My son Milo came out just before he turned 16. We were watching TV and having a lively discussion about LGBTIQA+ representation when he jumped to his feet and retrieved a letter from his room, addressed to his father and me. It explained, in no uncertain terms, that he was transgender.
It wasn’t entirely without warning. The year before, he’d told us he thought he might be gender fluid. Wondering if it was a phase, I’d found a counsellor for him at the local neighbourhood centre. Even so, the more definitive announcement came as a shock. In the family counselling session that followed, he stated his intentions: he wanted to be called Milo, he wanted us to use male pronouns and he wanted to transition socially at school.
“Couldn’t you wait until after you finish high school?” I pleaded.
I feared what might happen to him at school. We live in Lithgow in the central west of New South Wales. Like many regional towns, it’s a place where gender stereotypes are unforgivingly rigid. In my mind, to be transgender could only result in ridicule, persecution. But Milo was firm. He was done with waiting.
I’d always thought I was open-minded, but Milo’s announcement shook me to my core. I imagined that being transgender meant living on the fringes of society, never completely safe or accepted, and feared what this would mean for my child. The counsellor assured me that the most important thing for Milo was unconditional parental acceptance. Trans kids are more at risk of depression, self-harm, homelessness and suicide, but family support reduces the risk significantly.
Before I had a chance to think about how to approach the school, Milo wrote a piece in English class about being transgender. Suddenly everyone knew. But dealing with the school (for me, at least) was the easy part. Milo wasn’t the first trans kid at the school, and the NSW Department of Education has procedures to protect the rights of transgender students. Added to this, Milo had a tight friendship group and no shortage of allies.
Gradually, my partner and I came out to friends and family. We were encouraged by the overwhelming support we received, especially from our immediate families, but there were also times when people responded with unsolicited advice or opinions: Milo was too old to be coming out, or too young to be making decisions about his identity; being transgender was a fad.
These myths weren’t confined to regional circles; they also came from the mouths of urban progressives I had assumed would know better. It was impossible to predict how people would react. This never knowing when we might encounter intolerance or criticism gave me some insight into how Milo must feel.
Being trans was not something Milo wanted special attention for, but in a regional town it wasn’t something he was able to hide. A keen actor, he often found himself performing in public. Watching him on those occasions, I sat on a knife edge, in awe of his bravery, painfully aware that I couldn’t always protect him. In some awful way, I felt as if I was on show too.
The counsellor left town not long after Milo came out, and for a time we free-floated. Combing through online resources was difficult, in part because I was so overwhelmed. Who could we trust? Trans services seemed to be wholly confined to metropolitan areas. We were reluctant to see our local GP, unsure of how supportive he would be, and until Lithgow Headspace opened in 2019, there were no local accessible mental health services for young people.
Out of my depth and isolated, I began reading stories by people from the trans community, some of whom had transitioned decades ago. Eventually, I understood that in order for Milo to have the opportunity to mature into a healthy adult, he needed to transition with testosterone. Each day that he didn’t was only stalling his development.
Thanks to a GP friend, I found a clinical psychologist who had experience with trans youth. This led to other appointments with a psychiatrist, a physician and an endocrinologist. None of these clinicians were local. There were long wait times and hours spent travelling. Milo’s excitement, each time we took a step closer to hormone treatment, was palpable.
Meanwhile, he was preparing for the HSC, attending his school formal, working weekends in a cafe and applying for university. At times I had to strongly advocate for his rights. Other times, we were uplifted by support from unexpected quarters, including the local GP we had initially avoided. People told us about their trans daughter, uncle, brother-in-law.
In 2019 we flew to the UK and Europe to spend Christmas with family, Milo using a male passport. We avoided countries where transgender people are criminalised and at no point did he experience discrimination.
It has been challenging watching him launch into the wider world. Recently, he made the decision to transfer from a country uni to a regional city, where he’s thriving amid the diversity of a metropolitan university.
While it’s true life would’ve been easier, and his transition swifter, had we lived somewhere with better services and support, Milo is proud of where he’s come from. I hope his presence in our regional community has encouraged awareness and greater acceptance of gender diversity.
People sometimes tell me how lucky Milo is to have such a supportive family. I think we are lucky to have him. He has enriched our lives in ways I never could have imagined when he was born. He continues to amaze me.
• Sarah Michell is a freelance writer from Lithgow in the NSW central west
• In Australia, support is available at Beyond Blue on 1300 22 4636, Lifeline on 13 11 14, and at MensLine on 1300 789 978. In the UK, the charity Mind is available on 0300 123 3393 and Childline on 0800 1111. In the US, Mental Health America is available on 800-273-8255
