Zisin is bright-eyed, shaggy-voiced and articulate, and framed his story differently. "I identified as a lesbian for a while, [but] there's a whole spectrum of gender identity," he said. "You can have every little piece of gender mixed up into you, because it's not so simple and it's not so black and white. Nothing's black and white. I'm a normal human being." He smiles and corrects himself. "There's no such thing as a 'normal' human being, but… I eat, I sleep, I drink." Transgender activist Nevo Zisin: 'Nothing's black and white. I'm a normal human being,' he says. Credit:Daniel Munoz Some might see Zisin's story as an example of someone affirming their identity in a moment of revelatory self-identification ("Ah, this is who I am"), after being equipped and empowered with concepts that align with their lived experience. Others see a form of contagion, that a child's concept of their gender identity must have been so fragile, so vulnerable, that mere exposure to the knowledge of transgender people's existence manipulated or forced them into questioning themselves, like shapeless gender bivalves able to mutate from external influences. If that was the case, though, doesn't that perception also – strangely – align with Zisin's argument that gender might be malleable, and exist on a spectrum? And if so, don't the ACL and Zisin weirdly start to sound like they agree with each other, on some level? Hasn't the conversation come – oddly – full circle? If you're confused by this stage, don't worry. You're not the only one. It probably just means it's time to talk to an expert.

Some parents drive for more than five hours to see counsellor and gender specialist Dr Elizabeth Riley in Sydney. Referrals come from all over: a GP or psychologist; word of mouth; parents and schools; complete strangers. The demand is non-stop. In the past three years alone, Riley has treated around 150 young patients. It's not surprising, given Riley is one of the people who has worked with gender-variant kids – those who assert their gender in ways that don't align to masculine–feminine gender norms – the longest. Riley's experience with gender-variant children started a decade ago, when she was working as a counsellor at Sydney's Gender Centre with adult transgender patients. They kept telling Riley the same thing, but something about what they said didn't add up. "They're telling me they knew [they were transgender] from the time when they were kids. And I'm thinking, 'Where are the transgender children, then?' I haven't seen any." In 2009 Riley went on air with Richard Aedy on ABC RN's Life Matters to talk about gender-variant kids. Almost immediately, parents got in touch: they recognised their child in Riley's discussions. Initially, the correspondence was about young adults. Then teenagers. Then children. "The age just got younger and younger," she says. The kids Riley sees aren't the feminine boys or tomboy girls the ACL's Wendy Francis worries about being misdiagnosed. They persistently exhibit cross-gender behaviour and dress, and insist – from a young age, without prompting – that people refer to them using differently gendered names or pronouns. In his mother's mind, it was Michael's music taste that had made him transgender: Michael rolled his eyes slightly. On the day I visit her home clinic, she has just finished a session with parents of a young preschool-aged child. Rather than talking to the child, Riley prefers to guide the parents. "There's no intervention suitable until they're getting close to puberty and they're distressed about their body," she might tell them, "so I need to help you to do what's in the best interests of your child. You know your child, you know what makes them happy and what makes them withdraw." Parents are reassured by that approach. "You can see parents go, 'Oh, we know what makes them okay.' " Ideally, Riley says, children will be protected in a bubble, while adults manage any stress and practical difficulties to do with their gender variance.

If the child is older, Riley might start by asking their parents if their child has expressed any distress about their body. If the child is experiencing acute psychological distress, it's likely they are nearing puberty and an assessment is recommended. Riley will invite the parent for a two-hour session to go through background and history. She might then see the young person on their own. Sometimes, she will know after one appointment if the child has gender dysphoria. Other cases take longer. Depending on the case, puberty blockers might be prescribed as a suitable course of action. Some parents may find this idea confronting, but paediatric psychologists, psychiatrists and endocrinologists have been using this reversible method for a decade now, arresting permanent physical changes so that parents and children are given time to decide the best course of action. As Malcolm Smith, senior lecturer for the Australian Centre for Health Law Research at Queensland University of Technology, explains in The Conversation: "What it essentially does is buy time while the child continues to receive psychological support. If gender dysphoria desists at any point during this treatment, it can be stopped and puberty will continue." If gender dysphoria persists, a second stage of hormone treatment may begin at about 16. Cross-gender hormones are administered now. This stage is essentially where hormonal transition begins. It is irreversible. There are permanent medical risks involved, including infertility. But no Australian minor can commence this treatment without the involvement of the courts. Legal and medical specialists who work with young transgender people criticise Australia for being the only country requiring teenagers to apply to a court for hormone treatment. Still – and I feel impertinent asking this of a medical professional – how does Riley (or the courts, for that matter) know? Can't children simply be confused about, or playing with, their gender identity and not have gender dysphoria? Adolescence is a tumultuous time. Isn't it possible a young people might feel – or claim to feel – distressed about other aspects of life, into which confusion over gender plays?

Absolutely, Riley says. Of the children and young people she's treated in the past few years who have showed gender dysphoria symptoms, maybe half a dozen clearly didn't have gender dysphoria. One was a young gay male. After a consultation, it was clear that he simply "didn't want to have any body hair – he didn't like body hair – and that was fine". Riley remembers another boy whose mother approached her with concerns that he might need to go on puberty blockers. In talking with Riley, it turned out the child's anxieties stemmed from his father being violent. "He thought if he transitioned into being a girl, then without testosterone he wouldn't be a violent adult like his father. So there may be other underlying things coming through." When I bring up the oft-cited concern about mistaken diagnoses of someone as transgender, leading them to lifelong regret over their surgery, Riley sighs, wanting to clarify something important. All documented cases she's ever read or heard of people regretting treatment for gender dysphoria have been adults who've transitioned surgically later in life, not minors on hormonal interventions. In any case, any Australian seeking to undergo gender-affirmation surgery can only do so after having had two independent psychiatric evaluations testifying to its necessity and appropriateness. It is also nearly impossible for minors to undergo surgical procedures. Male-to-female genital surgery on under-18s has never been allowed or performed in Australia. No one has applied to the courts for it. In 2014 Swedish medical professionals analysed every single application for legal gender reassignment in the country from 1960 to 2010. Of the 681 people who received a new legal sex, 15 individuals applied for a legal reversal back to their original legal sex, which represented 2.2 per cent of all applications. That figure may seem high enough to warrant concern, but it's important to note that with time – and advances in diagnoses, research and medical care – regret rates plummeted. In the first decade of the 2000s, they sat at just over 0 per cent. In January, the subscriber cover of On the afternoon I visit Open Doors, the LGBT youth service in Brisbane's Fortitude Valley, raucous teenagers are leading their friends through a giddily deranged singalong to the Moana and Hamilton soundtracks. Those less musically inclined lounge on beanbags, read magazines and play video games. In all this, I find myself chatting with Michael, 17, who has brought along his pet bird, which bounces from shoulder to shoulder, before finally landing on someone to take a shit, to everyone's delight.

Michael sports the classic look of a grungy Brisbane teenager: asymmetrical hair, septum piercing and ripped denim. He explains his pet bird helps him deal with his attention deficit hyperactivity disorder, post-traumatic stress disorder, anxiety and depression – in fact, he's trying to get the bird officially registered as a service animal. He named it Chatot, after the Pokémon known for its abilities to mimic song and human speech. Bestowing the name was a small act of defiance: Michael was raised by a mother so fundamentalist in her Christianity that she declared Pokémon satanic. Needless to say, growing up transgender in that household wasn't ideal (he now lives in a sharehouse with other transgender people). "It's pretty complicated," Michael says. "I knew I was trans since I was, like, six years old. My dad even remembers me trying to express, 'I'm a guy, I am male,' and my mum took that as, 'Oh no, you're just a tomboy.' Then puberty happened, and I was like, 'Whoa, what the…" He stops himself. "Can I swear?" "Of course." Michael leans into my voice recorder. "I was like, 'What the f….' My dad was like, 'Oh, I thought you were a lesbian,' and I was like, 'No.'" When Michael was 14, his psychologist referred him to Open Doors to meet other people like him. Michael's mum became suspicious. She started rummaging through his room and found brochures about being transgender, as well as evidence he was going to Open Doors without her knowing. Furious, she removed the locks Michael had put on his bedroom door, and banned him from seeing his psychologist or going to Open Doors again. When things reached breaking point, she sent Michael to Sydney for several weeks to live with his grandparents. On his return, she had ripped all his posters from the walls. In her mind, it was Michael's taste in music that had made him trans. Michael rolls his eyes slightly as he tells the story: "That makes sense."

Sometimes, when people question his gender identity or ask how he can possibly know he's transgender, he asks that person to close their eyes and tell him what gender they are. "They say, 'I'm this.' I ask, 'How do you know?' 'I don't know, I just feel it.' I'm like, 'Well, that's exactly like being trans.' " I laugh and say this sounds like a conversation he's had with his mum. Michael nods furiously. "Yes." In her 2002 book, Harmful to Minors, Judith Levine interviewed Paul Thoemke, an American case manager who dealt with LGBTIQ homeless youth. "This may be the most politically unsavvy thing I can say," he told Levine. "But I sometimes think the greatest risk for these kids is their families." Here's the uncomfortable reality: parents don't always know best. At last count, a study by America's Williams Institute – a UCLA School of Law think-tank – showed that 40 per cent of all young people experiencing homelessness identify as lesbian, bisexual, gay or transgender. Similar UK research suggests roughly a quarter of homeless British youth are LGBTIQ. Although data hasn't yet been collected in Australia, agencies that deal with the homeless are demanding it, with Brisbane Youth Service's internal data suggesting at least 13 per cent of the 1400 young people it helps each year are LGBTIQ. It raises the uncomfortable question: should parents' wishes for their kids take priority when those wishes compromise that child's wellbeing?

In a way, Michael's situation isn't solely about gender or sexuality. It's about the central, recurring conundrum every generation of parents faces: how to honour their child's free will, self-determination and personhood, while keeping them safe from unnecessary anguish and pain. As adults – parents, guardians, principals and teachers – we are supposed to be lighthouses guiding kids to safety. When confronted with transgender, non-binary, gender-variant and questioning young people, we immediately see danger for them at every turn. Either way, we've arrived at a turning point. In January this year, subscribers to National Geographic were greeted with a cover featuring a portrait of Avery Jackson, a nine-year-old transgender girl from Kansas City. An alternative cover sold at newsstands featured seven young people across the gender spectrum with the respective labels of "intersex non-binary", "transgender female", "bi-gender", "transgender male", "androgynous" and – not to marginalise them completely – simply "male". The arrival of these young people, confident enough to declare their identities to an international audience, to show their faces to the world despite all possible consequences, might disorientate and even distress some of us. But despite our worries, they say this is who they are, and that they are ready for the world. Are we ready for them? Edited extract from Benjamin Law's Quarterly Essay Moral Panic 101: Equality, Acceptance and the Safe School Scandal, $23, out September 11. Benjamin will appear at events in Sydney and Melbourne this week.