The Parents No One Hears

More and more parents have deep concerns about the medical transition of their minor child. Education specialist Marianne Driessen and publicist Marieke Hoogwout have heard many stories from these parents, who have almost nowhere to turn with their experiences. That is why both authors are writing on their behalf, in the hope that politicians, policymakers and doctors will finally listen to these parents too.

Imagine this. You have deep concerns about your daughter, right in the middle of puberty. Your worries may not be new: she has been through quite a bit in life. But you see her becoming more and more unhappy, withdrawing into an online world, becoming unreachable to you. And then the big words come out: "Mom, Dad, I'm actually a boy."

You listen, ask questions, embrace her. And you look for help for her. Through the family doctor you get referrals to other care providers. You love your child with every fiber of your being, you want to do everything to help her. Everything. You see her struggles; you feel how unhappy she is.

You also know that other factors are at play in her life. You wonder whether "I am a boy" can really be the only possible explanation. You have known her from the very first moment she was placed in your arms, you know every day of her childhood. You also know the difficulties she had to deal with before. Does that count for nothing at all?

You try to discuss this with your child's care providers. To plead for much more thorough attention to her other struggles. But in all those conversations, you are not being listened to. Because the doctors say your daughter is certain, and that this must be respected: she wants to undergo medical transition. The doctors start talking about puberty blockers, about male hormones, and possibly surgery later. The word "breast reconstruction" comes up. When you look it up later, you see that in this treatment it actually means "mastectomy."

You are shocked and try to ask questions: such drastic medical interventions? Based on exactly what? But the care providers and doctors go along with your daughter's conviction that she is a boy. They propose starting medication as soon as possible. Waiting longer would supposedly be risky. What risk? What is that based on? You never find out.

You start reading, you dive into the subject. You read that internationally, major objections have been raised against these treatments in children. Sweden, Norway, Finland, England: all of them are drastically restricting these treatments, after in-depth investigations. There is not enough evidence for the promise that it will make your child happier; instead, there are serious concerns about lifelong health damage, especially around loss of fertility and sexuality, but also risks to bones, brain, and heart and blood vessels.

But in the Netherlands, there is nowhere you can turn with your concerns. Who can you talk to about it? No one. Because it's about your child's privacy. And all the while, you are terrified of hurting her, of losing her. On the other hand: how can you, in good conscience, let her enter such an unproven medical path? As a parent, after all, you want to protect your child with every fiber of your being. But you stand powerless. Online, in private and safe spaces, you find others in the same situation: parents who also love their child with all their heart and grow more worried every day. You try to support each other as much as possible.

Then you hear that the Health Council, at the request of the House of Representatives, is going to investigate the Dutch practice of transgender care for young people. As parents, you feel relieved: finally an independent investigation! Finally a chance to confidentially share your concerns as parents.

You ask for a meeting and: you are turned down. Three times. The Health Council, appointed to examine every facet of transgender care for minors, refuses to meet with concerned parents. You can't believe it. But it happens.

With now more than 150 concerned parents, you bundle your questions, experiences and warnings into a critical dossier, and you send it to the council. You receive a brief confirmation of receipt. Then the report finally appears. You dive in: will it finally be proven that medical transition really helps your child? Or, if not, will the government and doctors finally put a brake on it?

It feels like a slap in the face. The report acknowledges that hard evidence is lacking and that the lifelong consequences are unknown, but states that the process in the Netherlands is carried out "carefully." And so it may continue. The critical international studies are barely weighed by the council; and there is not a single word about your dossier.

"The process is careful." But not a word about whether the outcome of that process is good for young people, or in fact disastrous. "We don't know, but carry on as before." Can you imagine what that is like for a parent whose child is being guided by every care provider toward that one single path: medical transition?

Meanwhile, the number of critical parents joining you grows every day. And you manage to get your own dossier included with the parliamentary papers, at least.

You keep hoping that someone in the House of Representatives will finally have the political courage to stand up for you. Someone who speaks on behalf of you, the parents without a voice. But above all, you hope with all your heart that someone will stand up for the best possible care for your child.