Back when our kids were quite young and waking up at ungodly hours on the weekends, we would often walk them downtown to grab breakfast. On one of those occasions we came around the corner to find a woman and her child, who looked to be about the same age as ours (in the 4-5 range). Our children immediately ran to join hers, who was crouching near the ground, moving something around in the fallen leaves, smiling at them. 

While we three parents stood around commiserating the early hour and delighting in the beautiful weather, the three of them became fast friends: chatting, giggling, searching for some unseen treasure in the dirt. 

How old is your daughter, I casually asked, motioning towards her child who had long wavy hair and was wearing a sparkly princess skirt, much like the ones our daughter wore. “Oh,” she said, (pause) “that’s actually our son.” As I was fumbling for the right words to apologize for my mistake, she graciously kept talking. ”He has dressed like that for as long as I can remember. We’ve tried cutting his hair and asking him to wear pants, but he gets so upset when we do that we decided to just let him look the way he wants to look…he is a lot happier now, and our house is much calmer.” 

Twenty years have passed since that encounter and I have thought about this woman and her child so many times. How confident and joyful he seemed. How she trusted him to make his own choices, despite what others may have said. I wonder what the world would be like if we all felt free to express ourselves without the fear of judgement, if we all had people who loved us so unconditionally.

Yes, I still think about them. I hope that he is still being himself. I hope that he is still flourishing. I hope that he is safe.