LITTLE ELM — Justin Baize didn’t know if he was strong enough.

He loved his family, but maybe this was too hard, too confusing. Maybe this was the limit to his strength. So he got some of his things together and looked for a place to stay, in case he needed to leave, in case only distance and time apart could help him make sense of it all.

But then he met some other dads with transgender kids. He might not understand his child now, they told him, but he wasn’t alone. They’d help him figure it out.

It’s dinnertime, and a half-dozen parents are gathered around a big kitchen table. Between mouthfuls of chicken casserole and sips of craft beer, Melissa Baize tells her husband’s story.

“He was about to walk. He was like, ‘I don’t know if I can do this,’” Baize remembers. “But then he said because of the dads in the group, that’s why he stayed.

“That’s what convinced him.”

That was almost two years ago, when the group was just a couple of dozen confused and sometimes scared parents who met for counseling in a cramped office in northwest Dallas. Now, 10 times its original size, DFW Trans Kids & Families is likely the largest group of its kind — moms, dads and siblings brought together by their transgender relatives.

Together, they've faced rejection at church and bullies in school, unaccepting relatives and lost friends. This year, they've encountered a new enemy — the so-called bathroom bill, legislation that could limit which restrooms trans men, women and children can use.

On Tuesday, lawmakers will return to Austin for a special legislative session. Gov. Greg Abbott says he expects them to pass a bathroom bill that "at a minimum ... protects the privacy of our children in public schools."

Abbott and his allies argue the issue is about safety — keeping men and boys out of the ladies’ room. For the group at this dinner table, it means a war for their children’s most basic rights.

“I’m not as shy as I thought I was,” Baize says softly. She has a message for the men and women elected to represent her, Justin and her 11-year-old transgender son, Trevor. “You don’t know my kid. You don't know what he's gone through just to be himself."

1 / 8Miles, Chelsa and Marilyn Morrison on July 7, 2017, in Little Elm. The Morrisons are part of a group of families with transgender youth.(Ryan Michalesko / Staff Photographer) 2 / 8Melissa, Kennedy and Ashur Ballard on July 7, 2017, in Little Elm. "We've built this community. This has become my ministry," Melissa Ballard said. The Ballards are part of a group of families with transgender youth.(Ryan Michalesko / Staff Photographer) 3 / 8Louise, Rose, Alexis and Karl McBurnett on July 7, 2017, in Little Elm. "Starting to go to the group thing, it was life-altering," Louise McBurnett said. The McBurnetts are part of a group of families with transgender youth.(Ryan Michalesko / Staff Photographer) 4 / 8Evan, Isaac and Mela Singleton, with cousin Zoe Marfin, on July 7, 2017, in Little Elm. "We're in the middle of a political freaking war," said Mela Singleton. The Singletons are one of numerous families of transgender youth.(Ryan Michalesko / Staff Photographer) 5 / 8Sadie, Melissa and Trevor Baize on July 7, 2017, in Little Elm. "You don't know my kid. You don't know what he's gone through to just be himself," Melissa Baize said. The Baize family is part of a group of families with transgender youth.(Ryan Michalesko / Staff Photographer) 6 / 8Roxy and Mario Castro on July 7, 2017, in Little Elm. "Everything I've done so far, I've done it for the love of my child," Mario Castro said. The Castros are part of a group of families with transgender youth.(Ryan Michalesko / Staff Photographer) 7 / 8Laura and David Venegas on July 7, 2017, in Little Elm. "I just said, 'You're still my kid, yeah? So what's the problem?'" David Venegas said. The Venegases are part of a group of families with transgender youth.(Ryan Michalesko / Staff Photographer) 8 / 8Families of transgender children pose for a photograph on July 7, 2017, in Little Elm.(Ryan Michalesko / Staff Photographer)

'A political freakin' war'

The Ballards’ house looks quiet from outside, belying the din within.

“If my kid breaks something, I’ll [expletive] pay for it,” Mela Singleton shouts over the noise.

Her 12-year-old son Isaac rips through the kitchen to join the other kids, who are in another room playing a loud game of “ninja” — kind of like freeze tag mixed with karate.

Their parents are gathered around the Ballards’ big dining room table, looking back on two years of potlucks and taco nights and therapy appointments — and looking ahead to the special session.

Mention of the bathroom bill elicits eye rolls and arched eyebrows. Singleton rants. Louise McBurnett cries, as she’s wont to do. Across the table, Chelsa Morrison scoffs. Melissa Ballard, the group’s de facto leader, sighs from her seat at the head of the table.

“There’s enough hurdles” to being transgender, she says, thinking of her 15-year-old trans son, Ashur. “Having a bathroom restriction on somebody, it’s taking away your right to be in public."

They’ve been fighting the bathroom bill since Lt. Gov. Dan Patrick and his Republican allies in the Senate made it a top priority for the 2017 regular legislative session. By the time it ended in May, lawmakers hadn’t passed any bathroom regulations.

The parents thought maybe they’d beat it, before Abbott called a special session and put the bathroom bill on the to-do list.

Two pieces of legislation have been filed. One specifically prohibits school boards from enforcing policies that allow trans kids or staff to use the restrooms they want. The other would undo any local laws that political subdivisions, including cities, have passed to protect the rights of trans people in public bathrooms.

Rep. Ron Simmons, a Carrollton Republican sponsoring the bills, says he wants to create uniformity for restroom regulations across Texas. “Protecting our women and children through a consistent statewide policy” is his aim, he says.

Some go further, like the conservative Christian leaders Patrick enlisted to promote the bill. Transgender people are "confused" and "sinful" people who need to be cured through religious intervention, they say.

Singleton swears, peppering her condemnations of Texas lawmakers with expletives.

“We’re in the middle of a political freakin’ war,” she says. “I got a trans kid and we’re going to stand here until you give us what we want.”

She jokes that she isn’t allowed to come down to Austin with the other parents. It’s obvious that she’s got a mouth on her, she says, plus she has other kids at home to take care of. But Singleton has some choice words for people who disagree with her decision to support her 14-year-old son Evan’s transition from female to male.

“I’m not afraid of the backlash. I’m like, come at me,” Singleton says. “Our family and kids are not different than anyone else’s. That’s just it.”

Not every parent in the DFW Trans Kids & Families group is as outspoken, or as politically active. In fact, many have stayed out of the fray as debate over the bathroom bill spills into the summer. It's still a family support group and a way to connect socially with other parents.

But battling the bathroom bill has become a major part of some of the parents' lives.

They’ve written dozens of letters to elected officials, placed countless calls and made office visits, Ballard says. Moms, dads and siblings have formed caravans and piled into buses to testify against the bathroom bill.

A couple of Dallas Democrats have sat down with them, but none of the area’s Republicans have agreed to meet, Ballard says, no matter how many times they’ve tried.

“We got nothing,” she says. "But until something changes, I don’t see myself stopping.”

Isaac Singleton, 12, of Murphy plays the game "Ninja" on July 7, 2017, in Little Elm. Isaac has a brother, Evan, who is transgender. (Ryan Michalesko / Staff Photographer)

'You are NOT alone!'

Once a volunteer coordinator at an Evangelical Christian church, Ballard left after conversion therapy was suggested for Ashur. She considers the DFW Trans Kids & Families group her new ministry.

“I’ve always had a strong faith,” Ballard says. “[The group] doesn’t have anything to do with Christ and church, but it has to do with people in need.”

"God doesn't make mistakes."

Two years ago, Ballard could not have foreseen what the group would grow into.

Back then, they were just a couple of dozen parents seeking help for their children from Renee Baker and Feleshia Porter, two professional gender and sexuality counselors based in northwest Dallas.

Baker started a separate group just for the parents, many of whom had never met another mother or father whose child was transgender.

In the first few months, the parents crammed into Baker’s tiny office, moms sitting on dads’ laps, some people relegated to the floor, hugging and crying and asking her questions. Slowly, they started heading out to dinner afterward, taking over the nearby Torchy’s Tacos or Hunky’s Old Fashioned Hamburgers.

Melissa Ballard (left) talks as Mela Singleton (center) and Melissa Baize listen on July 7, 2017, in Little Elm. (Ryan Michalesko / Staff Photographer)

By year's end, they had launched a website and started having social gatherings. Membership exploded by 2015, bolstered by local programs like GENECIS at Children's Medical Center Dallas, the only pediatric clinic for trans youth in the Southwest, as well as growing societal awareness and acceptance of the transgender community.

At Ballard’s last count, the group boasts 218 parents and 169 transgender kids from the D-FW area. Another 100-plus siblings tips their total membership over 500. It got so big, she said, she had business cards made that they give to Dallas-area lawmakers at the Capitol.

“Parents of transgender and gender-diverse youth,” the cards read. “You are NOT alone!”

All are welcome, the parents around Ballard’s table say. The oldest transgender child is in her 40s, the youngest under 10. Some began their transition as kids. Others, like Laura and David Venegas' child, didn’t come out until college.

David Venegas remembers when he found out the son he'd raised identified as a girl. He saw an email about transgender student housing from the school.

"I just said, 'You're still my kid, yeah? So what's the problem?' " he says.

But Venegas says his family is here for parents struggling with the news. Most have a lot of questions, about hormones and pronouns, about bullies and the bathroom bill. Some want advice, or a recommendation for a good doctor. Others want to get involved politically.

And sometimes, the pressure becomes too much, and an outspoken mom or dad may step out of the limelight to spend time with family. But there’s always another parent to fight in their place.

“That’s why I was so grateful,” Melissa Baize says, looking around at the family that helped keep hers from falling apart. “I don’t know where we’d be if it wasn’t for you guys.”