I love my rainbow child—my reason, my heart. Life isn’t binary, and love doesn’t come with rules. Love who you love. Be free to be you. I’m your mom, and my only job is to love you.
Funny thing is, I didn’t always see myself as a mom. In fact, it was my child’s bio dad—my ex-husband—who one day dropped the idea. “Mom… try and get pregnant? Can I do this ‘baby thing?’” he asked. I had to pause. I loved being an aunt, adored my pets, and wasn’t sure I had the capacity to parent a human. But before I could fully process, he was telling his family, and we were already taking the first steps.
We did all the standard things—reading books, taking prenatal vitamins, checking with my OBGYN to make sure it was even possible. We’d experienced an early miscarriage before, so I carried a layer of worry with me. But luck and health were on our side, and soon we got the green light.
Months passed, full of hope and frustration. My doctor gave us a deadline—if we weren’t pregnant by then, we’d come back to explore options. We agreed that if it didn’t happen, maybe adoption was in our future. But then, in the very last month, I saw it: a second pink line. It was my birthday morning. Shock, disbelief, excitement—I almost couldn’t believe it. I had been ready to give up, but here we were, expecting.
Pregnancy was anything but easy. While most expectant mothers were moving past morning sickness, mine was ramping up. I was eventually diagnosed with hyperemesis gravidarum and couldn’t work. My days became a cycle of monitoring, IVs, and trying not to lose hope. I lost 30 pounds, but the little one growing inside me was a fighter. Each time I recovered from a sickness spell, the baby would kick and punch, sometimes at the touch of a hand, sometimes even when the water hit my stomach in the shower. Looking back, it feels almost humorous—but also like a glimpse of the strong spirit to come.
During a high-risk check, I agreed to a gender preview. I secretly hoped for a boy; I was convinced I wouldn’t know how to handle a girl. But the ultrasound revealed a healthy baby girl. I went with it, though in hindsight, I should have trusted my instincts a little more.
May 2008 arrived, and with it, a perfect little human being. We celebrated traditions—ear piercing as a mark of girlhood, cute dresses—but we never imposed limits on toys, imagination, or exploration. From superheroes to fairies, my child gravitated to everything. But as preschool and elementary school years rolled by, deeper challenges emerged.
Simple moments, like picking a toy at McDonald’s, became a question of identity: “Is it for a boy or a girl?” Often, boys’ toys seemed better, but my child would boldly choose what they loved. Once, grandma gifted Captain America light-up shoes. Excited, my kid wore them to school—and then faced questions from classmates. Their response? “They aren’t BOY’S shoes. They are MY shoes!” Pride swelled in me; they were learning to stand strong.
The same resilience appeared on dress-up days. On ‘Storybook Character’ day, they refused to wear a ‘girl version’ of Spider-Man, choosing the classic suit instead. Shopping, too, was a challenge. A simple Star Wars shirt was only available in the “Boy’s Section,” but that didn’t stop them. By fourth grade, after my divorce, their biggest birthday wish was a haircut—from long hair past the middle of their back to above the shoulders. Fifth grade brought the half-shaved style, much to their excitement and bio dad’s initial discomfort. These were early expressions of self, tiny steps in understanding who they were.
Winter break 2019 brought a turning point. My child became unusually reserved, and one night, cuddled on the couch watching Skin Wars, they admitted, “Mom! I don’t feel like a girl… but I don’t feel like a boy either…?” I took a deep breath, hugged them tightly, and acknowledged what they were feeling. Life isn’t black and white, and I wanted them to know they weren’t alone.
We explored together: Ruby Rose, genderfluid icons, RuPaul on TV. The Googling became a joyful revelation. “I don’t have to fit in a box! There are others like me! I am not alone!” My child began experimenting with self-expression—wearing dresses, jackets, Converse, sometimes feeling like a boy in a dress. I gave them space, support, and encouragement to explore their identity every day.
Therapy, community connections, books, and resources all helped. Over time, my child chose the label non-binary, adjusting pronouns from “she/her” to “they/them,” and now, sometimes, “he/they.” Not everyone understood at first; we lost some friends, but nothing mattered more than respecting our child’s life and pronouns. Boundaries became essential—anti-LGBTQ+ behavior wasn’t tolerated.
Slip-ups happen, but respect, learning, and love are what matter. Our bond grew even stronger, despite teen challenges. My advice to parents or allies: this isn’t about you. It’s about protecting, loving, and affirming your child so they can truly be themselves. Help them find community, resources, and joy. Celebrate their first Pride event, cheer for them, stand as their strongest advocate.
Your rainbow child deserves love, safety, and the freedom to shine. Let them explore, grow, and be exactly who they are—and love them fiercely along the way.
