There are so many elements about my child—my daughter—no, my son!—that cause me immense pain and suffering. Her—excuse me, his—artificially softened skin, the fat that rests on his hips like the curves of a woman's figure, his breasts—larger even than his mother’s!—that are now at risk for breast cancer—a condition he would probably never have had to consider, had those nefarious doctors never prescribed him those foul, harmful hormones.

How waiters and cashiers and other strangers mistakenly call him by the wrong pronouns, seeing only a woman in the body that should rightfully belong to my baby boy. How his so-called "boyfriend" only serves to encourage this delusion, as he encourages hers. It is all so terrible. So absolutely horrifying. So completely dreadful.

[...]

What hurts me the most is what I hear. It is not merely the sound of his voice, but the very essence of it when he says he loves me, when he insists that I am wrong, that if I would only "accept her," everything would be fine. It is his voice that causes me the greatest anguish, because it is not his true voice. It belongs to this strange woman who has overtaken his body, who has taken my son from me.