How Much Aggression Do We Need?

Considering My Approach to The "War" on Gender Ideology

Vibrant lilacs took my focus as I strolled through the Seminary Woods in mid May. I was leaving Wisconsin after 27 years, so often, I realized, barely present there. Moving to Phoenix, AZ to seek my Southwest fortune, I had one old friend to connect with before I left my juvenile life behind on my desert pilgrimage.

Indeed, she was the only friend I wanted to send off, saying a lot about my isolation in Wisconsin during my young adulthood. A friendly soul, she was an odd duck I met at the shamanic drum circle two years previously, a nature-oriented new age woman who understood PCOS, non-conformity, and spiritual healing.

I hadn’t seen her in over a year, partly because I stopped attending the drum circle due to traveling for my patient advocacy work. We both knew we had not seen each other also because of our political differences. Shamanic drum circles are not known as conservative-friendly spaces, and my stance as a bold detransitioner critiquing gender ideology would be a pile-on if I encountered the regulars in an online world.

Yet, I’d befriended her and earned positive standing with the drum crowd before I became outspoken about gender, so our relationship was a grandfathering in. It is always disturbingly uncomfortable growing apart phiopshically from friends, and on such contentious issues as transgenderism in the hyper-cancel culture of 2024.

We adored the greenery of the peaceful woods as she pointed out names of plants she had discovered in her botanical healing work. She discussed the spiritual practices she had grown fond of, and I confessed my knowing avoidance of healing work in favor of my material abundance created from young adult trauma processing. I had grown immensely in the year we had been apart, but admitted my meditation and grounding was not where I wanted it to be.

Gradually the conversation turned into a gritty acknowledgement of her disappointment in my political leanings on social media. She critiqued my Instagram posts, saying she was concerned about my aggression towards trans and queer people, that I was not acting from compassion but from victim posturing.

Chest tense, blood rushing to my head, I stood in the Seminary graveyard as a confrontation took place. I wasn’t angry, but nervous to be judged and embarrassed by my friend. She believed some of my content was inflammatory and anti-trans, ultimately against my true nature. I treated her the way I would want to be treated if I were on the giving end of tough love—I nodded, remained calm, and spoke carefully, steelmanning her concerns.

“I will concede your critique that I have not been as forthcoming about the nuance of my stance on transition as a philosophy” I concluded. “I see what you are saying regarding my approach being aggressive and how it may be perceived as incorrect or allowing for projections that I may not hold.” I didn’t feel attached, but reprimanded, not a feeling any adult willingly desires.

Debate shifted from my personal actions to the ideology of wokeness and post-modernism itself. My friend understood much, but like most critics, was not as well-studied into sexology and medical procedure as I am on the trans topic. I’m used to this, as who besides those thrust into the fray of transgender life and regret studies it so closely?

I felt fear of abandonment from my friend, but not guilt about my convictions. Eventually I found my own answer to her questions and concerns—I am here for survivors of gender ideology, not to change hearts and minds about it. I do not write for a trans audience. I am not a therapist, loved one, or doctor who must consider delegation to beliefs I find harmful. That is why my posts appear aggressive or close minded—they are addressing an audience for whom personal offense is not expected.

My friend was concerned that my hostile energy, even if not intended for an audience, still goes into the world as a negative force. On this point, I paused for consideration.

I feel like I am fighting a spiritual war against nihilism, lies, and illusions. War is brutal. There are casualties, propaganda, hurt. Perhaps “fighting a war” is not the frame one should take in life. Maybe that is too harsh, spiritually negative, destructive. Maybe war is too animalistic and not sophisticated. It gives me room for reflection. I told my friend this and that “I will internalize” her critique as time goes by. This was honest.

It is evident my friend, just like anybody, holds prejudices about my communities, allies, language, and intentions. She identified herself as a “progressive” and claimed it was not a loaded term, which is not true. However, we agreed that all sides and all parties are tribalistic. I did not debate her beliefs about the Palestine conflict, and we agreed on the abortion debate.

After debating in the graveyard for an hour, we walked back down the sunlit path and she picked me fresh lilacs to take home. We have more in common than we do differently. We remain friends.

Perhaps in fundamental disposition, we differ in disagreeableness. I may be just slightly more disagreeable and therefore driven to “fight” or publicly make waves, whereas she prefers to “live and let live” somewhat more. Neither is right or wrong, both have their utilities.

In that final hangout before my move across the country, she rose to be more disagreeable than average, and I rose to be less. Out of compassion and trust, we strengthen muscles to debate and to resolve. In a metacognitive sense, this was what I gained from her critique. I still hold my same beliefs, but was reminded of my personhood in the energetic sense that my intensity can be coarse.

While I think progressive compassion got us to the crisis we have now, it doesn’t mean compassion itself is not still ideal. She reminded me that in my convictions, acting from compassion and love before ego or resentment is the healthiest way.

As we parted, I said, “Good luck with all your Stuff.” She laughed and declared, “I love my life! Most days I say it, and I mean it. I am grateful to be here.” I was happy for her. I too, love my life much of the time, though not as often giving the gratitude I know I should.

In Phoenix I will find a new drum circle to attend. I will connect with other artists, musicians, and healers. I will continue the same spiritual journey we all traverse, but I don’t know if I will be everyone’s cup of tea. I don’t wish for divide between myself and other funky people over the culture war, but it also seems unavoidable. I’m not sure how to prevent this while also expressing the injustice and mythology around toxic sentiments.

Perhaps my friend is objectively right about all sides being toxic, and of course, I do not want to be so. A balance must be struck between snark, anger, and forgiveness. In fact, forgiveness may be the missing piece. Speaking hard truths without forgiving transgressions is dangerous territory for entitlement, resentment, and intolerance.

Hmm. It is all a work in progress. In that manner, I am extremely progressive.