The Mental Wolf: Mourning the Dream, Loving the Child

There are moments in life when the ground shifts, and the family you thought you knew feels suddenly unfamiliar. For a parent, one of those moments comes when their child sits them down and whispers, “I’m not who you think I am.” It is not whispered in rebellion. It is whispered in desperation, with tears that have been bottled for years. On the other side of the table, a parent feels their chest tighten. The words land like a thunderclap. All the memories—the baby blanket, the school photos, the vision of walking them down the aisle one day—suddenly feel fragile, almost false.

It is in this moment that mourning enters the room. Few want to talk about it, but it is there. Parents grieve, not because their child has died, but because the picture of the future they held so tightly has begun to dissolve. And teens grieve too—because they feel unseen, unheard, and terrified that by speaking their truth they have shattered the love of the people they need most.

The wolf knows silence prowls these homes like a predator. It convinces the teen they are unloved, convinces the parent they are being replaced, convinces both that they stand on opposite cliffs with no bridge in sight. But silence is a liar. Love has not disappeared. It is buried under layers of grief, fear, and misunderstanding, waiting to be unearthed.

Parents grieve for the life they imagined. They think of prom pictures, of weddings, of grandchildren, of holidays where family traditions would be passed down in ways they understand. They see that dream slipping away, and they don’t yet know that life can take new shapes, that families are not erased when children take different paths. They also grieve because they grew up in a time when gender was a fixed script. Boys were raised one way, girls another, and those rules gave order to a confusing world. Now that script has been rewritten, and they feel unprepared to play a role in this new story. Beneath the grief often lies guilt. Did I do this? Did I fail? Did I not protect my child? Parents sometimes turn inward, blaming themselves rather than realizing their child is not broken but discovering themselves.

And yet, while parents are mourning, the teen is fighting a storm of their own. They walk through hallways where every glance feels like judgment, where every pronoun used by teachers or friends feels like a dagger. They scroll through their phone and see stories of people like them finding joy, but also stories of people like them being beaten, mocked, or erased. They know the statistics—transgender individuals are far more likely to attempt suicide than their peers, not because of who they are, but because of rejection, isolation, and despair. They need their parents to stand by them like a shield, but they fear that the very act of being honest will break the bond they rely on for survival.

Both sides are afraid, but their fears are mirrors of each other. The parent fears losing the child they thought they had. The child fears losing the parent they still desperately want.

This is where the wolf calls for honesty. Parents must be allowed to mourn, but mourning must never sound like rejection. A child who hears, “You are not my son anymore,” or “I’ve lost my daughter,” hears death in those words. They hear that their existence has been erased, even though they are still sitting in the room, breathing, aching, begging to be loved. Parents must learn to separate the dream from the child. The dream may be gone, but the child is still here, alive, reaching out for love.

At the same time, teens must understand that their parents’ grief is not always proof of hate. It is proof of how deeply their parents dreamed for them. Parents are human, raised in a world with rigid definitions, carrying decades of life experience that whisper warnings. They know that the world can be cruel. They worry about jobs, relationships, safety, violence. They fear that their child is choosing a road filled with suffering. It is not rejection—it is fear dressed in heavy armor.

Imagine a conversation at a kitchen table. A teen, trembling, says, “Mom, Dad, I don’t feel like your son. I feel like your daughter.” The parent sits frozen, eyes wide, heart racing. A hundred sermons, a thousand traditions, a million memories all collide in a storm. But then they look at their child’s tears and say, “I don’t understand this. I don’t even know what it means. But I know this: you are mine, and I love you.” The bridge does not collapse. It shakes, it sways, but it holds.

Research shows that family acceptance is one of the most powerful predictors of mental health outcomes for transgender teens. One large study found that transgender individuals rejected by their families were more than twice as likely to attempt suicide compared to those who were supported. Support does not mean parents must abandon their beliefs—it means they must refuse to abandon their child. Even small gestures—listening, using a chosen name, attending a counseling session—can cut suicide risk nearly in half. That is the power parents hold.

And yet, parents often do not know the options that still exist. They imagine their child will never have a partner, never build a family, never carry on traditions. But reality is more nuanced. Transgender adults do marry. They do have children—sometimes biologically, sometimes through adoption, sometimes through blended families. They do celebrate holidays, pass on traditions, build communities. The dream is not gone—it is simply different. Parents who believe they have “lost everything” often discover, over time, that what they feared was death was really transformation.

Still, belief systems weigh heavily. Some parents feel torn between their faith and their child. Some fear community rejection. Others cling to the conviction that this is a psychological struggle, not an identity. These beliefs are real and deserve respect. But belief without love builds walls. And a child, faced with walls, too often runs into despair. The wolf urges parents to hold their beliefs in one hand and their child’s hand in the other, refusing to let either go. You can wrestle with theology later. You cannot wrestle with grief at a funeral. Choose love now, while your child is still here.

For teens, patience is the challenge. It is easy to mistake hesitation for hatred, grief for rejection. But healing takes time. Parents raised in a world of absolutes do not shift overnight. Patience does not mean silence—it means continuing the conversation, allowing the bridge to be reinforced plank by plank. Vulnerability, not accusation, is the strongest tool teens carry. “I need you. I’m scared. Please walk with me.” Those words open hearts more than any debate.

The wolf knows this wilderness is treacherous. Suicide stalks those who feel abandoned. Fear stalks those who feel helpless. But the pack survives by staying together. Parents may grieve, teens may ache, but the bridge of love must not be abandoned.

To the parent: you are allowed to mourn. You are allowed to wrestle with belief. But do not let mourning convince your child you wish them gone. They are alive. They are here. Hold them.

To the teen: you are allowed to ache. You are allowed to cry out against the silence. But do not mistake your parents’ confusion for the absence of love. It is buried, but it is there. Give them time.

The wolf reminds us that packs are not perfect. They stumble, they fight, they bleed. But they survive because they never leave one behind. In this wilderness of identity, belief, and love, the rule is the same: never leave your own behind.