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“Every action has its consequences. If you are willing to accept the consequences of your actions, go ahead and do whatever you desire. Know that I support you and your decisions…” These were my words to my eldest daughter’s “teenage dramatic” situation—post-divorce, one evening, when my two daughters and I were together, watching some horror movie.

I preach those words and I live by those words. I lavish in the reality of being the parent (father) to two beautifully compassionate girls. Each one of my daughters has her own gifts. Be it an affinity for writing or a sage instinct for mathematics. One has an innate motherly instinct, while the other has a compassion far exceeding her youth. There are small moments—instead of cashing in coins to spend at Disney World, our eldest daughter wanted to give the money to a family that needed it. Or special moments—like when our eldest daughter donated her hair to Locks of Love, when she was nary ten years old, and when our youngest daughter befriended an “eagle student” in elementary school, helping her navigate forth grade (I believe). Actions…Consequences.

I missed our daily interactions when I left their mother. Post-divorce, I’d text them good morning—each morning in a foreign language to “excite” the obligatory and “keep it fresh.” I called them every night, catching up with their day, then said our good nights and I love you’s. And when they went on a short cruise, I made little cards for them to open each morning, since they wouldn’t have use of their phones on board the ship. Actions…Consequences?

I made my conscious decision to tell my daughters of my being transgender and my decision to transition. At the time, they were in their mid-teens. Feeling a sense of parental optimism that I’d raised them with a sense of compassion to be open minded and caring and kind, I had expectations that this would be a turbulent, yet discussion yielding revelation. They had exhibited those and other qualities of compassion throughout their young lives, much to my reverent delight. If only I took pause to listen to their body language, see their feelings, I would have known how devastated they really were of me “coming out” to them.

After this episode, we would end up cruising one of the local malls around the holidays—they were laughing and happy, showing no signs of shame or embarrassment whilst out in public with their trans-female parent. They even colluded to buy me a couple of gifts for the holidays. We would spend the holiday together, me in a sensible outfit, trying my best to respect their evolving acceptance and understanding. What was also amazing, was that my older daughter shared this with a couple of her girlfriends, and while helping her with a school project, one of her friends called me Jahn, which was so nice. I felt a sense of progress, and comfort that my daughters and I would be alright.

That moment could be considered the apogee of our future. Slowly, through time, they would respond less and less frequently. Our evening phone calls dwindled from upwards of forty-five minutes to barely five minutes…that is, when they even answered the phone. They were pulling away from me. And I got scared I was losing them. We used to laugh riotously, sassed each other playfully, read together, listened to all genres of music, and watched every manner of movie. We had that rare father-daughter bond. Then, one day, they said they didn’t want to come over or talk to me. They blamed me for not giving them “their time” to process their father being transgender and now transitioning to a woman. Actions…Consequences?

Present day: I have not seen or spoken to my daughters for more months than I care to acknowledge. I can’t help but blame their mother and her overt bias and (more than implied) vulgar punctuated anger. And for not encouraging them in a positive and progressive way. It is a shame she has chosen this path, for she has lost out on sharing a life, a future, with a devoted and caring person. Her closed minded loss is my present girlfriend’s gain.

Friends and family are encouraging, saying “this is a phase”…”this is only for the moment”…”they will reach out to you in time”…”they need time to figure this out,” et cetera. I hold on to the image of my daughters as beautiful young women. I hope that is not a fantasy image; recent events proved that otherwise might not be true. I have to accept the reality that I may never know my daughters again. I don’t like it, but that is a reality.

I dreadfully miss my children. I cried then, and still do cry now. There is no sense of closure, no rite of passing, as there is following a death of a loved one. Mine is the anguish of exigent hope for a reconnection, of “lost and now found implications.” I didn’t like coming home to a house full of memories, knowing those who created those memories voluntarily estranged themselves from me.

I “sterilized” my house of anything and everything that reminded me of my daughters, during a depression fueled stretch of days. Almost a cathartic, spiteful maneuver to heal the scar of a shame impaled upon me. There was an oppressive sadness when I’d linger on their pictures, or look at gifts and objects imprinted with memories.

I do not know what our future—if we ever will have a future together—holds in store for us. I do know that I have made a conscious decision to find happiness and not dwell on being hurt. I also believe in karma, so goodness and kindness goes and comes around. Dante can keep his Canto III inscription, to “abandon all hope…” as I choose not to, in the hope of rekindling my relationship with my daughters.

[Photo credit to Jahn Westbrook]

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