straight.

  I had known for a long time, but it was a fact I never thought I would have to reveal to my Catholic family members. I wasn’t prepared to have a deep conversation with them about it, mostly because my sexual orientation had yet to be fully unpacked from the big box of shame I had kept it in my entire life.

  Thankfully, that was the least of their concerns for the moment. Twenty-two years before, at the age of sixteen, I had brought Zoë to meet my parents for the first time. While we were there, we also mentioned that we had just moved in together. We continued to surprise them throughout our relationship, from unexpected pregnancies to staying together despite our chronic unhappiness. This was yet another surprise, a twist in a love story that was anything but typical.

  My mom had questions and concerns she needed to discuss with us. She wanted to make sure that if we did stay together, we would end up in a better relationship on the other side of this transition; she knew how hard we had struggled for many years. Zoë assured her that she loved me deeply, and that all she wanted was to be able to love me as the woman she is. And I assured her that I loved my wife back, and that I believed, in time, we were going to be okay.

  “Good,” my mom said, being so very mom-like. “Because neither of you has been happy for years, and you both deserve that. You’ve been so standoffish the entire time I’ve known you, Zoë. Now I understand why. I look forward to getting to know you now.” They hugged tightly in a way I had never seen before.

  As we continued down the line with siblings, other extended family members and friends, our world became incrementally easier and safer. Unlike Alexis, Zoë came out gradually, like a slow bloom: first one petal, then another. It was months in the making, a dynamic experience in forging relationships in which we could all be ourselves.

  A week or two after Zoë told the kids, we took Jackson camping with some of my food court girls and their families. We pitched our tents at a large pagan-focused festival most of them attended each year. I had gone the year before with Jackson and knew how inclusive it was. It was a place where Zoë could express herself in safety, even though there were hundreds of families on-site. The festival was welcoming to LGBTQ people. There was even an unofficial “rainbow camp” where many queer people grouped together, stringing colourful flags and other gay apparel all over their site. There were casual get-togethers and sacred rituals specifically for us, and even a small but popular pride parade through the campground.

  Zoë shed all her masculine clothing while we were there. She donned a sarong most days and tied a colourful scarf around her short hair, which was slowly growing out. She went by the nickname Zo, which our friends used without question. She was in her element, and expressed to all of us how much better she felt living as herself full time. Even Jackson seemed relaxed now that he didn’t have to play the pronoun game to get around outing his mama.

  I, however, was struggling. Panic punched at my insides as I watched a person I’d known for two decades dress and behave in a completely different manner. It felt sudden and alien to me. The feminine clothing Zoë had started to wear at home was more gender-neutral in appearance. When I saw her in skirts, speaking in a higher pitch, her mannerisms more feminine than I was used to, I worried. It was a snapshot of where we were headed, and I wondered if people would be as kind beyond this festival. Would strangers laugh with her or at her? Would she be in danger? Would our kids be?

  I should have been celebrating with her. Instead, I agonized over my family’s future, filled once again with resentment over the curveball thrown our way. It wasn’t fair. Why did this have to happen?

  NINETEEN

  stasis

  THE WAITING GAME was eating Zoë alive—and so were the potential costs associated with transition. She was fortunate to have a workplace insurance plan that covered most of the cost of a private psychologist to do her initial assessment of gender dysphoria. That opened the door to medical treatments she needed much sooner than the six months it would take to get an appointment at the free clinic. We were both big believers in public health care, even if it meant slightly longer wait times for non-urgent issues. However, time is not on a trans person’s side if medical transition is needed. Long wait times have been shown to cause depression and increase suicide rates.

  And Zoë was struggling to get through each day. She hated her body, her voice, every reflection, every phone call. She flinched when people called her sir. The pain of dealing with the outside world made her sad and frustrated. These emotions turned to anger, fuelled in part by the unwanted testosterone still surging through her body. She knew she was quick to get angry, quick to push those closest to her away—a fallback to a time when keeping her distance meant keeping her secret safe.

  She knew I wanted to be there for her, wanted to help, but I didn’t know how. “There’s nothing you can do,” Zoë would say. “I just need these appointments to start happening. I needed this yesterday. I needed it years ago.”

  Locked in stasis. Waiting. It was torture.

  It would take one thing to ruin her day, and I never knew what that one thing would be. In public, my guard would go up. I overcompensated, trying to do all the talking and protect her from conversations where she might get misgendered. When she came home from work, thoroughly exhausted from having played White Collar Man all day, I would try to make things as easy as I could: dinner ready, house clean, any child-related issues already dealt with. Because that was all I could offer. I had read up on how to support someone through dysphoria and realized that all I could do was cheer her on or comfort her, depending on what she needed that day.

  Thi
s profound feeling of distress was one I would never fully understand. The closest I came was back when I was heavier, and people would sometimes assume I was pregnant. A few even ran up and touched my belly excitedly. It was a reminder of how big I was, how uncomfortable and sore within my body, and how melancholy this made me. Still, my womanhood had never been called into question. When people assumed Zoë was a man, it was a reminder of how the world saw her, and how at odds that was with how she felt inside. This cut to the core of her identity.

  On the really bad days, I would sit next to her in bed while she curled up in that familiar fetal position, not wanting to leave the safety of the covers.

  “I’m so ugly,” she would say.

  “You’re not ugly,” I would reply. “You’re beautiful.”

  “I look like a guy,” she would say.

  “Things are going to get better, okay? It just takes time.”

  A few weeks after that fateful conversation in the car, she was able to see a gender identity therapist, and she diagnosed Zoë’s case as “classic.” This was a good thing, since it meant there would be no extra delay. After a few sessions, she referred Zoë to the endocrinologist who would start her on the right medical path.

  Meanwhile, there were things that weren’t covered by either public or private insurance, like laser and electrolysis treatments to remove her facial hair. Those treatments cost thousands of dollars—by far the biggest out-of-pocket expense we incurred. Both the government and the insurance company deemed the procedures to be cosmetic. Many trans women would argue they’re essential.

  Throughout those early days, Zoë showed amazing resiliency. She was still a very committed parent, still excelled at her demanding job and still held on through the bumps of us rebuilding our relationship from the ground up. I had thought I was the strong one in our marriage. I take it back.

  But we had a long road ahead. Even with the fast-tracked timeline, she couldn’t live as herself full time until spring of 2016, half a year away. During that period, she would see the psychologist and the endocrinologist, continue with hair removal and change her ID. It was a sensible timeline, but it meant months longer in the closet for all of us.