This Is Not For You Anymore

My mother hasn’t spoken to me since December 25th, 2022. She hasn’t seen me in person since September 18th, 2020 — the day I stepped into myself fully, the day I stopped pretending for everyone else’s comfort. She lives ten miles away. Ten miles. She has stood on my porch, stared at the door, and turned away. She calls to talk to Misty. She loves to spend time with Madison. But she does not ask for me. She does not acknowledge me. She does not ask how I’m doing, what I’m writing, if I’m even okay. She makes her presence known like a ghost, a quick haunting that vanishes before she has to see me — the real me — standing in my own home, in my own skin, unashamed.

My siblings ghosted me on Christmas Day. Not a word. Not a typo, not a delay — a decision. A collective silence. And my father — who I cut off over sixteen years ago for reasons I will never again justify — used to send me a birthday message every year. One line, a single digital breadcrumb, a barely-there gesture that said, I know you’re alive. Until I transitioned. Then nothing. It wasn’t that he forgot. It was that he finally decided I wasn’t worth remembering anymore. That’s what transition cost me: the illusion that maybe, somewhere in them, there was love.

No one in my immediate family has spoken a word about my book. Not just a book — a novel selected for inclusion in the Library of Congress. That is history. That is permanence. That is my name, my words, my story etched into the literary record of this country — among the voices deemed worth preserving. And to them, it meant nothing. No congratulations. No pride. No surprise. No curiosity. No “you did it.” No “we were wrong.” I created something with my pain and my joy and my survival — and they ignored it like it didn’t happen. Like I didn’t happen.

They voted for people who would rather see me erased than alive. They cast ballots for politicians who frame people like me as threats, as jokes, as monsters. They sided with those who would strip away my rights, my dignity, my safety. And by doing that, they showed me what I’m worth to them — and that worth is zero. They still deadname me. They still misgender me. They lie to others about who I am. They say I’m mentally ill. That I’m doing this for attention. As if anyone would choose this level of rejection. As if anyone would want to walk through life this exposed. To be this hated. This misunderstood.

I am not a mother — Misty gave birth to Madison. But I am a parent. I am Madison’s parent. I helped create her, but I am not a father. I am not a man. I am not the person they quietly invent when explaining me to their friends or excusing me in whispers. I am Maya. I am real. I exist. And I am in Madison’s life every day. Whether they acknowledge me or not, I am here. I matter. And every time they engage with Misty or Madison while pretending I’m not even in the room, they don’t just erase me — they confirm how intentional that erasure really is.

But I will not go quietly. I will not shrink to fit their comfort. I will not be the shadow they wish I would become. This post is not for reconciliation. It is not a plea. It is rage and defiance and absolute clarity. I wrote a book. I built a business. I survived what they probably hoped I wouldn’t. I am still standing, still thriving — without their approval, without their love, and without their permission.

If you can pretend to love my family and still pretend I don’t exist, you’re not welcome in my life. If you vote against my right to live freely, you’ve made your choice — and it isn’t me. If the only version of me you can tolerate is the one you made up to avoid facing the truth, then I am closing the door you refused to walk through — and I’m locking it behind you.

This was never for you. It was never about your comfort. This is for me. For the woman you refused to see. For the legacy you never acknowledged. For my daughter, my partner, and the survivor you buried under your silence.

You don’t get to say my name.
But I do.
And I will never let it be forgotten.

I am Maya Dawn Fisher. And I’m still here. Thriving in the house you refused to enter.