Threads of Resilience
The threads that once bound us tightly together are growing thinner, not from a lack of connection, but by the inevitable pull of distance.
I held you in my hands, your wounds so deep that I wasn’t sure if they could ever heal. There was a time when the pain seemed insurmountable, far greater than any comfort I could offer, more fear than my reassurances could soothe. And yet, through it all, we found joy. We spent 50 weeks in the hospital, and while the agony is something I can still sink into, what remains vivid are the memories we made from the foot of your Hill-Rom hospital bed. Between the beeping machines and endless tests, we found moments of connection, waiting for the physiotherapy and PFT results that would determine our future. We braced ourselves for the worst, yet celebrated every small victory. Those seemingly mundane moments became our lifeline, binding us together in ways no mother and child should have to endure—but we did, with grace and confidence. And when we broke, we broke hard. We’d hold each other, sobbing until our bodies shook, but we never spoke of unfairness. It was unspoken, but we knew we were made for this journey. Despite the pain, the fear, and the pivotal moments that changed how we viewed the world forever, we were made for this.
Time, as it always does, marched on, and what once felt like a permanent member of our family—cystic fibrosis—began to fade away. Suddenly, we were left with a gaping hole where chronic illness had stretched its arms for over a decade, commanding every moment of our lives. Like a light switch, it was turned off, and we were asked to rebuild a life we hadn’t yet imagined. A life where everyone had an equal part in the story—a family redefined. There was relief, but it was short-lived.
As your health improved, you came to me with a truth no child should have to carry: a disdain for the body that held you. For a year, I watched as you retreated, further and further away, despite the health that enveloped you. You were at odds with the body that did not represent you. I moved mountains in every way I could, but in the same breath that I grieved the loss of my daughter, I celebrated meeting the authentic you. Yet, we had to live in a world that viewed me as a threat for believing you knew yourself. I spent my days convincing people of your truth, fighting for them to see that while you were chronologically young, you were wise beyond your years. It was exhausting and heartbreaking. You were simply trying to live authentically, and the world told you that you weren’t qualified to know who you were.
Once again, we held each other, this time seeking shelter from hate. Your existence became a talking point in everyone’s speech—your life reduced to a bullet on every agenda, a pawn for political and religious debate. Your worthiness to simply walk this earth became the business of others as we drove ten hours each way for gender-affirming care. Along that drive, I could still hear the hateful words echoing from Helena’s capitol, where your life was used as a launchpad for their misguided beliefs. Honestly, walking this path with you was harder than watching you gasp for air when CF had the upper hand. Not because I didn’t accept you, but because watching others judge you was unbearable. The same people who fought for your rights when you were dying now condemned you when you were trying to live. Their actions are unforgivable to me. They treated you as an error they wanted to erase. But together, we faced their hate and ignorance, and once again, our unity was stronger than their prejudice.
Now, here we are, standing on the precipice of a new adventure, together yet apart. You in Canada, me in Montana. It’s hard to imagine how other parents let go. I think it’s fair to say we’ve walked through more than most parent-child duos, not that it grants me any more right to grieve than others, but I feel justified in it nonetheless. I wonder if the ties that bind us are simply deeper, or if I’ve spent so much of my life keeping you safe that I don’t know how to let go. All I can think is, “If I leave, who will keep you safe?”
But now, my beautiful child, it’s up to you. I hope the umbrella I’ve held over you keeps you safe, but not fearful. I hope the lessons I’ve taught you about seeing the best in people still allow you to remain wide-eyed to the errors of our humanity. I hope I’ve built you up enough that no cruel words can pierce your self-worth. I hope that, even when faced with pain and loss, you’ll still recognize the blessings life offers.
You will change this world, of that I have no doubt. Through your music, your compassion, and your unyielding tenacity, you will raise the bar for what it means to be an exemplary human being.