["A Letter to My Son: From a Grieving Mother Who Still Loves Him Deeply"]

As a woman, it is incredibly painful to see men adopt what they believe are “feminine” traits, clothing, or mannerisms and call that womanhood. To me, it feels like a caricature — like our lived experiences, our biology, our lifelong struggles are being reduced to a performance or aesthetic. I don’t say this to hurt you. I say it because my womanhood was not chosen — it has been lived, in body and soul — and when I see someone attempt to replicate it externally, it feels like a wound. Not just for me, but for all women — including your grandmother, aunts and sister.

There is something else I have struggled to explain. Being asked to use a new name and new pronouns feels like I’m being forced to say something I simply don’t believe is true. It’s like being expected to live in an Orwellian world, where I’m asked to deny what I see with my own eyes. Imagine if I came home one day and said, “I’m a toaster now. Please call me Breville and treat me like one.” You would know I’m not a toaster — and being expected to play along would feel surreal, maybe even sad. That’s how it feels to me. I am not mocking you — I’m trying to explain how painful it is to be asked to override my own perception of reality just to make others comfortable.

And finally, the most difficult truth to admit: when I see you dressed this way — in a bra and with fake breasts and very odd clothing — it hurts me so deeply that sometimes I have to pull away.