Editor’s Note: All names and identifying details have been changed, except Evergreen State College. The author felt it was important to identify the College by name, since it was such an important influence in her daughter’s decline.

When I was pregnant with Anna, I was happy and healthy. I remember the day that we got to bring her home. That night her father and I stood in the soft light of the nursery that had long been ready, just looking in awe at it’s tiny new occupant as she slept in the crib that had held her two cousins before her. “She’s ours”, we whispered in disbelief beneath the soft starry sky that adorned the ceiling of her room. It was a room fit for either boy or girl—we didn’t care which arrived.

I remember the day that we got to bring her home. That night her father and I stood in the soft light of the nursery, just looking in awe at it’s tiny new occupant as she slept in her crib. “She’s ours”, we whispered in disbelief

We reveled in the moment she was born. “It’s a girl!” the doctors and nurses proclaimed happily, as if she were the only baby in the hospital. Dr. James sang “Amazing Grace” in his fine baritone voice as he stitched up my belly. Anna was well overdue, and I had a long labor followed by an urgent c-section. Despite this, and a double wrapped nuchal cord, all seemed well aside from a hip subluxation for which she wore a Pavlich harness for several months.

I luxuriated in motherhood; I loved it. I loved getting the compliment that I came to know well, “That is one content baby!” It made me feel so good, and that I knew what I was doing. Her father and I each carried her around in front-packs and back-packs. We read to her. I nursed her forever—no formula would touch my child’s lips if I could help it. We made homemade baby food. As she grew, we took her to story-time and Roly-Poly’s and swimming lessons. I worked part-time, determined that she would not go to child-care.

She was a happy child. She didn’t walk until she was almost two, but she talked before she was one. Amazingly, she seemed to be able to read, too!

She was a happy child. She didn’t walk until she was almost two, but she talked before she was one. Amazingly, she seemed to be able to read, too! Sometimes she would not follow directions or do what we asked. I often worried about it and took her to the doctor. My worries were good naturedly dismissed, and I tried to let it go.

My daughter was interested in other children and would play beside them, but not really with them. She loved preschool and had imaginary friends during this time. She was an advanced reader in kindergarten and had a stunning vocabulary, but she couldn’t, or wouldn’t, follow directions and we decided to hold her back a year.

Things seemed fine until about the 3rd grade, when the teacher recommended that she have an evaluation. We were shocked. We had grown accustomed to viewing her as “gifted” because of her reading and vocabulary skills. My happy and delighted child became upset and sad.

Things seemed fine until about the 3rd grade, when the teacher recommended that she have an evaluation done by the academic support team. We were shocked. We had grown accustomed to viewing her as “gifted” because of her reading and vocabulary skills. The academic support teacher did not seem very skilled and I was defensive and angry. My happy and delighted child became upset and sad. “They had me count blocks and sort socks!” she’d say when I’d ask what she had done during the time she was pulled out of normal class time.

It seemed to me that the school was suggesting that Anna was “retarded” and did not belong in the core knowledge school we had her enrolled in. I became infuriated and pulled her out of academic support. I sat beside her every day after school and helped her with homework. She had a wonderful teacher in the 4th grade and for a while it felt like things were forgotten.

She got her period in the 3rd grade and had terrible cramps. She was chubby and had breast tissue forming, and pubic and under-arm hair. I anguished at the unfairness of this physical maturity in my little daughter as she hugged and cried with her dolls and stuffed animals during her painful periods. Again, we were told all of this was normal. I internally berated myself for my poor genes, my bad upbringing, my divorce and anything else I could think of to blame myself for what was happening with my daughter.

Other children seemed not to like her anymore. The 5th grade was really the last time that she ever truly had a friend. Most of the time, she didn’t seem to mind. I was her best friend. It was a privilege, a joy and an honor.

At this time other children seemed not to like her anymore, and the 5th grade was really the last time that she ever truly had a friend. Most of the time, she didn’t seem to mind. I was her best friend. It was a privilege, a joy and an honor that I am so glad I recognized, never dreaming that one day she would estrange herself from me.

She became enamored with Louis Armstrong, and then the Beatles. Her interest in the Beatles was intense, it really seemed that she was satisfied and did not really care most of the time that she didn’t have friends. She was interested in vintage clothes. Occasionally, she would start to feel down, wishing to belong to the group of girls at school with the smooth hair, the thin bodies, and the crowds of boys around them. “The Flippity-do-dahs,” we called them, because of the way that they would flip their hair to get male attention.

Occasionally, she would start to feel down, wishing to belong to the group of girls at school with the smooth hair, the thin bodies, and the crowds of boys around them. I’d wipe the tears off of her lovely cheeks, rolling from her angelically clear, light-colored eyes. “Teach me how to be like them,” she’d say.

I’d sit on my nightly perch on her bed in her teenage room, surrounded by the Beatles, and wipe the tears off of her lovely cheeks, rolling from her angelically clear, light-colored eyes. “Teach me how to be like them,” she’d say. And so, we would talk for a long time about how it could be done, and practice flipping our hair. Then, the next morning, she would clomp down the stairs, wearing Chuck Taylor All-Stars, a 1950-esque dress, and a men’s letter jacket. “I decided to just be myself,” she’d laugh. “Yes!” I’d cheer wildly, proud of my wildflower, my unique and special young woman.

I’d listen, amazed, as she talked all the way to school, about civil rights, and justice, and of the unsung heroes that she had been up half the night studying in her room. She dazzled me. And she made me think, and she made me a better person. I was so grateful being her mom. She stayed at her core knowledge school, all the way through high school, and she did well. She showed them!

We visited colleges, including the Evergreen State College. “These are my people, Mom!” I looked around, and saw that she was right. There were no flippity-do-dahs, no football team. no rich, white, Republican kids. Just different looking kids with angel-eyes accompanied by their fierce mothers and bewildered fathers. The professors were clearly well-educated academics, in their worn sweaters and shoes with the run-down heels. They promised the best liberal arts education that money could buy. I was impressed with their passion, their belief in what they were doing, and their ability to embrace and see the center of each of these young people, who had grown accustomed to recoil and avoidance. “OK,” I said.

I’ll never forget the day that I drove away in my rented Prius, crying hard, watching Anna wave wildly, a big grin on her face. “You did it!” I yelled aloud in the car

And I drove away. Not knowing that I would lose my child to a cult called transgenderism.

It seemed gradual, yet came at hurtling speed, the loss.

It seemed gradual, yet came at hurtling speed, the loss. I told myself that it was natural and normal—part of growing up and being independent. The calls became less frequent, the visits further between. She met a sweet young African American boyfriend that made us laugh. They seemed like a pair of angels despite their out-spoken activism and intelligence. One day, Anna let me know that her boyfriend wanted to start wearing some of her dresses—and then that he was “trans”.

Things began to rapidly decline and become difficult. She became depressed, obese and angry. She was rude, sloppy and thoughtless. She started Citalopram. She told me to stop texting her so much. She said she was trans, wanted to take hormones and get top-surgery and that “she” was now “them”. She changed her name to a cartoon name, and claimed she finally felt like herself, an "FTM" gay trans man. “Ok,” we said, “Just go slow, be careful. We love you.”

The week after Anna graduated, she dumped us. She was no longer dependent on us for tuition. We’ve never seen her since. That was two years ago.

According to her social media, I am a devil, an abuser and a traumatizer. She claims she has PTSD from her childhood, because of me. She posts profane pictures, lewd comments and suggestions that she is into hooking up. She takes prescriptions, alcohol and marijuana and of course “T”. I fear she is close to homeless, and she uses state aid. Amazingly, they pay for her transition visits, never seeming to question her cognitive abilities or lack of support system, or any other ability to demonstrate that she can take care of herself.

All of these things break my heart for her, her innocent brain, her pure body, and her child-like heart. It is so bewildering. There are times when it makes me feel like I could go insane, the desire to protect her and wrench her away from all of this is so strong. But I am also scared. I don’t want her to hurt herself, or anyone else.

All of these things break my heart for her, her innocent brain, her pure body, and her child-like heart. It is so bewildering.

And I still feel like it is because of something that I did, or didn’t do. Sometimes I start to feel some healing and empowerment, and then—then I just miss her. I wonder if she knows that I can still feel the little bump-bump-bump under my rib cage from when I carried her inside of my belly. I wonder if she knows that I know which of the marks on the outside of my belly are from when I was pregnant with her, and which ones are from her brothers, and that when I see them every morning when I put on my lotion, I remember her. I wonder if she knows that when I close my eyes, I can recall the feel of her hair, the sound of her laugh, or see the birthmark on her leg as quickly and easily as blinking them back open.

I have to hope that because my cells grew her cells, she can still feel that love. And I hope that someday they will magnetize her back to me, in whatever form she decides to be.

I miss her essence. I just miss her.