I told my son I was trans – nothing prepared me for the response

‘That’s what I’m trying to turn into: a girl.’

Sitting on the bed I share with my wife, fidgeting with an estrogen patch, I spoke these words nervously to my 11-year old son in August 2022.  

Only weeks after I began transitioning gender to present as a woman, my son had walked in on me as I applied a patch to my thigh.   

I was embarrassed, defensive; unprepared to explain that gender transition was the right decision.

I worried my son would feel betrayed by the father I would never be, by the years I had been distant, quick to anger, and often depressed. 

I asked my son to sit down, to allow me to explain.

My son sat quietly for a moment, glanced up at me and solemnly declared: 

‘I’m so glad you found what’s going to make you happy.’

Tears flooded my eyes. I felt accepted and seen for the first time in our relationship.   

I grew up in Los Angeles during the 1970s, in a conservative household with three sisters. 

By age 12, I knew I would transition gender. 

My Silent Generation parents had no time nor patience to listen to a child’s self-expression.  In their minds, I was a boy, and they treated me as one. 

But I knew very well I was a girl – just like my sisters. I wished to play with Barbie, not toy trucks. I yearned to read fashion magazines. I despised sports.  

Having been taught not to question my parents’ decisions, I didn’t know how to tell anybody what I felt, and I remained silent. It seemed easier to hide who I am.

In the late 1990s, at age 29, I taught chemistry part-time at a university. When my office mate – a young, beautiful graduate student – asked me to dinner, I accepted immediately.   

On our first date, we told each other everything about ourselves. I shared with the woman who would become my wife that I was transgender. She accepted me wholeheartedly. 

With her support, I began investigating gender transition in 2001 but abandoned it as I struggled to find work.

A decade later, married and settled in Colorado, we decided to have a baby. By then, my career was far too lucrative to consider transitioning gender. Instead, I prepared to channel my roiling femininity through our daughter.   

There was never any doubt in my mind we would have a daughter. My father had four sisters; I have three.   

But at the first ultrasound, when the technician declared our baby a boy, my stomach clenched. I felt fear – real fear – at the prospect of raising a son.     

I didn’t know anything about being a boy, raising a boy, doing boy things with other boys.  How was I supposed to raise a son? 

Never mind that I was projecting gender on a child the way my parents had done to me – I was supposed to have an outlet for my femininity.

Deep down, I resented my unborn child. I felt my one chance at expressing my femininity had been stolen from me by a fluke of genetics.   

Instead, I faced the rest of my life as a milch cow – providing for my family, never expressing my femininity again. I felt a door close, and hope disappeared. 

To be clear, I tried to be a good father, to fulfill my social role. I had a son to raise, and the mantra I repeated to myself was brutal: ‘Boys need fathers, and fathers are men.’ Fathers are not feminine, so I could not be feminine.   

As the enormity of a life unfulfilled became apparent, I sank into a dark depression. Over the course of 10 years, I withdrew from my family.   

My wife had watched me endure years of portraying a person who earned money at the cost of happiness. She watched my mental health decline, and finally, when I was broken and hollow at 52, she encouraged me to transition gender.   

Initially, I shoved the idea away. Living as a man was killing me, but I feared transitioning would harm my son’s chances at growing into a man.   

I wondered who would be the appropriate masculine role model or teach the important masculine lessons of life.  I didn’t bother to ask if I had been that person to my son up to this point. I knew I had not. 

Despite my concerns, and with my wife’s help, I applied my first estrogen patch on 7 July 2022. Within weeks, I felt calmer and clearer.   

I felt alive. I felt hope. 

I began to heal, and my son’s support has only grown as I have grown into a woman.   

In fact, our relationship blossomed until – at age 13 in 2024, facing puberty and developing their own identity – my son came out to me as nonbinary. The conversation was casual, almost nonchalant. As if they knew I would accept them immediately. 

And, of course, I did accept them immediately. I had not harmed my son by transitioning gender. I had given them the gift of freedom to express themselves exactly as they are.

Before transitioning gender, I was miserable. I wished I didn’t exist. And my relationship with my son suffered for it.  

They could sense my pain before I transitioned gender, and the understanding they showed me that day has defined our relationship since.   

It’s taught me about parenting and the choices we face when raising our children. I learned that tough love doesn’t work, and the best gift we can give our children is our own authenticity.   

Today, I am vibrant and happy. I see a future ahead of me. I want to live.    

Through my writing and videos, I encourage everybody to look deep inside, find who they are, and make it real – right here, right now, today.    

And right now I am out; I am proud.   

I am Amethysta, and I am here. 

This wsa originally published November 2025

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