Aiden 5.0 

It’s been five years since Aiden Rivera Schaeff took his own life. I will never forget the date: April 22nd, 2010 (Earth Day). I will also never forget that morning when I got the phone call from Aiden’s mother, Cathy. She called and said, “The police think they’ve found Aiden’s body.” I didn’t even know he had been missing. I didn’t understand what she meant by “body,” so the word played over and over in my mind as I hurriedly made my way to their house.

I didn’t know that Aiden had slipped silently out of the house in the early hours that morning before sunrise. I didn’t know that he had sent text messages to countless friends saying he loved them. I didn’t know that we would never see this amazing, artistic, charming, funny, kind, brilliant kid again.

When I pulled up to the house, I saw the police car and immediately knew in my heart that only bad news awaited me. I walked into the house to hear Cathy tearfully mutter, “Patty just identified the body.” Patty and Cathy’s beloved son was gone. Our collective little dude was no more. The Aiden of a 1,000 friends and family members who had loved and supported him had just departed this world. Forever.

I didn’t find out that day how exactly he took his own life. And knowing now I don’t think those details even need a voice. What does need to be acknowledged, though, is that Aiden had been bullied and harassed by his teen peers as he courageously transitioned from female to male. I didn’t know that the hate and pain must have stung a million times more than all the love and kindness in his life.

The day Aiden died is still a day of unsurpassed sadness. That day, I did my best to help comfort his parents. We consoled one another; we straightened up the house; we made difficult phone calls.

The whole experience was surreal. It’s hard to process how someone can be here and then how quickly they can leave. Never again to return in physical form. (Unless you’re Buddhist, or Hindu, or Jewish.) Once someone you love is gone, all we have left are the memories, photos, drawings, videos, journals, clothes — essences of life remembered.

That night I had to fly out to Europe. I wanted to cancel my trip but it was for work, and it had already been postponed by an unexpected appendectomy and then an Angry Volcano in Iceland. In the end, it hurt even more knowing that I had to leave.

I stayed with my bereaved friends for as long as I possibly could before flying out. I called dear friends of theirs and they took over where I had left off. Friends and loved ones showered Cathy and Patty with love.

In some ways because I was overseas later that day, and ultimately, missed Aiden’s funeral, I never really got to say goodbye. At the same time because his life ended so unexpectedly, I never got to give him thanks either.

I never got to thank Aiden for being in my life, or tell him enough just how proud of him I was, or give gratitude to him for being such an inspiration to me and countless others.

Aiden left us all and the world way too soon but he isn’t the only one, and sadly, he won’t be the last. According to the National Center for Transgender Equality, 41% of trans* Americans have also attempted a similar fate. I too have even struggled with throwing in the proverbial towel at various points when life seemed too unbearable.

Now five years after Aiden’s death, however, I have been given a new chance at life. The last thing I never got to tell Aiden was that he gave me the strength to finally transition to a more authentic me. The truth is that in some ways Aiden Rivera Schaeff saved my life. I hope by sharing his story and my own, it will help raise a collective voice for those still out there, especially young people, struggling to just live

Aiden 5.0 

No More Meanies: the beginning


In 2008, this amazing kid, Aiden Rivera Schaeff, was my best man at my first wedding.  

In April 2010, we lost our beloved Aiden to suicide. He was 17 and transgender.  

 (Below photo from allthingsaiden Tumblr)

That first year after his death, I created bracelets for his family’s initiative, L’il Dude, Big Heart, to raise money for his endowment fund at American University. I failed miserably as a fundraiser. Instead, I ended up just giving them away.  It brightened my melancholy heart. 

His family also created a place for loved ones to visit and remember Aiden. Please take a moment to get to know him a little better by stopping by his memorial page using the link at the top of this post or by going to the address below:

 (Photo of original No More Meanies logo in 2011 and revised logo in 2013)


In 2011, the second year without Aiden, I started the anti-bullying “kindness campaign” called No More Meanies.

In the beginning it was a just a simple heart sticker with a kindness slogan.

But I wanted to always have a trans* friendly message too. I wanted it to honor Aiden and his brave journey.

This same year,  I also set up a Twitter and Facebook account to help spread the good word.

(Below from Wikipedia)     In 2013, I created a new logo with trans* flair that incorporated the kindness message and the trans* flag as a tribute to Aiden and other trans* kids like him.


I later turned a memorable photo of Aiden into a message of kindness and love.

 (Photo of ARS, courtesy of Aiden Rivera Schaeff Estate)

(No More Meanies logo below)


Also in 2013, my partner and I helped my niece and her high school teacher plan the first gay pride event at a school in D.C. (The same school, Wilson High School, where an amazing and brave principal would come out at the following year. Pete Cahall is my personal hero!).



We also donated No More Meanies bracelets to the Wilson HS Gay Straight Alliance club.



In 2014, I decided to raise money to take No More Meanies to Capital Pride in D.C. It was amazing!



We shared Aiden’s story and  handed out free anti-bullying stickers and bracelets to students and teachers. 


I couldn’t have done it without the support of my friends and family. ❤️


In 2015, I finally came out as trans*. The spirit of Aiden helped me find the courage to create a more authentic me. 

I am now rallying everyone to join this kindness campaign to help spread kindness and love to all people. I also hope LGBTQ youth embrace this message and Aiden’s story.

Please spread the good word and join us on Facebook and Twitter. 

Post photos of you with kindness messages and tag us. 

Email me at if you want to get involved or if you would like to bring No More Meanies to your school or community.

Don’t forget to check out our Trans* Kindness Gear! If you decide to make a purchase, wait for a Zazzle sale. Items are often significantly discounted. 🙂 

Post photos of you with your stickers or Trans* Kindness Gear and tag us.

Most importantly:

Be kind. Be brave. Be you.

No More Meanies: the beginning

Timeline of Future Aitch: The Younger Years

I think they had it right putting me in blue. Way back when in the ’80s colors designated gender. Good thing we don’t do that sorta thing today.

I have always loved ties. This was my first.

I always hated having long hair. It was a silent but joyful moment the day my mom waved her white flag and surrendered at the Battle of Hair (circa 1984-1987). She cut it all off. 🙂

Hey, look! It’s my teddy tee again! I loved that tee. Oh, and I’m the slob to the left. 😉

Can we get an amen?!

The obligatory mullet photo from the 1980s. This year or the one before, I went by the name Heath for a few weeks and prayed to God that he must have made a mistake. A few weeks later, I begged for forgiveness after I heard a fiery sermon that God doesn’t make mistakes.

I consider this my prison photo. Look how vacant our eyes are. This is the year our mom was on the run from the police and we were living with our aunt (she saved my life!). We also met our amazing older sister, Nicki (she gave me a future!).

Obligatory Nintendo photo (circa 1988-89).

I used to have a reoccurring nightmare that I had this hideous glow-in-the-dark Barbie with a frilly pink dress covered in stars.

When I was 18, my aunt gave me the news clipping above. Two things: 1) I look like I’m thinking, “WTF!” 2) I’ve NEVER used the word dolly to describe a toy. EVER.

This is me in drag. Middle school was an awful time. Everyone wanted to dress me up like their own personal doll (or dolly?). I was awkward and hating the changes in my body. I remember crying outwardly and inwardly about that hideous dress, that awful hair, and that caked-on makeup.

Fitting in in high school. Oh, and this is my BFF and her sister. I heart them both big time!

No longer fitting in. 🙂 My senior year of high school I decided to shave all my hair off one evening à la Demi Moore. I asked my BFF earlier in the day if she would still talk to me if I did that. That night, I left a cryptic message on her family’s answering machine simply saying, “I did what we talked about.” Click. We’ve been BFFs for almost 20 years now.

Me at 18 when my BFF was preoccupied in the other room with her boyfriend (and now husband). Lesson: never leave an Aitch alone with a marker!

My sailor ‘stache at 19. Don’t be jealous!

Pure happiness just being me. I miss those eyebrows.

How did I get off track later in my 20s? Why did I start to care what others thought? 😦

Timeline of Future Aitch: The Younger Years

Coming out…again!

Thursday morning of this week, I posted this message below to all my loved ones on Facebook. I’m in a place where I have enough strength, courage, and love to take this leap and set out on a more authentic life journey. After making this post, I have only received loving words of kindness and support. I am SO lucky. I am super proud of myself too. 🙂


Hey, everyone! I woke up this morning with this extra amount of courage so I’m just going to put this out there (before my brain fully wakes up).

I wanted to tell you each about this journey I’m on in person but that’s not really possible. To be honest, I’ve always been on this journey but I wasn’t ready to accept it. I have finally come out as transgender (but have been living as such for years now with my partner, Shira) and am transitioning (I have been on T for 3 months now)! 🙂 

I’m also planning to legally change my name to Aitch M. Alexandar down the road. There’s no need to call me by male pronouns right now because I don’t really feel my outside matches that part of me yet. One day it will, and then I will ask for everyone to call me by them. When that day comes down this very long, exciting, and intimidating road, then I hope you all will respect my request.

Simply put, for the longest time I was confused and thought I was gay but really I’ve felt trapped in the wrong body and gender. I have never identified with the terms lesbian, lady, woman, girl, chica, etc or the name Heather. Even in the military I loved that I was practically seen as one of the boys in my gender-concealing-blob uniforms and was able to go by my gender-neutral names of just Muirhead or Head.

This issue is something I raised in all my relationships quietly and with great trepidation as I tested the waters more and more after each relationship failed. But then I stifled it down out of fear of rejection or feeling like a freak. I was the one most afraid and ashamed.

I had also confided in my young teenage friend, Aiden, and told him how proud I was of his transitioning. I thought I was too old by then and that’s why Aiden’s death (and why I started No More Meanies) hit me so hard in more ways than one. That’s also why Holly leaving to be with a cis man hurt; it seemed to crush my soul for a while. I silently identified with Aiden on a personal level, and I secretly wished I was and looked just like Matty (holly’s current husband). I had so much love for both of these people and so many deep, dark secrets. I was scared to admit this all and didnt want to lose my loved ones. I’ve finally mustered up the courage and have the loving support I need (thank you, everyone, especially Shira, Shakia, and Shari) to live a more authentic life. I hope you all are a part of it too!

Xoxo h.

Coming out…again!

Facing Fear

In the fall of 2009, I finally mustered up the courage to introduce my partner to my family. As we packed for the plane trip, I tried one last time to talk her out of going. I reminded her that once she goes there with me, our relationship will forever change. I thought about how any “innocent” who’s ever gone to that place ends up seeing things they’ll never forget.

I still vividly remember taking my best friend, Shari, back to that place – my hometown of Walla Walla, Washington. It was the summer of 1999, we were both 18, and had just graduated from a high school in a tiny, historic town outside of Seattle, a town that was as abundant with coffee as it was conservatism. Shari was a blonde, blue-eyed Finnish girl from a middle-class Lutheran family. Her parents both worked exhaustingly hard, but miraculously, found the time to instill morals, kindness, and etiquette into their children. All four of the kids grew up with books as their companions, not television shows. As a child, my favorite pastime was daydreaming. I used to fantasize about having all those pretty, warm, and cozy things that other kids around me had – a father who wasn’t incarcerated on the other side of town and a drug-free mother who read us nighttime stories before tucking us lovingly into bed. I used to dream of having a family just like Shari’s.

Her parents always treated me with love and respect. They welcomed me into their home and made me feel a part of their household. They didn’t know any of the particulars about my Walla Walla family just six hours away on the other side of the mountains. They only knew that my mother, my fraternal twin sister, and my two older brothers lived there. That’s all I felt comfortable telling them at the time. I didn’t want to be judged, pitied, or shunned. Shari, on the other hand, knew the truth. It was one thing to tell the terrible truths to her, but it was another thing completely to take her on a journey to Walla Walla where my terrible truths roamed around like tumble weeds.

At 18, I naively thought I would have control of what Shari saw and experienced there. I would just briefly introduce her to my mother (hoping she was clean AND sober), to my grandparents (praying they didn’t invite my Meth-head brothers over), and cross my fingers that nothing too shocking happened. But then at the last minute I altered my plan. In addition to having Shari meet my relatives, I decided we should visit my best friend from middle school as well. He and his father were always my saviors in a time of need when I lived there. I considered them family.

We dropped by the father’s house and were greeted with warmth as always. I was completely surprised by what happened right after we arrived, however. I had thought of many worrisome scenarios that could play out with regards to my blood relatives, but I hadn’t given much thought to my unofficial family. This house had once been my home away from home. So, when the father offered my dear friend, a complete stranger to him, marijuana, I was instantly horrified. Wham-bam! Shari’s innocence gone! All I could think about was that it had been my responsibility to protect Shari; her parents had trusted me. This all weighed heavily on my conscience. I felt as if I could die from shame and humiliation. I hadn’t brought my best friend to Walla Walla for someone I loved to push drugs off on her. She was a middle-class girl from a well-respected family who had no previous exposure to drugs. Deep down, I knew Shari wouldn’t have accepted, but I didn’t even give her the chance to speak for herself. Disgust and horror took control of me. I instinctively responded, “No, she doesn’t want that! What’s wrong with you!?” Needless to say, we cut our little visit short. I thanked my absent friend’s father for his non-drug-related hospitality. We hugged each other good-bye.

This encounter had suddenly opened up a flood of conflicting emotions inside of me. On the one hand, I was extremely upset, surprised, and disappointed by what had transpired. On the other hand, I didn’t blame my friend’s father for anything. Despite his imperfections, he was still like family to me. He too had encouraged me to leave Walla Walla when the opportunity had presented itself. In fact, everyone there – my mother, my siblings, my aunts, my friends and their parents – all had helped me make my escape to freedom.

At 14, I was given a difficult choice: stay in Walla Walla with all the familiar yet damaged souls I loved, or reinvent myself near Seattle in a house full of strangers comprising my older sister, brother-in-law, and father. I had only met this sister once before when I was younger. Upon our first introduction when I was nine, I remember being in complete disbelief that this beautiful schoolteacher was my sister. She became an immediate hero of mine that day, which of course was aided by the fact she showered us with love, presents, and excursions to the county fair. Somehow this same wonderful sister had also just devised a plan with the authorities for my father, who had recently been released from prison, to live with her in lieu of going to a halfway house.

I went to visit this new family that summer after eighth grade. I wanted to get to know them all, especially my father. When I was nearing my time to return back home to Walla Walla, they surprised me with an invitation to stay. Indefinitely. My first life had offered little future, whereas the new one welcomed endless possibilities. After great deliberation and many tears, I decided to leave Walla Walla permanently. Moving away from my hometown as a teenager was undoubtedly the hardest decision I’ve ever had to make. I had to leave behind everything known and embrace the unknown. Leaving behind loved ones is never easy, even if they’re wasting away on a tragic road to nowhere.

Once I left Walla Walla, my new life unfolded with love, safety, and success. This transition wasn’t immediate or effortless, however. What was immediate, though, was the fact that as soon as I moved away, I was able to be myself. I didn’t have to worry anymore about someone recognizing me as “Carol’s daughter” or “Heidi’s twin” or “Danny and David’s little sister.” In Walla Walla, I had never had the chance to just be me. The reputations of my family members in that place overshadowed my own existence. In my new town, on the other hand, I would never again have to sink into my chair when a math teacher accidentally called me by my twin’s name or when an art teacher looked at me with pity upon realizing who my relatives were. I would no longer be guilty until proven innocent. This new feeling was both exhilarating and healing.

I naturally feel very comfortable talking about my past, but I’ve learned over the years that others aren’t as comfortable. I’ve learned to hold back. Many seemingly innocuous inquiries into my childhood, if answered honestly, beckon an almost immediate and ubiquitous silence to spill over the room. W-h-o-o-s-h! Just like that and everyone becomes uneasy, flushed, and over-attentive to my every move. When I was younger, I had always, in a very matter-of-fact manner, talked about the irreversible realities of my life. As an adult, I now struggle with whether I should feel embarrassed or ashamed that I grew up on welfare, or that my mother, the first person I ever loved, is also a junkie, or that my father, the kindest person I’ve ever met, is also a convicted murderer. My family life has always been complicated to explain. Routine questions such as, “What did your mother and father do when you were growing up?” or “Did you ever go to private school?” have the potential of, as you can imagine, dampening the mood. I have actually had people innocently ask about my family history, and then immediately change the subject to the weather when they don’t like what they hear.

As I prepared for the inescapable trip with my partner, I wasn’t worried that she would find out about my family. I had already told her everything there is to know about them. From previous experiences, though, I knew that it was impossible to fully prepare anyone for the trip to Walla Walla. Keeping this in view, as we finished packing, the reality of taking the woman I fell in love with to that place sickened me. My mind spun out of control. Just one thought of Walla Walla, and boom, I’m there – melancholy and pensive. I worried that my partner would see glimpses of my former, fragile self. She might see me remain stoic as I spend time with my family only to watch me crumple to the floor in an emotional heap later behind closed doors. She might meet questionable friends of mine with whom I now have little in common, but we are forever bonded by memories or pain. No matter what she was destined to see, I secretly knew it would cause her to look at me and subsequently us differently.

“You’re definitely going to Walla Walla with me then?” I finally asked, breaking the worry-filled silence.

“Yes,” she said.

So, there it was. I had to accept that my hidden and former wounds would soon be on display. I had no choice but to unlock the door to my secret dungeon. The first person I had done this with was my best friend, Shari. She was the first “outsider” in my world of hurt. Even years afterwards, I used to beat myself up for taking her on that trip. That is until Shari made a confession. She admitted she had been upset with me that day, but not for what I had assumed. She explained that she had been hurt I didn’t think she could take care of herself. She had been offended that I had tried to shelter her. In the end, she thought the whole experience had actually made her and our friendship stronger. Just like those types of experiences had also made me stronger.

It was this last revelation that helped me understand what was really lurking in the shadows. This dark presence was the reason why travel to my hometown specifically had become increasingly painful – the reason why I questioned my own strength each time I prepared for a trip. I finally realized that I’m afraid to go there because I’m afraid of the day I’ll have to face my mother’s death. Over the last decade, I’ve watched a beautiful woman transform into a lost, shrunken soul who looks more like Tolkien’s Gollum than my mother. She’s not able to conceal her toxic lifestyle like she had previously; she’s slowly and visibly dying. I can’t detach myself from this reality any longer.

It appears that like many of my fears – abandonment, rejection, failure, driving, and public speaking – the idea of death also distresses me because it runs counter to my desperate need for control. All of these things fall outside my ability to process and organize chaos; they’re all unpredictable and all leave me potentially vulnerable – a feeling I try to avoid. I grew up in chaos and my Virgo personality helped me survive by controlling whatever fell within my means to control: morals, choices, friends, religious beliefs, school standing. For some reason, I find it difficult to resist the temptation to control because it’s been a comfort in my life for so long. I guess in many ways, I have been guilty of projecting onto others my own inner turmoil caused by a perceived loss of control. After all, I was once in their potentially vulnerable place. I used to be the “innocent” who even my flawed relatives had sheltered. Each time I returned to that place after moving away, I would find a family that was even more tragic than the previous time. There was no way to control what did or didn’t happen there. I always felt helpless and overwhelmed in their presence.

I now finally understand that I fear for everyone who goes to Walla Walla with me because I still fear for myself. I know firsthand that every visit to this town of sorrow promises an unpredictable and gut-wrenching scene. I know I have a lot to work on in order to find closure with my past, but it’s the unstable present and future that scare me the most. I hope I continue to be strong enough to face all of these fears, and that someday I learn to let go of my need to control. In the end, both fear and control are just extra baggage on my road to happiness.

Facing Fear