Ever since I was little my mom has been there for me. Even if I thought she was annoying or strict, she was there. Her greenish blue eyes and dirty blonde hair takes up most of my childhood memories. The most annoying thing of all is when she would say “because I said so.” Even as a kid I was always looking for a reason. I would ask “why does this happen? Why can’t I go out today? Why can’t I get this?” She never gave me a real answer. But she was with me more than ever when the corona virus hit.

 My mom was never a social person, so even when I was with her, she was always working or staring blankly at the TV. Since I didn't have much else to do, I decided my best bet for not going insane was the internet. In a way, that was a good decision, and a bad one.

You see, over quarantine I was extremely lonely. I didn't have many friends and the ones I had didn't even have my phone number. Naturally, I became pretty depressed. What’s the point if I can’t learn and become someone important or even have fun with friends? So I spend most of my days in my familiar (yet too small for me) messy bed, staring into the bright, white light on my computer screen. As my only distraction from these thoughts, YouTube and TikTok.

 This showed me other people, things they were interested in, things they believed, and when you’re on it enough, you tend to figure out what you like and what you believe.

 While scrolling through the depths of the internet I came across the term non-binary. Things like this weren't necessarily unheard of, but this is the most strayed from the binary of all. (Pun intended.) I read through long articles and watched videos. I decided that non-binary was the closest to what I felt.

 I could never really fit in with boys nor girls. They would always put me aside as that one weird kid. Though I grew up very girly I didn't quite understand why I couldn't wear long shorts or baseball caps. My mom would give me her old, torn apart barbies (which usually only had a half a head of hair left) and such, so that ‘girlishness’ was the only thing I had to cling onto, to be interested in. Lately, my mom had noticed that I started dressing more like a ‘tomboy’, she would call it. But soon, it would be more than that. When I heard my name or the word “she” in reference to me, I would become queasy and my limbs would tighten and lock up, like it just wasn't right. So when I looked into it, an alternate gender that didn't assign a role, I decided that that was the closest thing to how I felt or my identity.

 So, as one does, I told my friends and they were completely in agreeance. Eventually, I figured that to be as comfortable as possible, I would have to tell my mom.

 I took a while to put my thoughts together, what I believe and what I don’t. I concluded that I didn't see the point of ‘boy’ and ‘girl’. On the internet, everyone was talking about how girls don’t have to wear long flowing skirts or get married. In fact, girls didn't even have to like boys. So if being a girl or a boy doesn't mean that you have to do or be anything at all, why do we need it? What does boy and girl really mean? I read that male and female were terms for your body and girl and boy were terms for how you present. But if feminine doesn't mean you have to be a girl, then what’s the point? So in all I decided that gender is a social construct that has faded away with small remnants left. Girl, boy, man, woman, all old roles in society that we don’t abide by anymore. But my thoughts are different from others, so I had to choose a gender that was mostly centered around being androgynous.

  Once I figured this out, it was time to talk to my mom. I was in full understanding that she would be accepting immediately, or so I thought. I could already hear her soft, yet tired voice saying “Okay, I’ll try my best to make you feel accepted.” You see, she is a therapist, always talking about her clients. She mentions that she has trans clients, non-binary client, etc. She saw them just as normal people, in fact, she was even interested in the matter. So naturally, she would accept me.

  A couple days after my discovery, I walked downstairs with my long knotted hair trailing against my neck. The fresh summer heat leaked through the panes of the window onto my cold, veiny skin. My mom, as usual, is sitting on the couch watching the newest Facebook posts as I sit down next to her. My dog has barely enough room left to jump up next to me and politely request some good morning pets by putting her head under my hand. That’s when I realized I was shaking. My stomach was twirling and my eyes shift toward my mother. I push aside the strong scent of newly bought candles and the rambling thoughts in my head. Let’s get this over with.

 “Mom?” I say with a barely shivering voice, starting simple. To be blunt, I was trying to prolong the statement for as long as I could, but it didn't last long.

 “Yes, sweetie?” she replies, Still staring intently at her phone. Here we go.

 “Um, I just wanted to ask you if you could refer to me as Alex and use they/them pronouns. Jack told me all about being non binary and I think I am too,” I concluded, using the least shaky voice I physically could.

 Though I mostly found my information from the internet (long, multiple page complicated essays from professional scientists and some colleges, etc.) my friend jack told me some too. I knew that if I said that I found it on the internet, she would say I was only ‘doing’ it because it’s “the new trend.”

 Next thing I knew, she said something that I was never expecting to hear.

  “No you’re not.”

 Her eyebrows sterned together as she turned her phone off and eerily looked into my eyes, as if trying to persuade me into something. Confused, I looked around as the room turned cold.

 “What?” I questioned. She gave me that one look that says ‘I’m right, your opinion is inferior.’ Looking into her stare, the world started to spiral, like it was all a bad dream, it was just going to end.

 “No your not, you’re just confused. Trust me its a faze. You have been girly your whole life. You played with barbies, wore skirts, and even had a Disney princess decorated room,” My mom rambled on. “I have known you my whole life and you can’t just change on me now. It’s okay for other people to be trans, but not you.”

 She rambled on and on and on in a whiny yet stubborn voice that continued to echo in my brain. At this point I didn't even care anymore. What does she think she knows? I look into her bloodshot eyes with introket purple and blue lines up and down her face. A skirt and a barbie cannot define me.

 “If you aren’t going to give me respect for my beliefs and preferences, then I guess you don’t deserve mine.”

 I attempted to sound unfazed, but it didn't work out well, as I gasped in between each word as if I was drowning. I was always a pretty stubborn kid, I like to stick with my opinions. In fact, I constantly got told that I should become a lawyer starting from the ripe age of 6. But despite being stubborn and upset with my mom, I completely blanked on an argument statement, or even an objection.

 So, I pet the dog one last time and headed up to my room, tears streaming from my eyes as I fought to hold them back, emotion is a weakness.

I've always been sensitive, but this conversation left my entire bed left with tear stains.

 Upstairs, I realized that watching tiktoks and eating ice cream wouldn't make my problems go away. So as one does, I go online and rant in a google doc about how I feel.

 My fingers practically moved on their own, one letter at a time. I decided that my biggest problem was choosing which song to play while I write and I decide on telling my Alexa to play something random. I rant and rant to some angsty nirvana song until I couldn't feel my fingers.  When I was done, I (tried) to go to sleep. The next morning, at 8 AM I wake up with stinging eyes, no surprise. The surprise was that my mom was at the foot of the bed, right next to me. Her hair was in what my family called a ‘rats nest’ and she seemed not put together. She was holding a small box. Here we go again.

 “Good morning I guess,” I mutter. She hands me the mysterious box and I take it.

 “I’m so sorry, I read about it more and I fully accept you. It’s just so confusing when you know someone their whole life as one person and suddenly their another.”

 Frankly, I didn't understand. But what I did understand is where she was coming from. My pronouns don’t change my identity even if they are a part. I understand that she grew up in an unaccepting society with no comprehension of different pronouns or genders. But I was taken by surprise. One day she is completely against it, the next day she’s crying at the edge of my bed, promising to support me and handing me a gift. The other night I was even thinking about cutting her out of my life as much as I could. (Dumb, right?) Nonetheless, I was ecstatic, not visibly, as in I wasn't even smiling, but I finally felt giddy and filled with joy for the first time since the outbreak.

 I hug her and her soft, moley skin and thank her as I carefully open the box. It was a small, shiny gold necklace with the name Alex on it. It shined in the dull, dying light of my room like the sun in space. It almost felt like an ancient relic, like I had discovered something powerful; important. Something about the necklace gave me a feeling that it was a little more then just a cute necklace with my name on it, that it would mean something much more important. My mom reaches behind her neck and shows me that she has the same exact necklace but with her name.

 “Your identity is a part of you, own it. It may be difficult to get used to, but I will try my best,” she says softly. She looks like she deeply regrets what she said, like it got someone killed or something.

 I hug her again, (this time it was more of a bear hug though) as I slide the necklace on. This is when I realize that she really accepts me for who I am and that I have a place in this family. With the necklace on, I felt like a whole new person, I exploded with confidence and finally felt like I knew who I was.

 “Thank you mom, I love you,” I state with tears in my eyes, holding and playing the necklace on my neck.

 “I love you too,” she simply responds.

 I spent 2 years wearing that necklace without taking it off. At some point, it began to feel like a body part of my own, to the point where I didn't even recognize that I was wearing a necklace. The necklace almost felt like a protector of sorts, protecting me and my identity from invalidation, assumptions, and ignorance. But not only that, it symbolized the values of family, love, change, emotion, education, and acceptance. Slowly, over time my parents adapted to my pronouns, and so did everyone else. When they did, everything finally felt put together, like I was finally my own person. All the pieces of the puzzle had been attached and now, I had room to expand.