Last year, I found out that my father was transgendered. He* had already begun the transition to become a woman. My mother knew long before my sister and I did, and had wrestled through the decision to stay by her spouse, regardless of gender. We all decided to get through this together, as a family – the fact that Dad is transgendered doesn’t change the fact that we love him.

Over the next few months, we began to bring family into the circle of those in the know. First were my mother’s parents, because we knew that they were very tolerant people who would not judge or condemn. Then we slowly told the rest of Mom’s side of the family. My dad was in tears with joy, because none of them rejected him. They all accepted him, and continue to love him as if nothing had changed, because the most important things had not. The wonderful, loving, kind, fun person they love was still the same.

It meant so much to my father that Mom’s family accepted him for who he was. Thus far, no one had rejected him. Everyone we told had met it with love and understanding. It gave him the confidence he needed to start going out in public presenting as a woman once in a while, to buy his first real bra, to ask for a satin nightgown and a makeover for Christmas.

It also gave him the courage to tell his parents. His side of the family has always been rather conservative. His lesbian cousin has had no contact from them since she and her girlfriend moved to California to be married; they cut her off. Dad was scared they would do the same to him. To his face, they dealt with it pretty well. They said they could deal with things now, but they weren’t sure how they were going to react to “what’s going to come next” – the full transition.

Then, a week later, a letter came from my grandmother. It started with “we still love you,” and proceeded to shred him apart for telling his children about this, for telling Mom’s side of the family. She all but demanded that he never tell anyone outside the family, hinting broadly about shame. It ended with more “we still love you,” and she meant every word. It’s a complicated family. That letter hurt my father deeply. At once, his parents were both embracing him and flaying him, like a parent beating their child for terrible wrongdoing out of love, out of a desire for their child to have the best, happiest life possible. He couldn’t just reject what they said as hateful bigotry, because though bigotry it was, there was love.

It was weeks before he could bring himself to go out in public as her again, to put on makeup and earrings and a blouse. It was weeks before he began to recover from that blow. It will never really go away, even if someday they come to terms with their son-turning-daughter, even if they apologize and love her for who she is and will be. That gut reaction of shame from a mother is one of the hardest things in the world to stomach.

Seeing it in your baby girl is just as hard. We were going to go shopping together as a family: a teen girl, a young woman, and two middle aged women. It was going to be a quick trip to the mall, to get jeans for my sister (she was growing out of them every time we turned around). We all got ready to go, and Dad put on her makeup. Then, my little sister got cold feet. She started crying and said she wasn’t comfortable going out in public with Dad being a woman. We ended up with each of them in different rooms in tears, unable to look at each other. Dad was scared that this was the beginning of my sister rejecting him totally. She was scared that if people found out, she’d lose all her friends.

We managed to work it out, but since then Dad’s never gone out fully presenting as a woman with my sister around. Perhaps we’ll try again later, but for now neither of them mentions it. It hurt both of them, and it hurt Mom and me.

A transitioning family is so very fragile. Every little thing has the potential to wound. Every misunderstanding can be seen as a rejection. It’s a delicate balance, a tightrope walk, to keep the family from exploding in a thousand directions. It’s hard, and sometimes every single one of us, including my dad, has secretly, silently wished that none of this had happened, that we could just be a normal family. But none of us wants to force things back to the way they were. You can’t put a chick back into the egg. We’ll find a new balance, every step of the way.

*(At his request, I will be mainly referring to my father by male pronouns for now, both in writing and in life. At the time of writing, we generally only use female pronouns when my parent is presenting as a woman.)