I was talking to a parent the other day. They were trying to explain what goes through their mind when they think of their trans-identified child. Lately, I have been trying to understand very similar themes — trying to unpack what I mean when I say that I am mourning for my son. There are different layers:

1. There’s the abstract, macro level — I mourn that our son (to paraphrase Brando in On the Waterfront) could’ve been somebody. But that mourning goes away soon. The truth is that the overwhelming majority of us are going to die in obscurity. Only the (very) rare get “touched by God,” and even that act seems like a random toss of the dice (Salieri’s famous oath comes to mind). You really cannot mourn the cosmic insignificance of such pointless aspirations.

2. Then there’s the practical level of mourning — I mourn that he is not a functional adult, and that my wife and I will have to bear his weight for the rest of his life unless, by some miracle — or more possibly, from the sheer weight of life — he snaps out of it and decides to face life as it is rather than how he wishes it was.

3. And finally, the one that I mourn the most is at the micro level — I mourn the loss of the relationship.

[…]

What I mourn most is the loss of that magical relationship. And talking to the parent made me remember once again how that relationship crumbled for me. Gone was that whimsy, gone was that sense of magic when he was around me, to be replaced by the snarls and accusations and bizarre words and actions.