When my son was 28 years old, he came out as transgender. He read from a script no doubt provided to him by those who had been validating him for six years. He was already on hormones and disclosed his plans for all the surgeries available to MtFs.

[...]

I don’t have PTSD. There is no “post-trauma” here. It is an ongoing, relentless barrage of trauma which only gets relieved at night when I can sleep. And sometimes, not even then.

But I awaken every morning, to face another day of trauma. Another day of knowing my son is another day closer to the barbarism of surgery which will forever change his already-drug-addicted, altered body. Another day closer to a lifetime of maintenance, possible risks, side-effects, and (more than likely) no happier than before going under the surgeon’s knife. And the added terror of what can happen afterward. After he realizes the processes have not brought him the anticipated peace of mind. The statistics are overwhelming.

I awaken every morning flooded by emotions of dread and sadness, knowing my son has plans that I believe he has not researched from “the other side.” Stubborn from Day 1, he holds onto his own ideas without the flexibility of addressing the “what-ifs” of his planned actions.

I awaken every morning, just wanting to close my eyes and find sleep again. But, as the night before, sleep does not come easily. I lie awake with every tumultuous thought in my head drowning out any semblance or hope of peacefulness.

I awaken every morning utterly consumed by my son’s life and the path he is on.

I spend my days seeking even more information, testimonials, research, and support than I had the day before... and the day before that one. I cry daily; tears threaten constantly.