Yesterday, I held a boy as he cried. I had to extend my arms to reach around him; he is no longer the little child who laced his arms around my neck as I rocked him on my hip, or the small boy who crawled into my lap in search of comfort. He doesn’t call me ‘Nana’ anymore - I have graduated to ‘Nan’ - and although I know he still loves me dearly, I also know that, like any teenager, it strains his patience when he has to explain his beloved tech to me… again. He is smart and articulate and, at times, surprisingly wise, and he cackles with delight when he cracks a pun. 

And yet there he was, pressed against me as he sobbed the awkward, wrenching tears of an adolescent, his heart breaking with the hurt that has held him hostage since he first became aware of himself. Since he first became aware that, through no fault of his own, he was born into a society that rubs and chafes him like an ill-fitting shoe. A society that asserts that the solution to his discomfort is to insist that if he just walks far and long enough in that shoe, it will eventually fit him just fine - and then criticizes him for limping or punishes him for refusing to walk any further. Instead of just helping him find a shoe that fits. 

He has so much potential, yet it is locked away, hidden behind the relentless daily struggle to conform to a standard that measures him by his struggles and ignores his strengths. And yes, many may sincerely believe that they are helping by continually pointing out where he falls short of society’s expectations. and pushing him to try harder. They just want to help him do better, to be better. But is it better when the price is pain and shame?

Especially when the result is a broken boy in my arms, sobbing: “I wish everyone didn't keep trying to help me be better. It's just too hard." And then whispering: "Sometimes I think it would be easier to be dead.”