Parenthood has a way of undoing all your assumptions. I thought I was here to mold my
children into who they ought to be. In truth, each of them has been molding me.
Raising my transgender child has taught me that parenting cannot be rooted solely in fear and protection. Yet in a moment when trans childhood is under attack, I keep asking: what must I do to keep my child safe? Lately, though, I’ve found myself asking a different question: What does it mean to raise a child whose life is defined not by fear, but by joy? That joy has become our resistance.
Early on, I believed that creating the “right” environment was the work: a pride flag outside, shelves filled with diverse books, a playroom where dolls sat beside dump trucks. I thought if I crafted it carefully enough, my kids would feel free to be exactly who they are. What I’ve learned — mostly from my middle child, Hazel — is that it goes deeper than that. It’s not about creating the perfect environment; it’s about paying attention and letting go of the need to know where your child is headed, choosing instead to walk alongside them as they figure it out.
Hazel, who uses she and they pronouns, has been teaching me that since the very beginning. Though assigned male at birth, from the time she was little, she gravitated toward things the world labels “girl toys” — dolls, bows, painted nails, the pink Paw Patrol pup. At first, I saw it as evidence we were doing something right. But when Hazel was four, something shifted for me.
One night, we were lying in bed flipping through a clothing catalogue. Their sister pointed to a dress she wanted, and Hazel pointed to one, too: “I want that one.” When it arrived, she put it on immediately, spinning in the living room and asking us to watch them twirl. She was radiant — completely at ease in her joy. I remember feeling both awe and a quiet awareness that this might mean more than I had let myself consider.
I won’t pretend I didn’t worry. I thought about how other people might respond and what it could mean for her future. But Hazel wasn’t carrying any of that. She just loved how the dress moved when she spun. That contrast — between my fear and Hazel’s joy — would become a pattern.
As Hazel grew, so did their exploration. By five, she was trying on language the same way she tried on clothes — sometimes a girl, sometimes a boy, sometimes neither. She wasn’t in a rush to define it. I was. I wanted clarity, something I could name so I could be sure I was doing the right thing. But Hazel didn’t need certainty — she needed space. The world, of course, was less comfortable with that ambiguity. At playgrounds and in classrooms, the questions came: “Are you a girl or a boy?” “Why are you wearing that?” Once, I overheard them respond, “I just want to play!” Over time, those questions began to impact Hazel. She started avoiding dresses in public, even as she still reached for them at home, reclaiming that joy where it felt safe.
Around the same time, Hazel began expressing discomfort with their body, and I went into overdrive — reading everything I could find, searching for therapists, joining LGBTQ+ parent groups. I thought if I could understand exactly who my child was, I could protect her. What I found instead was community. At Harbor Camps, surrounded by families like ours, kids ran and laughed without explanation while parents shared stories instead of solutions. For the first time, I understood that this wasn’t my journey to solve — it was Hazel’s to live.
That understanding didn’t erase my anxiety overnight. I still worried about school — whether teachers would get pronouns right, how Hazel would navigate small moments of friction. But slowly, I began to see what Hazel already knew: joy isn’t fragile, and it can coexist with uncertainty. I saw it the day she dyed her hair rainbow. When she looked in the mirror, their whole face lit up with a clarity that left no room for doubt.
That same clarity carried forward as Hazel chose her name and stepped into it as their own. I had to let go of attachments I hadn’t even realized I was holding, and in doing so, I came to understand that I wasn’t losing my child but being invited to know her more fully. By second grade, we had found a rhythm, and Hazel was thriving in a way that felt both hard-won and deeply ordinary. Our family felt steady, grounded by the small, sturdy world we had built together, a place where Hazel could simply exist.
At the same time, the outside world began to press in. Legislation, court cases and public
debates about kids like mine made it clear that the quiet work of parenting was not happening in isolation. I could no longer pretend the safety we had built at home would be enough on its own. And yet, this is not an either/or. Joy is not denial, nor is it a refusal to see harm. It is what makes survival possible, what gives this fight its meaning. I carry the fear so Hazel can carry the joy, and I hold the grief so they can remain a child a little longer.
Our community — other families, trans adults and people who have been living this truth long before us — reminds me that we are not doing this alone. Community is not optional; it is what makes this kind of joy sustainable. There is nothing inherently hard about raising a trans child. What is hard is the world that insists on making their existence a problem.
Hazel is not a problem. She is a kid — funny, creative, deeply herself. She spins when something feels good. They insist on being known. Hazel is living a life defined not by fear — but by joy. And that joy is not small. It is not fragile. It is something she carries with pride.
Rosie Emrich lives in Hooksett with her family.