The Place We Never Imagined
Part 6 - Holding On While Letting Go
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5
In September, we dropped our son off at university. It was a huge city, miles away from our quiet rural home a massive shift for someone who had always been surrounded by open space and familiar faces. He seemed so vulnerable as we left him in his student room. That evening, when we took him out for dinner, he was distant and sulky. I cried on the way home.
Still, we stayed in regular contact. We called him every week to check in, and he told us he was making an effort socially, he started to crochet again. We were encouraged, he seemed to be coping. We managed to visit before Christmas, and soon after, he came home for the holidays. He even returned to his old job. It was a lovely time, he seemed relaxed, even cheerful. He had started to buy himself clothes, and we took that as a positive sign.A few months in, he finally received his autism diagnosis, it came back positive. We hoped this might bring him some clarity, a framework to help him understand why social situations had always felt so difficult.
After Christmas, we kept in touch, though he grew less responsive. Messages often went unanswered. About a week before the Easter holidays, he told us he wanted to stay at university to revise. I was a little suspicious, but gave him the benefit of the doubt. His course was intense, and maybe he genuinely needed the time.
We visited during the Easter break. He seemed upbeat, came out with us for the day, and had dinner with us. I was so happy to see him engaging, being part of the family again, even if just briefly.
But not long after, I called him and he dropped a bombshell: he wanted to leave university. He said the course was too demanding and that he was struggling to make friends, he couldn’t imagine managing the year abroad. I didn’t panic. I thought: he can come home, we’ll regroup, and help him grow into whatever comes next.
We arranged to pick him up, but he casually mentioned he’d be visiting a friend in a nearby city first. It was meant to be three nights. Then it became eight. My gut told me something wasn’t right.
That’s when I found it, a link to his Bluesky account and a blog, after he’d told me about a thread he’d joined there.
What I read made me feel physically sick.
On his profile, he described himself as a trans lesbian, now on oestrogen. I kept scrolling, my heart sinking with each post. There were repeated cries for help: “I want to kill myself,” “I’m so lonely.” Post after post radiated despair.
Then I saw a photo of vials of oestrogen. He had been buying hormones online and injecting himself.
There were links to music he’d made dark, noise music. The titles told a story of despair and loneliness. In some, he could be heard crying, whispering pleas. There were photos of self-harm on his legs. There were even nude images of him, images no body should feel the need to share publicly.
Then the final blow: he wasn’t just visiting a nearby city. He was flying to a foreign country to meet someone he called his “wife.”
I was horrified. Panicked. I picked up the phone and called him immediately, desperate to understand what was happening, and how we had gotten here.
He was angry when he found out I had seen his profile, but he agreed, reluctantly, to share his flight details and put me in touch with the parents of the boy he was going to visit. I was slightly reassured that his story checked out. Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling of dread. At that point, I was imagining the worst.
He’s now back home. We’ve talked. I’ve cried a lot. This shouldn’t be happening to vulnerable children. When I see people publicly celebrating “trans pride,” I feel a deep anger. How can we tell children that they are something they are not, and then encourage them to alter their bodies in ways that can never be undone?
He says he wants to have a normal relationship with us, and I want that too, but I’ve told him I won’t lie to him. I’m hurt. Hurt that he felt he had to hide so much, hurt that he lied to us.
On my better days, I try to see this as part of his journey, one that may ultimately shine a light on something much darker in our society. But that only happens if stories like his, and ours, are allowed to be heard, if they aren’t silenced by those who claim that trans ideology is all about love and acceptance.
Because if “love and acceptance” means destroying your body and escaping from reality, then something has gone very wrong in the world we’re building. That’s why I feel compelled to tell our story. It matters. And I know we’re not alone.
This is a copy of my previous post. I want others to see this on all these wonderful - I mean truly informative! - posts by Ruby.
My experience with the very slow mental breakdown of my “becoming transsexual” husband has similarities to your experience as the mother of a “trans-identifying” child. (1)The withdrawal from normal family pastimes and family life (2) the moodiness - unhappiness then anger and surly behaviour in my H’s case (3) hair which he refused to have cut. But my H did not have to obey me, unlike a child with his mother.
I was subjected to a torrent of psychological abuse known as “gas-lighting”: he would deny what had just occurred, deny that a decision as a family was needed, deny that he had just been asked for his views - “But you never asked me!” He created a “world upside down”, which really threw me off-balance. After he left I needed Cognitive Behaviour Therapy for a few months for panic attacks from a very competent and experienced therapist.
His psychological torture had wormed into my self-confidence. After he left it took about 15 years for me to finally recover to the point where my heart did not physically ache, and where I could think about applying for jobs. The destruction caused by the emotional changes of “gender ideology” is profound to the parent/wife as well as the deluded and increasingly lonely mental patient - the trans-identifying boy or H.