Always Ash
You are fifteen, sitting on the rose-colored couch, wearing your cereal killer t-shirt. Just under the sleeve cap, raised razor scars, mostly healed. My breath catches, trying not to look at them, trying to hide my sadness. You hate that. You’re in grade 10 and barely passing. Because of lock-downs, you’ve been pushed and pulled from in-person to online classes. You stay awake all night. Can’t keep your eyes open in class. It’s been eight years since your dad’s death. You nod to my phone. My eye twitches. What now? You’ve sent me a meme. An animated cartoon of a boy wearing dark sunglasses. “Telling you I’m trans.” The boy holds his hands up. “Coming out to you in this meme.” He smiles and aims a finger gun. I straighten up. Inch to the edge of the seat cushion across from you. “Oh!” My whole body relaxes. I have 100 questions but give you the space to speak first. You chew the green plastic mushroom pendant on your necklace and tap your knee. Your eyes are happy. You tell me your name is Ash. “Hi, Ash. I’m so happy to meet you.”
I have been practicing all day. Carrying your tuxedo cat in my arms as I recite, “Hi Ash” in the mirror over and over until she finally starts to squirm. At 3:43 pm, the click of the door opens and I greet you with a big smile. “Hi Ash! I had a chat with Bowser today and let her know that you have a new name.” You scoop your cat out of my arms. Angsty blue eyes stare into my soul. “Bowser already knows.”
I wake up suddenly, the way I would when you were three and just about to call for me in the middle of the night. My tight stomach signals something's wrong. Eyelids fly open. You stand silent, staring at me in the dark.
“What is it? Is everything okay?”
“You need to take me to the hospital.”
I grasp for the overhead light, squinting for obvious signs of broken bones or physical pain. No blood. But looks can be deceiving.
You are in grade nine, the age the grief counsellor warned us about after your dad died. I want to grill you with questions. But I know the rule. If you ever need help, you can come to me. No questions asked.
“Okay.” I get up and pull on my sweatpants and a tshirt. Grab a hoodie. Downstairs I pull out a water bottle, fill it up and pull two apples out of the fridge.“Want one?” You shake your head. I put them both in my bag anyway. I head to the bookshelf in the living room and scan for something that will keep me entertained and awake for the next seven hours that are sure to follow. You watch me get ready in silence. Slouched over your phone. If it weren’t pitch dark outside, I’d think it were a Tuesday morning and we were up to get ready for school.
At the first set of lights, I look over at you in the passenger seat. The moonlight on this clear night is a beacon for my half-asleep brain. You look small as you flip through your phone.
“You don’t have to tell me, but is there anything I should know about why we are going to the hospital?” You keep scrolling.
“I took a bunch of Advil.”
“Geezus Ash! Why did you let me take my time? How many did you take? Should I run the light? Is this a break the law kinda situation?”
Under the light of the Circle K gas station sign, you half-smile, shrug. I break out into laughter. You do, too.
“Geezus” I whisper again, shaking my head and pressing my foot hard on the gas pedal as soon as the light turns green. We are silent. I glance over at you every two minutes. Still calm. Still awake. Still that half-smile.Hard wooden chair holds me up, book unopened in my lap, codes called overhead, metal carts rolling, their contents shift from side to side with a clatter, the man to the left of me sobbing, anguished, alone, the beeping keeping time with my breath. Through all of this noise, I doze in and out of fitful sleep, heart racing. The apples untouched. Water bottle half-empty, wishing I could exchange it for tea, but if I drink anymore I’ll have to pee, and that would mean leaving your side. Twelve different wires are taped to your chest, head, and arms, yet you sleep deeply beside me. We leave with an emergency referral to the Child and Youth clinic at the hospital, counselling at the Youth Centre, and a fatigue that consumes my entire body.
“You’re so lucky that you have teenagers.” A mom with a toddler, banging the side of their shopping cart with a box of Lucky Charms. I want to tell her to fucking wait. I want to growl "Do you spend your days consumed with worry that your kid might not live through high school? Do you get messages from teachers that your kid is refusing to speak, isn’t submitting work, and might not pass? Do you lie awake wishing you were better equipped and knew what to do and could just make him happy for five fucking minutes?” I smile and nod to her kid. “They’re a lot of work at that age. Take care of yourself.”
Parent-Teacher interview night. Your middle-aged home-ec teacher refuses to gender you appropriately nor use your correct name. I don’t realize how much it bothers me until I meet your gym teacher and he says, “Ash is doing great. He has a friend who works out with him.” That burly football coach gets it right every single time. I wish I’d gone back and said something to your home-ec teacher. To the doctor who misgendered and dismissed you during an assessment. To the neighbour who said he was just too old fashioned to use your new name.
Remember a few months after the trans coming out meme, we arrived at Grandma and Grandpa's house and were greeted by a rainbow on the front porch? They both gave you an extra long hug. There was a rainbow in the kitchen, in the bedroom you sleep in, and another in the bathroom. “Grandma does nothing half-ass,” I smiled. You shook your recently shaved head and laughed. I went back to that neighbour and told him he’s not old-fashioned, just an asshole.“You’re so lucky your ex is dead.” I bristle. Exes can be awful. Dealing with your dad was awful. Six years of co-parenting after I left him, sneaking out with you and your brother in the night, was awful. I spent every other weekend waiting to get a call that he had crashed the car with you in it while drinking. I’d wait in our meeting place to pick you up unsure if his car would ever show. If I’d see you again. But the pain you hold. The pain that I can not alleviate no matter how much I try. I would trade it. I would deal with it every single minute of the day, if it meant you didn’t have to carry his death inside you. I bear no other grief inside me about you. Not the moment you tell me your chosen name nor the fact that the little girl I gave birth to and cared for was gone. My grief was in knowing that if things didn’t change, I would lose you forever. All of you. The real you.
You start counselling. Bypass the two-year waitlist. Benefit of a suicide attempt coupled by a Dad who died by suicide. These past few years have gotta have some perks. For six months, you don’t speak a word to your counsellor. The two of you–they in their practical khakis, you in your oversized hoodie–play ping pong in the basement in silence for a total of 1,200 minutes.
It’s minus twelve degrees Celsius. There are only 2 other cars in the parking lot of the counselling office. Every ten minutes I turn the ignition of our 2008 Toyota Yaris and let it run long enough to warm me up. I listen to the Kitchen Help desk on CBC. It would be better if it were Your Kid is Depressed, Anxious, and Selectively Mute Help Desk, but it’ll have to do. The host describes an enchilada recipe, and I add black beans to my grocery list. Thursdays are your ‘out in the world’ day. You don't have to talk to anyone, but you must come along with me to the store. We do this after every counselling appointment until you are 18. By the time you go off to college, you’ll be able to out-shop anyone. But right now I don’t know if you'll make it, a thought that clings to the front of my mind all day, every day. I curse your dad as I sit in that cold, rusty car. Fucking Jason. Be a proper ghost and scare him into the living. Jacob Marley or Clarence, that angel from It’s a Wonderful Life. Show our son a happy future and how awful the rest of us would be if he wasn’t here. Take a break from haunting my dreams and let him hug you.
You’re sixteen years old and draw what your best friend calls boy juice into the needle for your weekly testosterone injection. As you hold it up to the light and flick the side of the syringe, I notice the patchy stubble on your chin. Shimmy your pants down so your upper thigh is visible. Left side this week. “Are you ready?” “Yup.” Your deepening voice, so sweet to my ears after a year of near silence. I insert the needle–the one part of the process that you haven’t quite mastered. You push the syringe down while I wipe the sweat from my forehead. It has taken us three months to get this level of ease. I chuckle. You raise your eyebrows at me. “Remember when we first started doing this? I thought for sure that the needle was going to end up in the wall one of those times you knocked my arm mid-strike!” You pull Bowser up to your lap and laugh.
Just before you were born, your dad was told his job was being restructured. He would lose all of his autonomy. For him that was worse than getting fired. He hated being told what to do and became more volatile, more violent. “Quit.” I told him. “And while you’re at it, pick a new career. Find something that you enjoy. That makes you happy. Go back to school. We’ll downsize. We’ll figure things out. We can’t live this way.” Although he quit, he stayed in the field that had made him miserable for 15 years. He hated change almost as much as being told what to do. This was a nail in the coffin as they say. You came out as Ash after 15 years of avoiding mirrors, knowing you were living a lie, and telling me things needed to change. You did it because you knew the stakes were life and death.
Calgary schools require parents confirm child's sex at birth under new girls' sports rules. The headline on a September 2025 CBC news article. My armpits sweat. My jaw tightens. I keep reading. Cis girls are refusing to have their sex confirming papers signed, refusing to play if it means that their peers, their friends, won’t be able to join them. Thirteen-year-olds with more courage than the so-called leaders who are supposed to protect them. My heroes. Our future.
Friday night. I call you at your house in Windsor. You now live 480 kilometers away and I miss having you here. Love that you answer the phone when I call–mostly.
“Random question. Would it be appropriate to call you my favourite queer on Instagram?”
“What?”
“I’m posting a picture and my hair looks so good and I want to give you a shout out. The post is actually about being an ally and so I thought I’d add, ‘hair by my favourite queer, Ash.’”
“What?”
“I was going to say my favourite queer son, but that kind of sounds like Rain is queer too and I don’t think he is, so it doesn’t really work.”
“Maybe this could be his coming out post?”
“Hahahaha. Oh my god, could you imagine?”
“Some people are offended by the use of queer and see it as a slur, especially if you are not part of the community.”
“Maybe I should just use a rainbow?”
“Sure mom, a rainbow would work.”
“Okay, should I also include a flag?”
“If you want.”
“Should I use all of your flags?”
“Why don’t you stick with a rainbow.”
“Perfect. Thanks, love you!”
“Love you.” Your husky voice. I can hear you rolling your eyes. I will never tire of this.
The basement floor is covered with 14 year’s worth of your English essays, report cards, and school photos. I’m packing things up to decorate the guest bedroom. Your old room. The place you’ll sleep when you come home to visit. Your birth name on the papers looks unfamiliar. Your pictures look as if you are playing dress-up. I know–because you’ve taught me–that clothing does not have a gender, but you look like you want to throw up in that ruffly, pink dress. I’m sorry, Ash. How did I miss that?
I FaceTime you just so I can see your bright blue eyes. Hear your voice. So we can laugh together. So I can breathe. “Meet Sterling." You hold up a loppy eared tabby kitten. “Another one?” I start to lecture about the cost involved. Stop. You are 19 and have just moved into a house with four friends and three–no, four–cats. You call your housemates and the cats family. You graduated from college with a certificate in hair styling. You have a braided rat tail down your back. Your dad would approve–did you know he had a mullet when I met him? I help you compose emails to your landlords, set up direct deposit payments for utilities, and talk you through advocating for yourself at the pharmacy. Although I held you in my arms when you were born, at 15 years old I met you for the first time on our rose-coloured couch. Those healing razor-blade scars, barely concealed. Your nervous smile. Your courage. The meme that introduced us. Now you move with a quiet ease. Brilliant wit. Scars faded. I aim a finger gun at you, “You’re doing great, kid.”
There’s a rainbow inclusion poster taped to the cabinet door behind me. I’m wearing my blue, white, and pink You Will Have to Go Through Me t-shirt. Not doing things half-ass is genetic. You shake your head at me and laugh. We hang up. I hold the phone against my chest. Release my breath in a long, steady flow. How long have I been holding it? Gaze out the window, at the leaves turning bright yellow, orange, red, hanging from the row of lilacs, at the chipmunk carrying two entire peanuts in his tiny mouth. Winter is coming. A beautiful transition.
-Erica Richmond
Erica Richmond (she/her) is an author, writing coach, and public speaker based in Peterborough, Ontario. Her writing primarily explores mental health, grief and healing. “Always Ash” is from Erica’s experimental memoir-in-essays about healing from complicated grief as the mother of two children whose father died by suicide.