What I Want My Kid to Know: A Trans Dad's Reflection on Parenting

Last week, I put out a call for guest posts from trans parents and parents of trans kids. I came up with the idea as I was thinking about what I might want to say about parenting, or fatherhood, as Father’s Day approached.

As submissions began to come in, I found myself reflecting, not just on what I want to say about parenting, but on what I want my daughter to know through my parenting. What will she remember about what it felt like to be my kid? How will she experience being loved by me?

I keep coming back to this: I want her to feel safe and loved. I want her to know that she is allowed to be her full, authentic self, and to trust, down to the core of her being, that I will always support her in being exactly who she is.

I grew up in the 80s and 90s when there was little awareness of trans people, outside of the occasional punchline. I didn’t know I was trans, exactly, but I definitely knew I was Not Like The Other Girls. And I certainly didn’t see anyone in the world who seemed to look or feel like me. That’s not anyone’s fault, it’s just how it was. And it made for a confusing and complex childhood in which there was simply no way for me to feel seen. By myself or anyone else.

One of the ways I’ve metabolized that experience is by doing everything I can to make sure my daughter feels seen—by me, by herself, and by the world (as much as I can impact any of that). That value has shaped so many of the parenting choices her mom and I have made from the very beginning.

When we were choosing a sperm donor, for example, I had a strong instinct that our child might someday want the option to know him. That idea made me a little nervous—what if she rejected me in favor of him someday? But ultimately, I felt that she should have the right to that information, should she want it, and that I would work through my own insecurities in order to be able to support her, should she want to reach out to him one day. And now I not only believe, but I know to be true, that as long as I stay attuned to her and our relationship is strong, I don’t have anything to fear.

That instinct—to prioritize emotional attunement and help her become an emotionally intelligent person—has continued to guide my parenting. My daughter knows she’s allowed to feel angry, even at me. Her mom and I have helped her learn how to express big emotions in healthy ways. And when we went through our divorce, there were a lot of them. We encouraged and allowed them, and we all moved through it together.

Divorce is hard. It was hard for us too. But we stayed focused on connection, on listening, on showing her that hard feelings are welcome and survivable.

When she was about seven, she told me about a story she’d heard at school: how we each have a lion and a mouse inside us—sometimes brave, sometimes shy. I asked if I could share some moments when I’d seen her lion come out, and mentioned recent times she’d expressed to her mother and to me, things we had said that had upset her. She looked at me, slightly confused, and said:
“Why would I need a lion inside of me to do that? I know you both will listen to me.”

It stunned me. And I think that’s what it all comes down to. I want her to know, to really really know, that we will listen. That her voice matters. That she never has to fight for her own truth to be accepted by me. And that she will not be punished, overtly or covertly, for sharing something difficult with me, even if it’s about me.

As a Gen X kid, I grew up with a different model. Parents back then were often focused on “good behavior,” on getting kids to be quiet and compliant in public, sometimes at the expense of understanding what was driving the unwanted behaviors. Emotions were seen as disruptive, something to be punished or shut down. There was little room for curiosity, repair, or attunement. Just do what you’re supposed to do and there will be no problems. They were doing the best they could with what they had at the time, and, in many ways, did a much better job than their parents’ generation had.

But now we know more. We have easier access to data, a deeper understanding of attachment, and better tools for healing from trauma. We are able to do better, in many ways, and that’s the goal.

So when my daughter’s mom and I became parents, we were intentional about doing things differently. We’ve both done a lot of personal healing. We’re both therapists. And we’ve had access to the resources and support that help make this kind of parenting possible.

It’s always a work in progress. But what I’m seeing in our daughter is someone who can recognize when a friend is being unkind, and walk away. Someone who can speak up for herself. Someone who knows how to ask for help, take a break, and repair when things go wrong. She’s kind and thoughtful and emotionally intelligent. She’s also very much her own person.

And here’s the thing: none of that has come at the expense of “good behavior.” She’s a joy to be around. Not because she’s been taught to suppress her emotions, but because she’s been supported in learning how to understand them.

I’m not trying to hold myself up as a perfect parent. There are lots of things I still get wrong, and plenty I still don’t know. But I think my transness has given me a unique window into what it means to be unseen—and what it means to offer the opposite.

If I could give one message to other parents, trans or not, it might be this:

See your kid. Let them know that their voice and their feelings matter. Don’t just tell them you love them, show them that their full self is safe with you.

It makes a huge difference.