What took time for my mom was getting the pronouns right and

The words of Laverne Cox — “What took time for my mom was getting the pronouns right and calling me by a different name. Laverne was my middle name before I transitioned.” — speak not merely of identity, but of the delicate bridge between love and understanding, between the old self and the true self, and between a mother’s memory and a child’s rebirth. This is not just a story of one person’s transformation; it is the ancient struggle of the soul to be seen as it truly is. The ancients would say that to name a thing rightly is to give it life — and in this quote, the act of naming becomes sacred.

Laverne speaks of a transition, but not only of body or appearance. It is the metamorphosis of essence — the journey of becoming aligned with one’s truth. The mother, bound by years of habit and memory, must learn to see her child anew, to release the name that once defined the past and embrace the one that now reveals the future. It is not easy for the heart to let go of what it has known for decades. The struggle to use new pronouns or a new name reflects the deeper work of love — the reshaping of perception, the surrender of the familiar for the sake of another’s truth.

In ancient times, names carried power. When Abram became Abraham, when Saul became Paul, when Siddhartha became the Buddha, the new name marked the beginning of a divine awakening. Yet those around them had to learn anew how to speak of them, how to honor the being that emerged from the old. In the same way, Laverne’s mother faced the slow, human labor of unlearning — not from cruelty, but from attachment. Her tongue stumbled, not because she did not love, but because love itself must sometimes learn a new language.

There is an ancient story from Greece that mirrors this truth: Pygmalion, who sculpted an ivory woman so beautiful that he fell in love with her, begged the gods to give her life. When she breathed for the first time, he had to learn to love not a statue, but a living soul. The gift of transformation demands that those who love us must also change — their love must grow, must become active, must move beyond memory into recognition. So it was with Laverne and her mother: one transformed in the flesh, the other transformed in the heart.

The beauty of Laverne Cox’s story lies in its tenderness — in the patience that binds mother and child across the discomfort of change. It reminds us that love is not proven in easy acceptance, but in the slow, stumbling effort to understand. For each time her mother corrected herself, for each moment she reached again for the right word, there was love in action — love enduring the friction of renewal. And that endurance is a form of holiness.

We may see in this the broader reflection of society itself. When one person transitions, it is not only they who are transformed — it is the community, the language, the entire web of human recognition that must shift. Each pronoun spoken correctly becomes a quiet act of respect, a gesture of civilization remembering its moral duty: to call each soul by its rightful name. The world becomes more whole when one person is seen as they truly are.

From this, let us learn a sacred lesson: that acceptance takes time, but time guided by love heals all misunderstanding. Do not rush the hearts of those who are learning, and do not scorn the slowness of change. Instead, model patience, gentleness, and truth. As the ancients taught — the river shapes the stone not by force, but by persistence. So too does compassion reshape tradition.

Therefore, let every reader take this wisdom into their own life: when someone you love becomes more fully themselves, meet them not with fear but with wonder. Learn their new name as a prayer. Speak their truth as a hymn. For in doing so, you participate in the oldest miracle known to humankind — the renewal of love through understanding.