I Work With Grandparents Of Trans Kids. I’m Constantly Stunned By What I Hear Them Say.

As a gender therapist, I’m used to seeing parents reach out in crisis, teachers struggle to find the right language, and young people vacillate between moments of quiet confidence and deep fear and uncertainty in the current landscape. But there’s one group that continues to surprise me in the best possible way: grandparents of trans youth.

When people imagine advocates for kids, they don’t usually picture these individuals. But week after week, these elders show up — choosing to learn, to grow, and to fight for a future they may not live to see.

TransGenerations began in 2023 as a small, educational support group that my colleague Dani Rosenkrantz and I hoped would meet a quiet need. To our surprise, it filled almost immediately. Within weeks, we had to add a second cohort, then a third, then a fourth. When our original partnership with the Union for Reform Judaism ended due to funding, the grandparents themselves urged us to keep the group going. They weren’t done learning — or loving.

While some of those original members are still with us, the group has grown into a vibrant interfaith, intergenerational community, united by one powerful desire: to show up for the young people they love. We welcome grandparents from all backgrounds and financial circumstances, thanks in part to a scholarship fund that helps make participation accessible to everyone.

In our group, grandparents speak openly about mortality — not with fear, but with clarity. They talk about the time they have left and what kind of world they want to help shape before they go. They know they can’t shield their grandkids from every injustice, but they show up anyway — determined to do everything in their power while they still can.

In a world where older generations are often written off as rigid or out of touch, these grandparents are rewriting the script. They are unlearning decades of assumptions, grappling with rapidly changing cultural norms, practicing pronouns, correcting one another gently, and even educating their adult children. They choose curiosity over certainty, growth over comfort.

There’s the 81-year-old in Florida who calls the group her “chosen family,” and another in Illinois who ends every Zoom call with, “I love you all.” A grandfather is dreaming of a cross-country documentary tour to share the grandparents’ stories of affirming trans youth. One grandmother in Los Angeles told us her teenage grandchild texted her, “Mommy said you’re in a support group for grandparents of trans kids. That made my heart grow 10 sizes.”

And then there are the harder stories — the ones that show how transformation really happens.

There’s one grandmother who says in nearly every session that she’s not sure her grandchild is really trans. She has tested my patience more times than I can count — something we now laugh about — but her doubts haven’t disappeared. What has changed is her willingness to stay present and talk through her feelings.

At first, I thought she wouldn’t return after I gently challenged her. But she did — and not only that, she had read the articles I sent her. She brought notes. She came back with real questions. Most importantly, she continues to be respectful and affirming toward her grandchild in person. The group has become a space where she can wrestle with her fears honestly and be lovingly held accountable by other grandparents who once felt just like her.

You can see her softening, session by session. It’s in how she works harder to use the correct name and pronouns, even when it doesn’t come naturally. It’s in how she reflects on her missteps without defensiveness. Recently, after pausing mid-sentence, she said with a wry smile, “I know I shouldn’t care about anyone’s parts — so now I know better than to ask!” The group chuckled — not at her, but with her. Another grandparent added, “That was hard for me too.”

She’s growing. And so are all of us.

One grandfather recently said, “Sometimes I think it’d be easier if my grandchild were just gay.” That comment opened the door to a powerful conversation. Many in the group lived through the AIDS epidemic — when being gay meant watching friends die, being disowned by family, and living with constant fear. “Thirty years ago,” he added, “I would’ve done anything to keep my grandson from that kind of pain. And now, I’m saying the opposite. That’s how much the world — and I — have changed.”

Others, especially among our original Jewish cohorts, carry the weight of family histories marked by persecution and forced assimilation. These grandparents know what it means to be othered — to be told that hiding who you are is the only path to safety. During one session, a grandparent reflected on how deeply that instinct to blend in had been passed down in their family. “We survived by making ourselves invisible,” they said. “But I don’t want that for my grandchild.”

As the group explored these intergenerational echoes, a theme emerged: the desire to break the cycle. Just as these grandparents would never want their grandchildren to feel they must hide their faith or ethnicity to stay safe, they don’t want them to feel they must hide their gender identity either. That understanding didn’t come from a textbook — it came from their own stories, their own bodies, and a shared sense of what it means to carry inherited fear and choose love anyway.

There’s something profoundly moving about watching a Zoom screen full of people in their 70s, 80s and even 90s — people who could choose comfort or disconnection, but instead, show up week after week with notebooks in hand, eager to learn. One grandmother put it perfectly: “What better reason for becoming a lifelong learner at an advanced age than to love and support our grandchildren?”

They reflect on the gender roles they were raised with. They unlearn language they never questioned. They practice saying “my granddaughter” or “my nonbinary grandchild” aloud, letting the words settle on their tongues like a promise they’re learning to keep.

Having lost my grandparents in recent years, facilitating this group has felt like gaining a room full of wise elders I didn’t know I still needed. They come to learn from me, but the truth is, we’re all learning from each other.

And their growth isn’t just meaningful — it’s potentially lifesaving.

More than 1 in 4 LGBTQ+ youths report experiencing homelessness or housing instability at some point in their lives — often as a direct result of family rejection. The stakes are painfully high. But the presence of just one affirming adult can change everything.

According to The Trevor Project, LGBTQ+ youth with at least one accepting adult are 40% less likely to attempt suicide. For trans youth, being called by their chosen name and correct pronouns leads to 71% fewer symptoms of severe depression and a 34% drop in suicidal thoughts.

That’s the power these grandparents hold — not just to grow, but to protect. Their affirmation can be the difference between isolation and belonging, between despair and hope.

It’s not that they don’t have fears. They worry about their grandchild’s safety. They’re devastated by the current political climate. But they don’t let those fears close their hearts. They keep asking questions. They stay in the room. They volunteer. They sign petitions. They join boards and send money to grassroots organizations. They act.

In a world that often dismisses older adults as immovable or irrelevant, these grandparents are showing what radical love looks like. They’re not just bearing witness to their grandchildren’s identities — they’re actively shaping the legacy they leave behind.

A legacy of compassion, not silence. Of courage, not fear. Of love, lived out loud.

They won’t be here forever — but what they’re choosing now will outlast them all.

Note: Some details have been changed to protect the identities of individuals in this essay.

If you’re a grandparent — or know someone who is — curious, questioning, or simply wanting to show up for a trans or gender-expansive grandchild, the next TransGenerations cohort begins in late June. No knowledge required — just a willingness to grow.

Rebecca Minor, LICSW, is a queer clinician, consultant and educator specializing in trauma, gender and sexuality. Rebecca is the founder of Prism Therapy Collective, offering therapy and coaching to parents and caregivers of transgender youth. She has authored articles on LGBTQ+ youth, contributed to textbooks, and is frequently quoted as an expert on gender-affirming care. Her internationally recognized consulting and coaching work supports organizations, schools and businesses in building cultural responsiveness and inclusivity. She is adjunct faculty at Boston University and the author of the forthcoming book “Raising Trans Kids: What To Expect When You Weren’t Expecting This” (Row House, 2025).

Do you have a compelling personal story you’d like to see published on HuffPost? Find out what we’re looking for here and send us a pitch at [email protected].