Ellie's Voice

© 2025 by Grace Ann Hansen

Chapter 7: Parents' Late-Night Searches

Grappling with the Unknown

The house settled into stillness after nine. Upstairs, Ellie’s soft footsteps had quieted, followed by the creak of her bedroom door. Sammy had long since crashed, curled sideways across his mattress like a fallen tree. Below, the hum of the old desktop computer—a behemoth compared to today's sleek machines—clicked to life in the corner of the den. Its whirring fan sounded almost frantic in the silence, a mechanical counterpoint to the anxious stillness in the room. A stack of library books sat beside the computer, their spines a silent testament to the hours already spent searching. One, a dog-eared medical text from 1994, looked particularly daunting in the dim light.

Alicia rubbed her tired eyes and pulled her sweatshirt tighter, sinking into the rolling chair. The scratchy fabric felt irritating against her skin, a small physical discomfort mirroring the larger unease churning in her gut. Sam Sr. appeared, his face etched with exhaustion, carrying two mismatched mugs. He placed one beside her mousepad, the warmth a small comfort in the otherwise chilly room.

“Tea for you,” he murmured, his voice rough with sleeplessness. “And coffee for the fool who thinks he can survive on four hours of sleep.”

She offered a tired smile, a fleeting expression that couldn’t quite mask the exhaustion behind her eyes. “Thanks.”

They stared at the browser’s blinking cursor, the familiar, unsettling pulse in the dim light of the desk lamp. The flicker of the DSL modem’s lights, a far cry from the screech of their old dial-up, was a silent yet constant reminder of the new, always-on connection. This was the internet of 2001—a faster, more colorful world of clunky pop-up ads and the whirring of the computer’s fan as it struggled to load a Flash-heavy website. The familiar MSN homepage appeared almost instantly, its busy columns of news, horoscopes, and Hotmail links a chaotic portal to a web that was just beginning to feel truly interactive.

Sam reached for the keyboard, his fingers hovering hesitantly. He looked at Alicia, a question hanging unspoken in the air. Alicia, reading his hesitation, gave him a small nod, offering a silent message of encouragement. He typed: "Child feels like a girl." He hit Enter, the sound of the keystrokes amplified in the quiet room.

They waited, the silence punctuated by the computer’s mechanical whirs, the rhythmic clicking of the mouse, and the frantic beating of their hearts. The search returned a chaotic sprawl of links—some promising, others deeply unsettling. Message boards cluttered with anonymous posts. Medical articles shrouded in clinical jargon. Half-formed personal websites with flashing headers and intrusive pop-ups demanding their attention.  The information was fragmented and overwhelming, a digital reflection of their own disorientation, a chaotic landscape mirroring the emotional turmoil inside them.  The constant barrage of pop-up ads, promising everything from get-rich-quick schemes to miracle weight-loss cures, only added to the sense of overwhelm. Each click seemed to lead to another dead end, a frustrating cycle of false hopes and dashed expectations.

Alicia clicked the first link, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs. A familiar sense of professional detachment battled with an overwhelming wave of fear and parental instinct. A medical article appeared, its title stark and chilling: Gender Identity Disorder in Children. The clinical language hit Alicia like a physical blow, triggering a well-rehearsed response from her medical training, yet clashing violently with the tender maternal instincts that had always guided her.  The precise, almost sterile language felt utterly inadequate in the face of Ellie's vibrant, emotional reality.  She felt a pang of guilt, a familiar ache in her chest – had she, in her professional life, ever approached a patient with such clinical detachment, overlooking the human experience behind the diagnosis?  A past patient, a young woman struggling with anorexia, flickered in her mind.  The stark contrast between the clinical approach and the woman's desperate need for empathy struck Alicia with renewed force.  This wasn’t a disease; it was Ellie, her daughter, her child.

She scanned the text, then slowed, reading each word with a painful attention. “‘Symptoms may include a repeated statement of wanting to be the opposite sex… consistent preference for cross-dressing… rejection of typically assigned gender roles…’” Her voice was barely a whisper, the words echoing the chilling implications of the text.  Each carefully chosen word felt like an indictment, a judgment, a pathologizing label that seemed to trivialize Ellie's profound emotional experience.

Sam leaned in, reading over her shoulder. The words seemed to leap off the page, each one a potential judgment. “That sounds like a checklist. Like they’re diagnosing her with a cold.” His voice held a tremor of anger, of disbelief. He couldn’t understand how they could reduce their daughter to a list of symptoms.  He felt a surge of protectiveness, a primal instinct to shield Ellie from this cold, clinical assessment of her very being.  His hand tightened around his mug, the heat a small comfort against the rising tide of anxiety.  The whirring of the computer fan seemed to mock his efforts, a relentless counterpoint to the mounting dread.

Alicia nodded, her mouth tight with unshed tears. A wave of self-doubt crashed over her, a torrent of guilt and "what ifs" threatening to drown her. Had she missed something? Had there been signs? Flashbacks flickered in her mind—Ellie trying on her heels when she was four, the look of pure joy on her face, a moment she’d dismissed as childish play. Now, that memory felt different, charged with new significance. “It also says, ‘Such behaviors may cause distress in social or academic settings.’”

Sam shook his head, his voice rising slightly, laced with anger and protectiveness. “Distress from who? Ellie isn’t the problem.” A fierce protectiveness flared in his eyes, a stark contrast to the confusion that clouded his features. He tightened his grip on his mug, his knuckles white.

“That’s what’s bothering me,” Alicia said, her voice cracking. The tears threatened to spill, but she fought them back. “The way this is written—it makes her sound like she’s the one who’s sick.”  She felt a surge of anger, a fierce protective instinct that mirrored Sam's.  This wasn't about curing an illness; it was about understanding and supporting their child.

She scrolled down, her finger tracing the lines of the text, each word a blow. The word "disorder" hung heavy in the air, a suffocating weight pressing down on their hope, a cold, clinical label that seemed to diminish Ellie’s very being.  The slow, methodical scrolling felt like a torturous ritual, each line a fresh assault on their hopes and expectations.

A wave of guilt washed over Alicia, a phantom ache in her chest. She pictured Ellie, her face radiant with joy as she twirled in the sundress Alicia had helped her pick out. That joy, that genuine, pure happiness, felt like a stark refutation of the coldness of the clinical diagnosis. "She’s not broken," she whispered.

“She’s not broken,” Sam insisted, his voice firm, a lifeline in the storm. He looked at Alicia, offering a silent reassurance. His heart ached with a love so deep it seemed to overshadow all their anxieties.  He squeezed her hand, a silent gesture of support and solidarity.

“No,” Alicia agreed, her voice catching. “She’s just… Ellie.” The simple statement carried the weight of a revelation, a truth that transcended medical diagnoses and clinical jargon. It was a declaration of love, a testament to the bond between them, stronger and more profound than any medical definition.

They tried a new search: "My child thinks they're a different gender". This led them to parenting forums, a chaotic mix of fear, confusion, and begrudging acceptance. The anonymous posts offered a glimpse into the experiences of other parents navigating similar situations, but the responses were often fragmented, contradictory, and laced with the fear of the unknown.  Some comments were helpful, genuinely supportive, and offered a sense of community. Others were hostile, dismissive, and laced with the cruelly dismissive language that reflected a society still struggling to comprehend transgender identities. Many were simply filled with uncertainty and fear, mirroring the parents' own feelings.  The slow loading times of the forum, punctuated by the whirring of the computer fan, seemed to amplify the sense of isolation and frustration.

“I feel like we’re reading strangers’ diary pages,” Sam murmured, a low groan escaping him. The weight of their situation was becoming almost unbearable. “No one seems to know anything.”

Alicia kept reading, her eyes darting across the screen. The words blurred, coalescing into a stream of anxieties and fears, but then, a flicker of hope. One post read: “My six-year-old says she’s a girl. We’re not sure what to do. Is it just a phase?” Another: “My son likes dresses. Should I be worried?”  Then, one that stood out, a beacon in the darkness: “I don’t care what the books say. I’m listening to my kid.”

“That one,” Alicia whispered, her eyes welling up. “That last one—that’s the one that feels right.”  The simple words resonated deeply, echoing their own growing understanding.  They were not looking for a clinical diagnosis, but a human connection, a shared experience, an affirmation of their own instincts.

Sam nodded, his gaze fixed on her. He reached out and squeezed her hand, a silent reassurance. The physical contact offered a moment of comfort in the digital chaos.

Hours passed in a blur of frantic searching and hesitant conversations.  They encountered articles filled with clinical terms – cross-gender identification, impairment in daily functioning, early intervention recommended – each word a potential source of fresh anxieties. These medical sources seemed to paint a picture of Ellie as a problem to be solved, a condition to be treated. The sheer volume of information, much of it contradictory or outright harmful, felt overwhelming.

Then, after seemingly endless fruitless searches, they stumbled upon a different kind of article—a blog post written by a trans adult looking back on their childhood. Its title was simple, yet profound: “I wasn’t pretending.” Alicia scanned the page, and a sense of dawning understanding washed over her.  The raw honesty of the post, the vivid descriptions of childhood experiences, resonated deeply with their own feelings.

The blogger’s words resonated deeply within Alicia, echoing Ellie’s own experiences, validating the emotions she and Sam had seen in Ellie. The descriptions of childhood struggles, the internal dissonance, the longing for acceptance—it all resonated. This was it. This was the confirmation they’d been searching for.

“She’s not confused,” Sam said, softly and certain. His voice carried a newfound clarity and strength. “That sounds just like Ellie.”  A wave of relief washed over him, a lightness that hadn't been present in days.

Alicia nodded, a single tear tracing a path down her cheek. The tears were a release, a cleansing, a testament to the profound shift occurring within her. The words on the screen were more than just words; they were a validation of their daughter's experience, a reassurance of their instincts. “I know,” she whispered. “It hurts how much sense this makes.”

The rest of the night was filled with more searches, articles, and shared silences. They were not looking for a cure, but an understanding, an acceptance. They were not looking to fix Ellie, but to learn how to better love and support her. They were not looking for a rule book, but for a shared journey.  The whirring of the computer fan continued its relentless rhythm, a soundtrack to their shared struggle, their shared hope.

Chapter 8: An Austin Afternoon

Butterflies and Butterflies

The sun was already high in the sky by the time they pulled into the gravel parking lot at the Jay C. Hormel Nature Center. The air, thick with the scent of warm earth and blooming wildflowers—a heady mix of milkweed and wild bergamot—hummed with the lazy drone of insects and the chirping of unseen birds. A red admiral butterfly, its wings a rich tapestry of orange, black, and white, flitted past, a fleeting splash of color against the vibrant green of the surrounding prairie. Ellie breathed it in deeply, the scent a familiar comfort, a stark contrast to the sterile smell of antiseptic that often clung to her clothes at home. She traced the embroidered silver butterfly on her purple t-shirt—a soft, almost buttery cotton—its delicate wings catching the sunlight. The texture felt soft against her skin, a stark contrast to the scratchy, uncomfortable feeling of the superhero shirts she used to wear. Today, this felt right. A small, hesitant smile touched her lips. She wasn't just wearing a shirt; she was wearing a feeling. A memory flickered – the scratchy tag of a Superman shirt itching against her skin, the way the stiff fabric felt restrictive, like a costume she couldn't take off. The memory, sharp and unwelcome, brought a sudden chill despite the summer heat. She pushed it away, focusing on the present. This feeling of rightness, of belonging, was far more powerful.

She reached for her water bottle, the plastic cool against her fingers, a welcome coolness in the increasingly warm air. She took a long sip, the water soothing the slight dryness in her throat, a dryness born not of thirst, but of nervous anticipation. The familiar weight of the bottle in her hand was strangely comforting. Alicia gave her a reassuring smile from the front seat, a small, almost imperceptible tightening of her lips that Ellie recognized as her mother's way of showing worry she didn't want to show. It was a subtle gesture, but Ellie knew her mother well enough to read the unspoken concern behind it. “Got everything?”

Ellie nodded, trying to ignore the flutter of anxiety that still danced in the pit of her stomach. "Yep." She tried to focus on the gentle sway of the tall oak trees, their leaves a vibrant green against the brilliant blue sky, a sky so clear and expansive it felt as though it stretched on forever. The sky, so vast and limitless, mirrored the possibilities that felt both terrifying and exhilarating. The vastness of the sky was a comforting contrast to the sometimes claustrophobic feeling of being trapped inside herself.

Sammy, a whirlwind of restless energy, exploded out of the backseat, already chasing a dragonfly that zipped erratically between the tall prairie grasses. "Look, a dragonfly! I'm gonna catch it!" His excitement was unrestrained, a stark contrast to Ellie's carefully contained nervousness. His unbridled joy was both infectious and slightly irritating, a reminder of how easy it seemed to be for some people.

"Don't run into the parking posts, Sammy," Sam Sr. called, his voice echoing slightly in the quiet parking lot. He slung the well-worn canvas backpack over his shoulder—a familiar weight, comforting in its predictability. Inside, Ellie knew, were the familiar comforts: juice boxes, peanut butter sandwiches, carrot sticks, and the ever-present chocolate chip cookies—a small indulgence that always managed to make even the toughest days a little brighter. But today, the thought of those cookies sent a twinge of nausea. The usual pre-outing butterflies were overshadowed by a larger, more significant feeling - a profound sense of anticipation, laced with a thread of apprehension. This was a feeling she was learning to manage, to accept as a part of herself.

The trailhead opened into a sea of swaying prairie grass, taller than Ellie herself. A wave of heat rose from the sunbaked earth, making her skin prickle slightly. A memory, sharp and unwelcome, flashed through her mind—a crowded picnic, loud adults, and the constant feeling of being out of place, her small hand swallowed by her father's large one, the feeling of being unseen, unheard, and utterly alone. The memory was a stark reminder of how far she’d come, a testament to the journey she was still on. The memory sent a brief shiver down her spine, a stark contrast to the warm sunshine and gentle breeze. But this was different. She told herself this, over and over again, trying to push the memory away. She repeated it silently to herself as a mantra: This was her day. This was her moment. It was a declaration of independence, a quiet act of defiance against the ghosts of her past.

As they walked the Prairie Loop, the crushed gravel crunching rhythmically under their feet, a grounding counterpoint to the anxious beat of her heart, Ellie noticed a tiny wildflower pushing its way up through the cracks in the gravel. It was small, fragile-looking, yet stubbornly persistent. It was a tiny burst of color against the otherwise muted tones of the path, a mirror of her own quiet strength. It reminded her of herself.

Sam Sr. pointed towards a branch heavy with leaves, "That's an Eastern Bluebird, see? It's a pretty little charmer." He mimicked the bird's call, his voice a soft, gentle sound that seemed to soothe some of Ellie’s anxiety. His attempt at lightheartedness felt both clumsy and endearing.

Sammy, ever the pragmatist, countered, "Birds don't say words, Dad." He said it with the authority of a seasoned ornithologist, his statement a sharp contrast to his father’s softer approach. Sammy's bluntness always had a way of cutting through the tension, often in surprising ways.

Sam Sr. winked. "You'd be surprised, son. Sometimes, the best words are hidden in the quietest places." He glanced at Ellie, his eyes filled with unspoken words of support, a look that conveyed more than any spoken words could have. It was a look that said, I see you, I understand, and I'm here for you. Ellie felt a warmth spread through her chest, a warmth that reached beyond the summer sun and into the very core of her being.

Ellie giggled softly, her gaze following the bird's quick flight through the trees. This was okay. She was okay. A wave of anxiety washed over her, a fleeting moment of self-doubt, but she gripped her water bottle a little tighter and took another sip, focusing on the cool plastic. This simple act was a grounding ritual, a small act of self-care that helped to center her.

As they walked, Alicia walked beside her, their arms brushing occasionally. Ellie felt a profound sense of grounding, the feeling of being firmly planted on the trail, the opposite of the feeling of floating she used to experience. “I like this trail,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. The words, once trapped inside, felt surprisingly easy to speak. It was a small victory, a small act of self-assertion.

“Me too,” Alicia replied, her voice soft, but with a firmness that gave Ellie comfort. “It’s wide enough to walk next to someone.” She squeezed Ellie's hand gently, their fingers intertwining for a moment, a silent communication of love and support. It was a small gesture, but it spoke volumes.

Further down the trail, they encountered two other families. One mother gave Ellie a lingering look, her eyes lingering a little too long on the butterfly on her shirt before quickly glancing away—a fleeting moment of judgment, easily dismissed. It was a subtle judgment, a quick assessment that Ellie had learned to identify and ignore. It was a reminder that not everyone would understand, but that didn't diminish her own truth. Ellie’s shoulders tensed, a fleeting wave of apprehension. Alicia immediately noticed and gently squeezed Ellie’s hand again. "You're safe," she murmured, her voice a soft reassurance. Ellie nodded, taking a deep breath, letting go of the apprehension. This time, it was different; this time, the apprehension didn't hold her captive. It was a passing shadow, easily overcome.

Later, at their picnic spot, a shaded clearing with a weathered wooden picnic table offering a panoramic view of the undulating prairie, Sammy devoured his peanut butter sandwich with the enthusiasm of a starving wolf. Sammy’s hunger was unrestrained, reflecting his unburdened spirit. Ellie picked at her turkey sandwich, the familiar taste somehow bland. The usual joy of a picnic felt muted, overshadowed by the underlying current of anticipation and anxiety. She watched a ladybug crawl across the table, its tiny legs moving with surprising speed, a small, independent creature navigating its world with unwavering determination—a small reflection of herself. She felt a sense of peace and contentment settle over her. It wasn't the absence of anxiety; it was the acceptance of it. This, too, was part of her. The acceptance of her own complexities was part of her journey of self-discovery.

Sam Sr., as they cleaned up their picnic, said, “You know what I like best about this place? No rules. Nature doesn’t ask questions. You don’t have to explain yourself to the trees, or the butterflies, or the wind.” His words resonated deeply with Ellie. It was a profound metaphor for self-acceptance and freedom from judgment.

Ellie smiled, looking out at the endless prairie, stretching before them like a limitless canvas. “They don’t care what you wear, either.” A new thought occurred to her, a thought she hadn't quite articulated before: "Or who you are." It was a simple statement, yet it carried the weight of years of unspoken feelings.

Alicia watched her daughter, a lump forming in her throat. This was it. This was Ellie. She was finally, truly, herself. The relief was immense, a weight lifting from Alicia's chest. The worry remained, a constant companion, but now it was intertwined with an overwhelming sense of love and pride. The sun cast long shadows as they walked back, and the crickets had already begun their evening song. The sounds of nature felt both familiar and new, an almost sacred symphony of acceptance and belonging. The whole scene felt saturated with the warmth of the day and a quiet sense of hope. This was the beginning, and it felt good. The journey wouldn't be easy, but the possibility of living authentically felt infinitely worth it. A profound sense of peace settled over Alicia, as she knew, beyond any doubt, that they were finally, truly, a family.