Poeaxtry's Prism

Spell. Stone. & Sparks that Ignite Change

Tag: losing a parent

  • Why I Called My Stepdad Dad 1 and My Biological Dad Dad 2

    Why I Called My Stepdad Dad 1 and My Biological Dad Dad 2

    When I was two, my mom and my stepdad made their relationship official. He worked the barges then, and I remember looking at photos of all the gifts he’d bring me back when he was off the boat. By the time I was seven, they married, and I stood in the wedding as a child who didn’t yet have the words to describe what I knew deep down… this man was already a father to me. He is the father of my twin sister’s, but he raised me as much as he raised them. If not more. I sometimes feel like I got the best of our parents, but that’s another story. He was there for everything: my games, my chorus concerts, my basketball practices where he taught me how to perfect my jump shot. He showed up, over and over, in the small everyday ways that add up to a lifetime of love.

    That’s why I called him Dad 1.

    And I said it to both of their faces. And everyone else’s face. I didn’t care and I still don’t.

    My biological dad, the one tied to me by blood but not by presence, became Dad 2. He didn’t take that lightly. Actually he flipped out. I can still remember his anger when I claimed my stepdad as my first dad. But I remember more of his anger than. I do anything else about him. I can also remember darker things: him stalking my mom and stepdad from bar to bar, trying to intimidate but never standing tall when confronted. One night, my stepdad called him out, made him stand, and he folded. He was the barstool coward. He definitely stood up on one and proclaimed he was a “pussy” so he didn’t get beat down.

    The contrast between the two couldn’t have been clearer. One earned the title through presence, love, and constancy. The other lost it through absence, fear, and bitterness.

    My stepdad passed away three years before my mom, taken by cancer. Our relationship wasn’t perfect but we were working on it. Losing him took that away and when my mom followed though they weren’t together and hadn’t been, the wound split wide open again. But his role in my life is undeniable: he wasn’t a replacement father, he was my father.

    That’s why when you see my poem by the title of Dad 1, you know now what it means. It isn’t casual. It’s deliberate. The names weren’t a joke, or a jab. They were a truth I recognized early: fatherhood is about presence, not just blood. 🩸

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  • Overcoming Fear Through Transition and Loss: A Trans Man’s Tribute to His Mother

    Overcoming Fear Through Transition and Loss: A Trans Man’s Tribute to His Mother

    What fears have you overcome and how?

    I’ve overcome fears that don’t scream loud but echo. Quiet ones. The kind that pull up a chair and settle into your bones.

    I feared that becoming me would cost me everyone, and for a while, it did. I feared my voice would never drop far enough for the world to let me be. Feared mirrors, waiting rooms and ID checks. I feared that no matter how hard I tried, I’d still be some ghost caught between versions.

    But I transitioned anyway. I started long before most people understood. Seven years before she died, I was already halfway home to myself.

    And my mom… she didn’t just accept me. She showed up. She took care of me after surgery. Made sure I had soft blankets and real food. Talked to nurses when I couldn’t. Sat by my side with her steady warmth when the world felt too heavy to hold. She loved me as her son, not after time, not with hesitation, but with her whole heart.

    I thought that meant I’d have more time. That she’d be around to see the rest of me grow into the man she already believed in.

    But life doesn’t ask for timing. It just takes. Losing her wasn’t a dramatic moment. It was slow, then sudden, and then everything was different. The fear that followed wasn’t about being trans anymore. It was about being here without her. How do you keep going when the person who provided unconditional love is no longer here? How do you continue when those words are no longer spoken?

    That’s the fear I never knew how to name, learning to live without her.

    But somehow, I kept going. I carried her voice in the wind. In old voicemails. In the way, I still make tea like she did. I kept writing. Kept healing. I didn’t stop transitioning. I just started becoming someone who was able to grieve and grow.

    So what fears have I overcome?

    Plenty still reside in my ribs. I’ve stared down identity loss, transphobia, surgery scars. Then the bottomless grief of losing the one person who held it all together. I’ve found home in my reflection. I’ve become a man she’d still recognize, and be proud of.

    And I learned that love can outlive the body.

    That becoming isn’t something you do until someone dies.

    It’s something you keep doing, because they loved you enough to help you start.

    I’m still here.

    Trans. Grieving. Growing.

    Unafraid to begin again.