This Is How It Always Is

Think about the family stories you tell—the ones polished for holiday dinners, the greatest hits of vacations and funny mishaps. They are the official versions, the agreed-upon history. But beneath them run quieter, more complicated currents: the stories you don’t tell. The ones whispered between parents after the kids are asleep, the anxieties that live in the space between words, the truths that are too fragile or too frightening to bring into the light. These aren't lies, exactly. They are acts of protection, attempts to build a safe harbor for the people you love most. But what happens when that harbor starts to feel like a cage? What do you do when the story you’ve carefully constructed to protect your child is the very thing preventing them from being whole?

This question is the heart of author Laurie Frankel's own family's journey. A novelist and former professor, Frankel found herself living a story she never expected to write. She and her husband were raising a son who, from a young age, knew he was a girl. The daily dance of love and fear, of public presentation versus private truth, became her reality. She wrote "This Is How It Always Is" as a work of fiction—a way to explore the universal messiness of parenting and the fierce, complicated, and sometimes bewildering love that guides it, all through the lens of her own extraordinary experience.

Module 1: The Accidental Secret

We often think secrets are born from deliberate deception. But sometimes, they emerge from awkwardness, from a moment of hesitation. This is what happens to the Walsh family. Rosie and Penn are parents to four boys. Then they have Claude. From a young age, Claude loves dresses, fairy princesses, and long hair. He wants to be a girl. His family loves him unconditionally. But when they move from rural Wisconsin to the bustling, progressive city of Seattle, a new dynamic begins.

The first step is always the hardest. A neighbor visits. She asks how many kids they have. Rosie and Penn hesitate. How do they explain Claude, who now wants to be called Poppy? In that pause, a secret is born from a lack of a plan. They simply say, "four boys and a girl." It’s easier. It avoids a long, complicated conversation with strangers. This small, seemingly harmless omission sets the stage for years of quiet concealment.

From this foundation, the family builds a new life. Poppy thrives in Seattle. She makes friends. She’s happy. She is seen as she sees herself: a girl. But this happiness rests on a fragile foundation. Maintaining a secret requires constant, exhausting vigilance. Penn takes down family photos from the walls. The pictures show five little boys, not four boys and a girl. He worries someone might ask questions. Rosie feels the loss of this visible history. The secret isn't just about Poppy. It ripples through the entire family. It creates an invisible wall between their private truth and their public life.

And here's the thing about secrets: they create their own pressure. The oldest son, Roo, feels the hypocrisy. He asks his parents why they moved to a more accepting place, only to hide who they are. He feels like the family is living a lie. The secret, intended to protect Poppy, begins to isolate the family and create fractures within it. It becomes a silent, heavy burden. This leads to an important realization: even secrets kept for love can cause unintended harm. The family’s attempt to shield Poppy from the world’s judgment inadvertently creates a new kind of prison, one built from silence and fear.

Module 2: The Two Circles of Life

The story constantly moves between two worlds. The first is the world of childhood innocence. The second is the world of adult anxiety. For Poppy, life is simple. She wants to wear a dress. She wants to play with her friends. She is lit up with joy when she can just be herself. Her world is present-tense and full of wonder.

But flip the coin. For her parents, Rosie and Penn, life is a minefield of future worries. They see the stares at the public pool when Poppy wears a bikini. They hear the whispers. Their love for Poppy is absolute. But so is their fear. This contrast reveals a central tension in parenting. A child’s joy is often shadowed by a parent’s fear of the future. Rosie, a doctor, visualizes the future as a fork in the road. One path is easy and conventional. The other, the path of authenticity for Poppy, is "rock-strewn and windblown." She is terrified of where it leads.

This anxiety forces the family to become advocates. They meet with the school principal. They talk to therapists. They navigate a world that wants to put Poppy in a neat little box. The school district representative immediately labels Poppy "transgender" for paperwork. She needs a category. She needs a protocol. This highlights a critical insight: institutions often prioritize simple categories over individual complexity. The school worries about which bathroom Poppy will use. They have a list of questions other kids might ask. Poppy’s identity becomes a logistical problem to be managed, not a person to be understood.

So what happens next? The family’s support system kicks in, revealing another set of circles. The siblings, especially the older brothers, try to protect Poppy. They stage an "intervention." They warn their parents that other kids are mean. They argue that Poppy can’t go to school as a girl because she’ll be bullied. Their concern comes from a place of love, but it’s filtered through their own social anxieties.

Then there’s the grandmother, Carmelo. She represents a different kind of wisdom. When Rosie worries, Carmelo dismisses it. She says, "I'm too old not to be open-minded." Her perspective is grounded in a lifetime of experience. She reminds Rosie that kids have always been different. This generational contrast is powerful. Wisdom from experience often trumps the anxiety of the immediate moment. Carmelo’s role is simple: to love Poppy, no matter what. Her calm acceptance provides an anchor for the entire family.