Other People’s Feelings

Taking on the burden of feeling other people’s feelings can be overwhelming. Unfortunately, I’m so good at it that I can get into people’s heads and feel the emotions they don’t necessarily know they’re feeling. Call me an empath, or maybe just super sensitive—either way, if you’ve got feelings, I’m there, feeling them right along with you, even if I’m just imagining them.

In first grade, I distinctly remember standing in the lunch line, my stomach growling with ravenous hunger because I had maybe two bites of cheerios before I hurriedly left the house to run to school. This was back in the late sixties when it cost a mere forty cents for a complete lunch, including a side of fruit cocktail (with a maraschino cherry) and a bright orange waxy carton of milk. And by God, those lunches were the most delectable meals on the planet. I’m practically drooling right now as I remember the spaghetti with meat sauce with warm, buttered French bread, or the hamburger with the salty chunk of roast potato that came on the side. Don’t get me started on the vanilla ice cream sandwiches for only a dime! Those lunches were like a religious experience for me, and so superior to the wax paper-wrapped bologna sandwich, stale Wheat Thins and sliced Jicama that my mother hurriedly shoved in a paper bag before she went back to bed.

As I waited expectantly in line for my hot, delicious lunch, the boy ahead of me in line turned toward me, his face in repose. Looking back on it, I’m sure he was perfectly fine—he was probably just daydreaming or something. But at that moment he looked so utterly sad that my heart ached for him. As my eyes filled up with tears, I began to make up a story in my mind that this boy’s life was somehow so utterly tragic, that it was my responsibility to save him.

But before I could come up with a plan to make his world all right again, the lunch lady pulled me aside. Dabbing my wet cheeks with a crumpled tissue pulled from her apron pocket, she patted my head and gently guided me back into the line. I was soon distracted by my glorious lunch served on a sectional peach-colored plastic tray, and promptly lost sight of the boy. At six, I had no idea then how big a role food would play in distracting me from feeling my emotions.

When I was a teenager, and my dad came home from work, I knew immediately from the look on his face whether it was going to be three martinis before dinner kind of night or not. Most of the time, it was. I could feel his repressed anger like an electric buzz up and down my spine. I watched and waited to see what would happen. Fight or flight? For me, it was always flight. Off to my room I would go, hiding my own emotions while focusing solely on his. But first, I’d steal half a dozen cookies that my mother had hidden in the freezer.

Now I’m middle aged and have a big group of adult children and their partners from which to draw my feelings. They carry around their own emotions (mostly in a healthy way) which means I carry them around too (not as healthy). When they’re happy, I’m ecstatic. When they’re moody, I’m depressed. Now my daughter and son-in-law who live with us are expecting their first baby and I’m going to be a grandmother! Unfortunately, my daughter inherited my morning (all day and night) sickness from me, so she’s been feeling extremely queasy. I don’t physically feel ill, but I find myself fixating on her anxiety as she as navigates her symptoms. As much as I want to make her discomfort go away, it’s her experience, and she’s the one who must feel all those feelings—physical and emotional. It’s part of the process of motherhood. Someday, she’ll probably take on the burden of her own daughter’s emotions.

Mothers tend to do that.

In the meantime, because I love to feel all those big feelings, I get to experience being a new mother all over again. But this time, I don’t have to change a poopy diaper if I don’t want to.

But knowing me, I’ll be begging to do it.

Meaningful Connection

I was supposed to have my Christmas cards done and sent out by now, but the sad fact is I haven’t even started. This year, there is no adorable Mireles family photo, mostly because we are no longer adorable, but even more so, it’s impossible to get everyone together in the same place at the same time. It also doesn’t help that I’m visually impaired at the moment while recovering from eye surgery (You try getting anything done with an annoying gas bubble floating behind your eye for weeks on end.)

It’s silly that I feel like a failure if I don’t spend hours composing our annual newsletter and then adding a hand written line or two on a Christmas card. Not to mention waiting in line at the post office to purchase all those stamps (I do love a pretty holiday stamp, though—especially those with red birds in trees, or the snowy forest scenes.) Then there’s the cramming everything into envelopes and stuffing them all into the mailbox for the poor mail carrier to pick up. All that work, and probably most folks don’t have the time or interest to sit down and read about what we are all up to—nor do I imagine they even care.

But I’m one of those old-school weirdos that love getting greeting cards and letters in the mail. If you send me a newsletter, I swear that I will read every single line with relish. Then I’ll tape your festive holiday photo/card up on our front entry closet door so I can admire your smiling faces every time I walk into the house.

Being part of the generation that grew up before email and social media, we often had to wait a very long time to hear from someone. Back then, instant gratification wasn’t always the case, so the anticipation became everything. Waiting for that special letter to come in the mail always gave you something exciting to look forward to.

Forty years ago, after I had fallen madly in love with husband after dating him for only three weeks, he left to go back to Mexico for several months. His family home had no phone, so he had to take a bus into Oaxaca City and find a pay phone to call me collect. Let’s just say that for a college student on a limited budget, regular phone calls were out of the question. Instead, we penned love letters to each other. I can still remember the thrill of finding a special green and red striped air mail envelope in my mailbox. I would read his letters over and over, and they made me feel as if I was holding a part of him close to me. After all these years, we still have all the letters we exchanged tucked away in a special box.

The first homemade Christmas card Rene sent me from Oaxaca.

Don’t get me wrong, a holiday message doesn’t always have to be in the form of a tangible letter—I love receiving email greetings as well. I experience immense pleasure reading about what you’ve been up, especially if this is the one interaction we have all year long. Connection, however brief, is still extremely meaningful. I’d much rather think about you once a year than not at all.

Back when the kids were young, they went with their dad on a trip to Oaxaca, while I stayed home for some reason. While on the beach there, they met a couple from South Carolina with whom they shared the cost of a boat tour. Since that meeting, our families have been exchanging Christmas newsletters with them for over 25 years—and I’ve never even met them! Two of their grown children/grandchildren live in Oakland, very near to where my daughter lives.

I believe it’s so valuable for us to keep our connection alive. My hope is that after Christmas, I’ll send out a New Years’ card and newsletter although this year, I make no promises. If you read this post, please know that I loved receiving your greeting, and I will carry the happy thought of you with me during this beautiful holiday season.

I wish you peace and joy into the coming year as well!

And do check your mailbox, as I might come through after all.

A few of Rene’s letters that would make me jump for joy.

 

 

 

 

 

 

What Do I Want?

The house is strangely quiet. This is not unusual, because this past summer, our youngest daughter Isa hadn’t even been around much before leaving for college last week. She was either at her boyfriend’s house, getting Boba with friends, or working long hours at a local doggy daycare.

I’ve been watching Isa disengage from us for a while now—sometimes we wouldn’t even see her for an entire day or two. But we knew she was always close by, and we enjoyed that sense of anticipation of seeing her walk in through the front door, her arms often laden with bags of clothes she’d meticulously thrifted from Good Will.

“Fashion show! Fashion show!” we’d chant, carrying on a tradition that we had with the three older girls who, after shopping for new school clothes would try on their outfits and strut around the living room to our enthusiastic oohs and aahs. Luckily for my budget, Isa rarely buys anything brand new, and has the uncanny ability to find those rare designer treasures hidden deep within the thrift store racks. If she was in the mood, she’d model for us the crop sweaters, trendy jeans, and cute Brandi Melville skirts she’d picked up for a song.

Last Friday, we packed up the van with entirely too many cardboard boxes and drove the 150 miles down to UC Irvine. We spent the day helping her organize/decorate her dorm room (actually her older sister, Nora did most of that.) We met her delightful roommate, and after an exhausting and emotional day, finally said our goodbyes.

Her dad and I didn’t really cry until the next day, when it fully hit us that our baby girl was gone. We know that she’s only a car ride away and that we’ll see her soon. But we also know that nothing will ever be exactly the same again, and that’s the really hard part. Isa has launched. And so must we.

My husband and I are currently faced with a sense of now what? While we’ve been intently raising children together for the past 34 years, we’ve put aside many of our own wants and needs to take care of the wants and needs of our kids. Now, after all this time, we have to figure out what it is we actually want.

Scary, right?

I realize I’ll never have a completely empty nest, and I don’t really want one. I consider myself fortunate that my daughters are emotionally tethered to each other and to our family. But it’s time to start putting myself first. What a concept.

Wish me luck, as I think this may be one of the most difficult tasks I’ve ever had to face in my life.

What the hell DO I want?

When I figure it out, I’ll let you know.

She’s an Anteater now!

 

 

Letting Her Go

I’ll do anything to not write about her leaving.

So far this morning, I’ve answered seven emails, done two loads of laundry, and spent a ridiculous $7 for at coffee at Starbucks. I went to Target and picked up items that I really didn’t need, cleaned out the refrigerator, and ate a bowl of leftover rigatoni for breakfast.

Yup—I’m thoroughly entrenched in avoidance mode.

A child leaving home and heading off to college is nothing new—I have four children, so I’ve done it several times already. In three weeks my eighteen year-old daughter will be 130 miles, or two and a half hours away from me—just far enough for her to gain some independence, yet close enough for her to get on a train and come home for the weekend should she be inclined. It’s not a big deal, right?

Except that it is.

It’s a big deal because who I am is so inextricably tied to being Isa’s mom. God knows I was more than a ripened peach when I birthed her at the age of forty-two. Geriatric pregnancy, anyone? With three teenagers already under my belt, I was thrown back into new-mom mode a whopping ten years after I thought I was done. Getting up in the middle of the night to feed and change a baby in your late twenties is hard enough, but doing it in your forties while raising a family, running a household, and teaching 35 piano students was too much. I was exhausted, over-extended, and resentful.

Then the unimaginable happened. The normally energetic toddler could barely walk up the stairs; her gums began to bleed, and there were bruises on her legs that wouldn’t go away.

Leukemia.

For two weeks, I slept in the hospital during her initial treatment. When her temperature was taken or her blood was drawn; the fear encased me in stone. I spent hours studying the nurses’ faces for any signs of alarm. If her labs were good, I felt like I could soar into the heavens—if they were bad, I was devastated. For two and a half years, I took Isa to all of her clinic appointments, her pale, bald head poking out from her favorite fleece blanket as we navigated the maze of hospital corridors. I crushed up her nightly chemo meds into a powder and mixed them with cherry syrup so she wouldn’t fuss. My hands continually stroked her back as I felt for the fever that would put us back into a hospital room.

When Isa was considered cured, I happily discovered that my exhaustion had evaporated and my resentment had faded. Somehow, I’d tapped into my inner strength while caring for my daughter. Then I used that strength to find my own voice.

Isa’s birth, illness, and ultimately, her survival—changed our family in ways that we still don’t fully comprehend. All we know is that we adore her beyond measure, and we will miss her profoundly.

My gift to her will be the most precious, but also the most painful.

I will let her go.

 

No More Explanations

I want to live in a world where I don’t have to explain all the time.

My oldest daughter recently became engaged to the love of her life. We spent a magical weekend up at Bass Lake, where both families gathered to watch the romantic lakeside proposal. When I relay the story to people who don’t know our family well, they ask,

“How did he propose?”

He didn’t. She did. Then I have to explain that my daughter did the proposing, and it was her girlfriend to whom she popped the question. Yes, I explain—my daughter is gay.

There’s usually a quick look of confusion, then recovery. “Oh, how wonderful!” they exclaim, “You must be very happy!”

Of course I’m happy—I’m ecstatic!

I’m elated that my daughter was finally able to show who she was after hiding for most of her life. That she found a partner who is funny, kind, and most importantly, has a wicked sense of humor that fits right into our family. I’m over the moon that my daughter’s fiancée loves and appreciates her in the manner she deserves. I’m thrilled that we live in a community where, for the most part, people accept and support that two women can fall in love and get married.

Nora and Candice after the big moment!

Yes, we’ve come a long way, but there’s so much further to go.

A few years ago, my third daughter, who is a transgender woman, moved to the Bay Area because she didn’t feel completely comfortable living in our community. While we’re more open-minded in general than other parts of the country, acceptance toward transgender folk is not where it should be. She now lives in Oakland, where no one cares which bathroom you use, what you look like under your clothes, or whom you choose to love.

Cece in her glorious rainbow color!

For the most part, it’s my generation and older that always seems to need an explanation. Why does it matter that people have preferred pronouns? Why is it so difficult to honor what people want to be called? My kids don’t care about sexuality or gender; they use “they/them” with ease. Their decision to like (or not like) someone is solely based on who that person is—not how they dress or whom they choose to love.

We need to take a lesson from them.

I’ll start with myself. I’ll let go of feeling obligated to explain everything to others. If you get it, fine. If you don’t, that’s your issue.

It’s so simple, it doesn’t need an explanation. Let people be who they are.

Love is love is love.

That pretty much covers it.

Mess

I hate mess. Clutter is my enemy, and I spend an inordinate amount of time picking shit up off the floor. When I’m anxious, I don’t pour myself a large glass of Syrah—I run around the house with the Swiffer. The scent of bleach during a good bathroom scrub calms me right down.

Children react to trauma in different ways. I blame my boomer childhood (particularly my poor alcoholic dad) for turning me into a semi-psychotic clean freak. Like my father, I was born an introvert, and our family’s generational trauma and dysfunction only added to my need to find peace. My bedroom became my safe haven—an orderly space filled with light, plants and books. I could close my door, open the window wide, and breathe—away from the football game blaring on the television. Away from the cigarette smoke. Away from the festering rage of my dad.

Unfortunately, life is sometimes a little messy (actually a lot messy! Pandemic, anyone?) Let’s just say that over the past couple of years I’ve had to learn to be more flexible—to welcome change instead of resisting it.

Case in point: Two weeks ago, my daughter, Leah and her husband, Jeff moved in with us. They wanted to get out of Los Angeles, and try to save some money to buy their own home someday. We have the room; we love having them around. It was a win-win.

First let me mention that Leah leaves me in the dust with her masterful skills at organizing. She’s a diamond chip right off the ol’ block. But filling a dumpster of decades of accumulated crap, while combining two households is a massive undertaking. Then there was an epic yard sale. For several long weeks, the house and yard were a mess. A HUGE MESS.

I didn’t freak out. I didn’t get anxious. Well, maybe I got a little anxious. I repeated my mantra, “This too, shall pass,” while reassuring Leah that I was not bothered by the chaos. To be honest, it was difficult at times, but something my therapist said really turned it all around for me.

“You know,” she said, “You might want to consider that every open cardboard box, or every pile of stuff left out, or every item out of place—is a reflection of their love for you—that they feel safe and comfortable enough to move in with you. That’s pretty wonderful.”

That’s why we have therapists.

It is indeed wonderful. The house is put back together, and trash has all been hauled away. We are an organized home bursting with people and animals, but life is fuller than I ever imagined it would be (no pun intended.)

And should I begin to feel anxious, my Swiffer is right within reach, hanging from its very own special hook on the wall of our newly remodeled and organized laundry room, compliments of Leah.

Feeling Settled

I’m not even sixty yet, but lately I’ve experienced a weariness that reminds me of how I felt after giving birth. It’s my own fault—I spend way too much time worrying about other people’s problems—mostly those of my elderly mother and my four grown children. I have this ridiculous habit of immediately making other people’s problems my own.

The other day, I mentioned to my daughter that I must be a serious empath, and she gave me a look. You know that look—where your kid thinks they know more than you?

“Mom,” she said, looking me squarely in the eye, “Maybe you’re not really an empath. Maybe you’ve just spent your whole life thinking that it’s your job to fix everyone.”

Woah. My kids are definitely smarter than I am.

Growing up in a dysfunctional alcoholic family, I honed my role as middle daughter/worrywart/peacemaker at an early age. On my little shoulders, I carried the blame for the chaos and drama that permeated our family, thinking that if I did everything right, I could fix it—and life would finally feel settled.

Settled. What does that even mean?

My eighty-five year-old mother (who lives with us) recently spent three weeks in the hospital for a massive abdominal infection caused by diverticulitis. She had to have major surgery, and for a time we were worried she wasn’t going to make it. Coupled with the stress of possibly losing my mom, I had to take care of her three Dalmatians. In the flurry of getting Mom the care she needed, she neglected to tell me that her thirteen year-old Dal, Fiona, was supposed to be taking daily medication for arthritis pain. Seeing the rapid rate at which Fiona declined, I seriously thought I was going to have to call the vet to come put her down. Imagine having to tell your mother that her precious dog died while she was in the hospital! Eventually we figured it all out, and with her meds, Fiona is back to her old self.

“Okay,” I thought, “Fiona is good—now things will settle down.”

The day we went to the hospital to pick Mom up and bring her home, I was optimistic that we had made it through the hard part. But no. Ready to leave, with of her belongings stuffed into plastic bags, Mom began vomiting. It turned out that her intestines were not functioning properly (a common hiccup that occurs early on with this type of surgery, but Mom’s symptoms came much later in the process.) She ended up staying another four days in the hospital.

Definitely not settled.

Mom finally came home and is now miraculously regaining her independence. “Yes!” I thought, pumping my fist into the air, “Back to normal! Now I can finally settle down and relax.”

Not quite. More changes are on the way in the Mireles household. One kid is moving out, two more are moving in (along with two more dogs and a cat!) Household projects are in the works—the chaos ensues.

Life is always offering us lessons. There will be no settling down around here for the time being—and this is definitely something I need to learn. The truth is, I need to recognize that feeling settled is not about having peace and quiet, but it’s about feeling supported. Feeling settled is having your grown kids around to hug you and tell you it’s all going to be okay. Feeling settled is watching the reaction of my mom’s dog see her for the first time in three weeks. Feeling settled is making a face and laughing while changing my mother’s colostomy bag.

Feeling settled is accepting that I AM NOT IN CONTROL.

So I’m just going to stand up tall, hold my arms out wide, and try to catch all the good stuff that’s being thrown my way.

Here’s one example:

Proud Mama

The other evening while I was on my knees digging in the garden, a woman riding her bike by our house stopped and circled back. I assumed she was there to admire my colorful flowers, as my “Covid” garden has become quite an attraction for local passersby as of late. Although she seemed familiar to me, with her helmet and sunglasses, I couldn’t place her.

“You’re Jessica—right?” she said, removing her glasses.

I nodded, still unsure of who she was.

She smiled. “My daughter went to elementary school with your son, (dead name)!”  

My shoulders tightened. Up until that moment, I had been relaxed and in my element, enjoying the early evening light with my hands in the soil. I didn’t want to have to stop and explain to this woman—a mere acquaintance from over a decade ago—that my former son was now my daughter. Hearing my daughter’s dead name, let alone saying it aloud, is quite painful for me.

“Oh, hey—hi!” I stammered. “So good to see you!” Before she asked any more questions, I decided to launch into my well-practiced monologue. “Just so you know, my daughter, who now goes by “Cece,” has come out to us as a transgender woman. Until recently, she hid who she really was, and our family is so pleased that she’s now able to live as her true self.” I pointed to the large progressive pride flag we have affixed to the front of our house. It waved at us in the evening breeze.

The woman didn’t bat an eye. “Oh, that’s wonderful!” she exclaimed. “I’m so happy that you’re being supportive. My mom tried really hard to fix me when I was young.”

“Fix you?” I was confused. “What do you mean?”

She looked right into my eyes. “She sent me away to a camp to try to make me straight. It almost worked, too.”

When I knew this woman, she had a husband and two small children. “Wait—you’re no longer married to your husband?”

“Not any more. I’ve been in a relationship with a woman for over ten years. We live just a few blocks over.”

Wow. What a surprise.

We talked for a while—reminiscing about our kids in elementary school and what they’re up to now—the “usual” mom-talk. She told me her daughter was about to have her first baby. I told her about my four daughters, all of whom identify as “queer.” Probably not a conversation we would have all those years ago.

Times are changing—not quickly enough, in my opinion—but it’s moving exponentially faster than it ever has before. My children’s generation is largely responsible for continuing the legacy of those brave people who strived for inclusivity and equal rights all those decades ago.

When people begin to open their minds, society begins to change.

It’s simple, really. We’re all part of a beautiful garden of varieties and colors. Unique and exceptional on our own, but so much more vibrant and beautiful when we are all together.

Happy Pride Month!

Pollyanna

If 2020 has taught me anything, it’s that my DNA includes the Pollyanna gene. Over the years, I’ve been known to utter: “Don’t worry, it will all work out in the end,” or worse, “There’s a reason for everything!”  As always, I’ll blame my mother for my behavior, as she pushed her be kind, and think good thoughts agenda on me since I was young enough to complain about someone’s bad behavior. If I wanted to vent, she’d immediately put up her hand. “Now, Honey—maybe so-in-so is acting that way because they’re feeling bad about themselves. They probably just need a hug!”

Mom and Pollyanna, circa 1972

Inevitably, we turn into our mothers, and I’m no exception. I’ve always been the “nice” girl, and for most of my life, I’ve put up with horrendous—even abusive—behavior from others because I felt it was my responsibility to be kind and forgiving. I even learned to push my own positive agenda—always touting how important it was to look for the good in everything.

My daughter recently called me out on my Pollyannaishness. As a transgender woman, she’s faced immense personal change in the past year and a half, and dealt with great emotional pain—pain that I’ll never have to even imagine facing. When she tears up about something someone has said or done, my first reaction is to try to make it better.

“Mom,” she tells me, “You don’t always have to try to fix things. Just acknowledge my pain. Sometimes people are just assholes. And sometimes life just sucks.”

Yes, they are. And yes, it does. 2020 has taught me that.

Now, I’m not saying it’s wrong to be positive—quite the contrary. I know for a fact that looking for the good helped me get through some very tough times in my life—especially my youngest daughter’s cancer diagnosis and treatment. And I know one thing for certain: when something terrible happens to you, the really good people show up and offer their help.

But it’s also important to recognize and acknowledge the bad stuff. This is difficult for me, because I come from a life of privilege, where I’ve always had what I need and more. And because of this, I’ve spent a great deal of time talking myself out of feeling sad, depressed or lost. And now that the pain and suffering of so many is all around me all the time, I’m having a difficult time pulling myself together. Not only do I feel guilty when I’m sad, I feel guilty when I’m happy.

Pollyanna has grudgingly admitted to me that 2020 has been a total shit storm, but as she perches on my shoulder she’s also whispering how lucky I am to be surrounded by the most amazing family and friends. Those who are thoughtful, generous, and kind, and who make me laugh even during these dark times.

Pollyanna is also insisting that things are finally turning around. She admits that we have a long way to go, but she believes that good people are waiting in the wings, ready to do what they can to help. And she also believes that good always wins in the end.

I’m gonna take her word for it.

Beautiful, Inside and Out

Last December, I didn’t send out our annual holiday newsletter. This is unprecedented for me, as for over thirty years, I’ve always sent out a photo card showing our beautiful family of six, accompanied by a letter detailing the many accomplishments of my children. This past year though, I just couldn’t face it.

I was too overwhelmed. And a bit scared.

In 2019, some major changes took place in our family. Our oldest daughter moved back home; our second daughter got married, and our youngest daughter started high school.

And our third child, who was assigned male at birth, came out to us as a transgender woman.

Last summer, at the age of twenty-five, Cecily, who goes by Cece, realized that who she was on the inside did not match the gender originally listed on her birth certificate. For those of you who know our family and are slightly confused, I’m talking about our child whose “dead name” was “Nino.” From now on, I will only refer to my daughter as Cece, and use she/her pronouns because that is who she is, and who she has always been.

It’s so odd that for years, we perceive someone as being a certain way, and have absolutely no sense that they might be someone completely different on the inside. Society has taught my generation that gender is binary—either male or female—so we told ourselves stories about our children based solely on their bodies. We nurtured them as the gender we assumed they were, never realizing that we might not be honoring their authentic selves.

Then, when our children are courageous enough to reveal who they really are, we’re shocked. We’re sad. We grieve for the person we believe is no longer with us. We didn’t realize then how much we had to learn.

While I immediately accepted Cece as a woman, to be honest, it was far more difficult than I imagined it would be. As a perpetual people pleaser my entire life, I worried about what others would think and say about my perfect little family. I was terrified of rejection—not only for Cece, but for myself.

Societal constraints are often oppressive, and for her own survival, Cece unknowingly hid who she was—even to herself. For years she suffered from deep depression because she pushed her true self down for so long. And who wouldn’t want to hide? People can be unaccepting and unkind about what they do not understand.

Our family is fortunate enough to live in a community where people are generally well-informed about transgender folk. I’ve discovered that my kids’ generation is so much better at understanding the differences of others than my generation has been. From the moment Cece came out, her sisters have embraced her with pure acceptance and love. They are closer now than ever.

It’s not always easy, but our family is learning as we go. Our love for Cece has grown exponentially, and there’s no doubt we will continue to support her as she makes her way through life as the woman she was meant to be.

Cece is still the same person she’s always been—she’s just more beautiful now, because she’s finally able to freely show us who she really is on the inside. As for me—well, it took me a while, but I’m done keeping quiet. I’m flying that progressive rainbow flag with pride.

Ultimately, love is all that matters. I loved my child from the moment she was born, and that love has only grown deeper now that she’s given me the gift of knowing her true self. I am so proud to be her mom, and I celebrate her with all of my being.