“The only thing I let my kid choose is her bedtime story. Choosing her gender is ridiculous," another said. “I feel so sorry for your poor daughter that her narcissistic mother is using her for attention. Directing your daughter into a warped, 'alternative lifestyle' so [you] can write all about it and try to gain a wider audience.” As if I became an LGBTQI advocate for the Instagram likes.

I didn't. I did it because over 50% of transgender teens attempt suicide and because violence against trans people is an epidemic. I did it because the decision to love and support him is a decision that could make the difference between life and death. I did it because all kids deserve respect.

One day, about five years ago, I noticed that Penelope — once such a happy and adventurous kid — had become sad and nervous. Everything about him showed signs of anxiety and anger. Chronic nail biting, bedwetting and nightmares plagued him. At two, he was carrying a burden on his shoulders much bigger than himself. So, I sat down with him — face to face — and asked him, “What’s wrong, baby?” It was then that he told me, “Everyone thinks I’m a girl, and I’m not. I’m a boy," all the while crying deep, heavy sobs.

As a mother, when you see your child in pain, all you want to do is stop the pain. So I told Penelope that however he felt inside was fine by me. And what came next changed my world forever, “I don’t feel like a boy mama, I am a boy." Those four words changed everything. I realised that something I'd imagined to be concrete — the gender of my child — wasn't. What Penelope was talking about wasn’t just self-expression — it was identity. And who am I to question anyone’s identity, even my own kid's?