How the Catholic mother of a trans child learned to trust in God’s plan

My Catholic faith has gifted me with clarity and purpose through life’s joys and hardships. I have found solace in Scripture, strength in prayer and community in the church. My faith is not something I only practice on Sundays—it is woven into every aspect of my life.

Along with being a wife and mother, God also called me to teach. Raised in post-war Vietnam, I grew up with limited electricity, few modern conveniences—and a strong emphasis on discipline and education. After immigrating to the United States in the early 1990s, I pursued my education and served in the army, then began teaching in 2003 after moving to Arizona with my husband. There, I witnessed the disparities in education firsthand. Some of my students dropped out; some were angry and lost. But every now and then, I would hear my name shouted across a courtyard by a former student, telling me they enlisted in the military or earned their G.E.D. I realized that my role wasn’t just to teach equations or coding—it was to serve those who needed me most.

My Vietnamese upbringing taught me that education is about character as much as intellect. I would tell my students, “The only person you need to compete with is yourself.” I wanted them to become lifelong learners, not just to succeed in school but to contribute to society with integrity. Through all these experiences, I sought to build a meaningful life for my family, my colleagues, and my students, guided by faith and resilience. 

Despite all this formation, nothing prepared me for my child coming out as transgender. It was a moment that challenged my understanding of love, faith and acceptance. Navigating that journey reshaped my vocation as a parent and educator, and deepened my relationship with God.

My daughter’s coming out

In 2002, I was blessed with identical twin boys. For years, I believed I was raising two sons who shared the same face and the same childhood memories—and yet, in ways I didn’t fully understand at the time, they were growing into two very different people. During her freshman year of high school, my daughter came out as transgender, and asked us to address her as Lily. 

Lily said she had felt like a girl since she was five. I remember asking if it was just a coincidence. We had welcomed the twins’ younger sister that same year, and I wondered if maybe having baby girl things in the house influenced her feelings. Lily told me no; she had always felt this way.

As a child, Lily disliked her body to the point that she would submerge herself under the water spout in the pool. Her father once told her that water could cut steel, and she innocently hoped the water might change her. Lily and her twin brother were in Cub Scouts and later Boy Scouts, and when he wanted to quit, she insisted they both stay. She thought if she could just try hard enough, maybe she could stop feeling like a girl.

By the time she came out to me, Lily had read extensively about being transgender and understood the road ahead. She knew that transitioning could make relationships difficult. But despite all the obstacles, Lily wanted to pursue her truth. 

Lily spoke of her fears: how difficult it would be to find love and acceptance, how society might never fully embrace her. She questioned God. Lily confided that, when she was younger, she sometimes wished she could die—not because she wanted to leave us, but because she wanted to face God and ask him why he made her this way. 

I was heartbroken about what Lily shared with me. I wasn’t sure how to respond. A part of me wondered if this was just a phase, something she would grow out of with time. 

Struggling to navigate Lily’s transition in the church

I was rooted in faith and tradition; Lily coming out in December 2016 was unfamiliar territory. I turned to my faith for answers. 

In the fall of 2016 my husband and I started a two-year master catechist program called Kino, offered by the Diocese of Phoenix. When Lily came out, I confided in my instructors, most of whom were priests. I hoped they could offer wisdom, direction or a theological framework to help me navigate this journey. 

Instead, I was met with uncertainty. Most of them didn’t have advice, only prayers. One instructor recommended that my daughter attend Courage meetings, and my husband and I attend Encourage meetings—both support groups for Catholics navigating issues related to LGBTQ+ family members. I went to a few Encourage meetings, hoping to find community and understanding, but most of the discussions centered on parents with gay or lesbian children. Their experiences did not reflect my own, and I eventually stopped attending these meetings.

One of the Kino instructors who taught Theology of the Body gave me tips on engaging in dialogue with Lily. I followed her advice, believing it would help bridge the gap between us. Instead, it backfired. Our conversations became more strained, and I felt as though I was not strengthening my connection with her, but losing it.

Determined to understand, I kept reading. I bought Building a Bridge by James Martin, S.J., and When Harry Became Sally by Ryan T. Anderson, hoping they would offer insights from different perspectives. I invited Lily to read them with me, but we often disagreed about the points in the books. I soon realized how limited the available literature was, especially from a Catholic perspective. 

Despite my efforts, I felt lost. I was still searching for answers that would help me reconcile my faith with my love for my child. Neither my church nor my studies could provide a clear path forward. I was left with only my faith, my prayers and the growing sense that this was not about finding the perfect theological answer—this was about Lily. 

At our twins’ annual checkup after Lily came out, the pediatrician suggested we contact Phoenix Children’s Hospital for support. Within three months, Lily was able to start therapy. At first, I wasn’t sure what to expect, but our psychologist—a gay man who shared that he had made peace with the Catholic Church—approached our sessions with understanding, offering practical advice and “homework” to improve our conversations as a family. He encouraged us to listen and to try to see things from one anothers’ perspectives.

We tried. And we tripped. We argued and struggled to keep praying together each night. We still attended Mass together, but Lily started trailing behind, refusing to sit in the pew with the rest of the family. Instead, she paced the perimeter of the church or sat in the adoration chapel, claiming that the parishioners and the priest were judging her. The therapist encouraged my daughter to find a church where she felt like she belonged. 

The counseling sessions widened our perspective, even if our comfort level was still far from where my daughter wanted it to be. At 16, Lily wanted to begin hormone therapy, but we told her she would have to wait until she turned 18 and could sign her own paperwork.

Then, in 2017, after six months of therapy, things took a turn for the worse. Lily became desperate, overwhelmed by a pain I couldn’t fully understand, and suffering with suicidal thoughts. 

I will never forget the fear I felt when Lily was admitted to a behavioral health hospital. When she returned home, something in her had changed. Lily let her schooling slip, something I never thought I would see from my bright, creative child. It was painful to watch as she withdrew from the potential I always saw in her.

And just as we were grappling with Lily’s struggles, life tested us even further.

In May of that year, my husband underwent brain surgery. Then, in October, my three children and I were in a car accident. My son suffered a concussion, forcing him to attend therapy for months and to miss a lot of schooling. Doctors warned that he might live with the effects for the rest of his life. The stress took a toll on him, and the following year, he developed an ulcer. Everything felt like it was falling apart.

My faith carried me through many trials in life—war, immigration, military service—but nothing prepared me to watch my family struggle in ways I couldn’t fix. I prayed for strength and clarity. But more than anything, I prayed that Lily would hold on, that somehow, we would find a way forward.

Finding community in the church

In the midst of Lily’s pain, my family’s hardships and my own uncertainty, I found solace in a small faith community. 

Since we were single and living in separate cities, my husband and I have both been nourished by our membership in the local Vietnamese Christian Life Community groups. After we married, we joined the local C.L.C. group in the Phoenix area, which consists of about ten families. The group met twice a month to share a meal, pray together and reflect on how our faith shapes our lives. When the children were younger, the parents took turns guiding the children through sessions to teach them about the faith. We live out our faith together, as a community.

There were two sisters in Christ in whom I could confide in my C.L.C. They didn’t always have answers, but they listened. They reminded me that I was not alone. And sometimes, that was enough: to be held in friendship and faith, without judgment or expectation.

As I sought out conversations with more open and compassionate priests, I began to find a different kind of support. During my annual silent retreats, I laid everything before God in prayer. My Jesuit spiritual directors helped me realize something profound: God was not distant from my pain. He was listening. He was present. And he, too, felt the weight of my struggles—not as a judge, but as a Father who loves deeply.

I also found community among educators. Since I became a catechist in 1994, I have occasionally attended the Los Angeles Religious Education Congress, which has long inspired and renewed my faith. As I wrestled with my family’s journey, I invited my husband to accompany me to the Congress. We sought out sessions on family and LGBTQ issues, hoping to find guidance. What I saw at the Congress surprised me. 

The church represented in these sessions was beginning to acknowledge the reality of families like mine. One year, I heard stories from people who either had LGBTQ family members or worked closely with LGBTQ individuals. The next year, I listened to an attorney who came out twice and was able to start serving as a youth leader at her church. Though I still had questions, it was a reminder that we were not alone—others were also searching for ways to reconcile faith and love.

A few years after Lily came out, I shared my doubts with my catechetical coordinator. I confided that I wasn’t sure if I should continue being a catechist. How could I teach when I was still searching for answers myself? To my surprise, she opened up about her own child—how they had graduated college, had a boyfriend who accepted them completely, and was taking hormone therapy to transition to male. My coordinator, too, had struggled with what this meant for her faith and her family. She had even spoken to our pastor about it. The pastor didn’t push her away or question her role in ministry. Instead, he prayed for her and encouraged her to continue her work as a catechist. He reminded her—and by extension, me—that we are called to evangelize, especially to those on the margins. That conversation stayed with me. 

I realized that God had already given me the tools to serve. He had prepared me to guide children, to help them see God’s love and to nurture their faith so that they could grow into compassionate Christians. This became my answer. Maybe my role in the church wasn’t to have all the answers. Maybe it was simply to be present, to listen, to love and to trust in God’s activity. I didn’t need to walk away from being a catechist. Instead, I was called to continue to share God’s love with those who needed it most, and to help them find God in their own questions.

Continuing to trust

Lily dropped out of high school when she was 17. She got a G.E.D. and started taking classes at a local community college, but she continues to struggle with depression and dropped out of school. She stopped going to church after the pandemic. It hurt to hear her say that the God in whom she believes is not the God with whom the church and I identify and pray. Lily started hormone therapy when she was 19. 

Last year, my husband and I supported her move to California, and just last month, a few weeks after her 23rd birthday, she moved back home. We are encouraging Lily to find a job so she can have a more structured life, and told her we would pay for her schooling if she goes back to school. She said she would, but as of right now she stays in bed most of the time. Seeing Lily depressed and being unable to help her fills me with agony.

I used to think that there was a clear answer for everything. But life has taught me otherwise. Since Lily came out, there have been moments where I can’t pray; I just sit there with tears rolling down my cheeks. I still wake up in the middle of the night wishing I had done things differently. But over time, I found a faith that could carry those questions.

In the past eight years, through therapy, spiritual direction and personal reflection, I came to see that Lily’s journey was not a deviation from God’s plan. I was reminded that Jesus always sought out those on the margins, listening not with judgment, but with love. My job, then, is not to “fix” Lily but to love her and walk with her, even when I don’t have all the answers.

These experiences didn’t offer instant clarity, nor did they erase all my doubts. They instead led me to a deeper conviction: God has a plan for Lily, for me, and for our family. It may not be a plan I fully understand, but I am learning to trust it. 

My journey as a mother, an educator and a Catholic has been one of transformation. With time, I have come to see both the joys and the trials as gifts that stretch me, teach me, and bring me closer to the love of Christ. Some gifts are harder to accept because they come with strings attached: pain, uncertainty, or challenges that test our faith. Yet, even these difficult gifts have deepened my compassion, humility, and gratitude.

Lily’s path is still unfolding, and so is mine. But I now trust that God is with us as it unfolds. At the college prep school where I teach, I continue to serve my students better, especially those who feel unseen. I continue to love my own children, even when I don’t fully understand their paths. And I continue to trust in God, knowing that he is walking with us even in the uncertainties.

This is what faith is: not having all the answers, but choosing to love anyway. I am confident that God has a plan for me—and for Lily. We just need to be patient and resilient as we await his answer.