NAAVoices was not created from certainty, but from lived experience and professional insight. As I migrate earlier work from the original platform, this post has been reviewed and approved for transfer. It remains true to its original context, with only minor clarity edits where needed. Some moments do not require rewriting to remain honest.

27 February 2025

It is only when I look back over the past six months that I realise just how different our reality could have been without acceptance, love, and a willingness to put a child’s needs first.

This post is rooted in reflection, personal growth, and the quiet clarity that sometimes only comes with time. Looking back has brought me a little peace. It has also helped me join the dots.

Although I remember many of the moments that led to my child identifying as female from such a young age, I sometimes wish I had written more down. But in another sense, perhaps what mattered most was not documenting every detail, but allowing freedom, expression, and acceptance to lead the way. That is what allowed her to shine.

I have kept the heart of this post true to how it was originally written. Since then, those around us have worked hard to use the correct pronouns, and we continue to do our best to support her in every way we can. I wrote the original draft four months before my four-year-old was able to fully express the depth of how she felt. It has been a journey. It has not been perfect. At times, I have wondered whether I should have noticed sooner.

To my beautiful little one — you are the brightest star I have ever seen, now that you are free to be yourself.

Draft originally written on 10 August 2024

The post I was too scared of judgement to share

I have a four-year-old who, from quite early on, loved playing with dolls and adored Princess Poppy, just like her older brother once did. What began with small interests gradually became more consistent. It turned into a Frozen dress, and for 18 months she asked for one.

Growing up, there were three of us. I am the middle child, with an older sister and a younger sibling who does not use pronouns. We refer to them as “auncle”.

I have always believed that people should be free to be themselves. I have always recognised that stereotypes around gender, sexuality, and social roles can be restrictive, harmful, and deeply unfair.

As a parent, I have always tried to raise my children with the belief that everyone is equal, that no one is “better” than anyone else, and that kindness costs nothing.

I have never believed boys should only like blue, girls should only like pink, or that children should be boxed into certain toys, clothes, or interests.

That had already been clear with my older son, who once loved Princess Poppy costumes, dance classes, and hairdressing toys.

Although my ex-husband initially found some of it unusual, he never allowed his own views to shape or limit our son. That little boy is now 12 years old, over 5 foot 7, and would be mortified if he knew I had written this about him.

Now he is into rugby, the gym, running, and Xbox. I am incredibly proud of him for being exactly who he is, regardless of anyone’s expectations about gender or interests. He is funny, compassionate, and accepting of everyone.

This weekend, the older two were with their dad, and I took my youngest to a toy sale. Like most four-year-olds, she was full of excitement, pointing at everything she liked. Since she had been allowed to choose her own toys more freely, the house had become increasingly sparkly and pink. We had already bought a Barbie campervan and some Barbies, and that had not bothered me at all.

But when she asked for the Barbie Dreamhouse, I hesitated.

That hesitation was not about her. It was about what had been done to me.

What I realised in that moment was that four years in a toxic relationship had not only affected my identity, but had also changed the way I saw myself as a parent. It had created a version of me I did not recognise — one shaped by anxiety, fear, and the constant pressure of anticipating judgement.

For a split second, I questioned my own instincts. Was it okay to buy it? What would people think?

That was not who I truly was. But the fact those thoughts appeared at all told me just how much damage had been done.

Why should it be wrong for a four-year-old to want a doll’s house?

The man running the stall was with his daughter, whose toys were all pink and glittery. He seemed to notice my discomfort, though it had nothing to do with him or his stock. I had simply frozen.

At that point, I was off work. I had finally admitted I needed help for what I had been through and was trying to learn how to live with PTSD.

I had never had an issue with dolls, dresses, babies, or Frozen. But over time, I had been made to feel that these things were wrong if they did not fit someone else’s beliefs.

That same day, the gentleman at the stall spoke openly about how, when he was younger, he used to dress as a girl and how his family had questioned what that meant. It struck me deeply.

I felt ashamed that I had allowed fear to creep into something that should have been simple.

Just two weeks earlier, I had gone to a solicitor’s office to collect a parcel for my child. She wanted to wear her Elsa dress. Instead of simply letting her, I found myself trying to persuade her to wear “regular” clothes because I was frightened it would somehow be reported back to my ex.

I was scared that allowing her to wear a dress would lead to more accusations, more scrutiny, more control.

And that is what it always came back to: control.

My ex had controlled my life for so long that even after I had left, I still panicked about what he might say, what he might do, and whether I would somehow be punished for allowing my child to be herself.

I had spent so long living under someone else’s judgment that I had started to question my own values.

For four years, I felt as though I had lived with two versions of myself. One was the woman constantly bracing for threats, fear, and fallout. The other was the version of me that still existed at work — the one who was grounded, compassionate, professional, and clear on what was right.

Looking back now, I know that version was the real me all along.

The fear was never my identity. It was the effect of abuse.

When a patient walks through my door, I do not see labels first. I do not assess someone’s worth based on gender, identity, relationship status, work, or appearance. Every person is entitled to dignity, safety, and respect. Nobody has the right to strip that away.

That day, my child and I left the sale with the Barbie Dreamhouse and the biggest smile I had seen in a very long time.

On the way home, I said, “Yes, you are my beautiful little boy.”

And she replied, “No mummy, I’m your beautiful little girl.”

This time, I did not correct her. I did not shut it down. I did not try to control what she was expressing.

Instead, I listened.

I had fought so hard to get control out of my own life. She deserved the same freedom — the freedom to tell me who she was, without fear.

So I said, “Yes, you are my beautiful little girl, if that is what you want to be.”

At the time, neither of us fully understood what that moment would come to mean. We did not yet know that this was more than role-play. There were many moments before and after it, many small signs and snippets that only make sense now when I look back.

Six months later, I had what felt like a completely different child — happier, more carefree, and more confident. She had begun wearing girls’ clothes to school and had been met with wonderful support from family and friends.

We are still finding our way. We are still learning. We are still navigating this path together.

But she is loved for who she is. She is wanted. She is accepted.

And perhaps most importantly of all, she is now confident enough to correct anyone — including me — when we get her pronouns wrong.

She is still finding her feet at school.

But she is finding them as herself.

February 27, 2025