Watching Her Become Herself - One Push at a Time

Written by Shannon Walsh

The first time she stepped on a skateboard, it was the summer after Year 3.

The same summer she finally found the words for something she'd been feeling for a long time - that she wasn't the boy she had lived as for eight years. That she was, and always had been, a girl.

At that point, skateboarding wasn't even part of the picture yet. She had her stunt scooter, and she loved it. We'd go to the indoor skatepark and she'd spend hours on it, weaving through ramps and practising tricks, completely in her element. That was her thing.

Until it wasn't.

Because while we were there, she started noticing the other kids, her age, on skateboards. Watching them. Curious.

And then one day, she stepped on a board.

After that… it all happened so fast it's hard to pin down the exact moments. One day she was trying, the next she was flying. It felt like watching something click into place in real time. Like she'd found something that was always meant to be hers.

And she's fricking amazing at it.

Skateboarding didn't just give her something new to do - it gave her a space where she could exist exactly as she is.

By the time she found it, she had already come out. Which meant that at the skatepark, there was no past version of her to explain. No awkward conversations. No "I used to be…" or "I'm actually…"

She just got to be Logan.

A girl on a board.

And that matters more than I think people realise.

She's nine. She loves reading and maths, is learning to play the cello, and spends the warmer months at cricket club. At home, she's usually wrapped up in videogames - Splatoon, Kirby, anything Mario.

But at the skatepark, she's this fearless, determined version of herself that still takes me by surprise.

I saw a difference in how she pushed herself, too. With her scooter, she was confident, but careful. She'd try new things, but within a boundary.

With skateboarding, she pushes.

She throws herself into things that honestly terrify me to watch. Things I never thought I'd see her attempt, let alone land.

And recently, I started learning to skateboard too - I wanted to understand this thing she loves so much.

It is scary as heck. Like, properly scary.

And that's when it really hit me.

I always knew she was brave. I knew she was doing something hard. But standing on that board myself? Feeling how unstable it is, how much trust it takes in your own body?

It made me realise just how incredible she actually is.

Skateboarding has also given her something else I couldn't have planned for.

Community.

She's made friends - boys and girls - just through being at the park, showing up, skating, existing in that space.

And one day, at the indoor park we used to go to, she met the first trans woman she'd ever seen in real life.

Not online. Not in a story. Not abstract.

Real.

It was inspiring as hell for her. You could see it - something clicking again, a sense of possibility opening up.

Representation matters. But seeing someone in your actual, physical world? That hits differently.

And then, unexpectedly, we lost that space.

Not completely - but enough that everything changed.

For five months, she'd been skating almost every day. It had become part of her routine - part of who she was. And suddenly, it wasn't as accessible anymore.

Our nearest indoor skatepark now is 35 minutes away - and I can't drive - so what used to be daily has become once a week.

And that shift? It hit her.

Harder than I think people might expect, unless they've seen what it means for a child to find a place where they truly belong.

But skateboarding, like her, is resilient.

At this new park, she's started doing weekly lessons - with a friend she made at the first one - and she's loving it.

She's improving faster than ever. The coach there sees her, supports her, and pushes her in exactly the way she needs.

It's different. But it's still hers.

What's been incredible is that, despite skateboarding being a male-dominated space, she's never been made to feel like she doesn't belong.

She's never been pushed to the sidelines. She's never been made to feel like she has to prove herself more because of who she is.

And that's meant everything - especially when school has been harder to navigate.

Because school is where people knew her for years as someone she wasn't. Where memories don't shift as easily as identity does.

But at the skatepark?

She's just Logan.

And she's good. Really bloody good.

Skateboarding has given her confidence in ways I don't think anything else could have.

Confidence in her identity.

Confidence in her body.

Confidence in what she's capable of.

It's given her friendships that mean the world to her. It's given her adults who see her - not just as a trans girl, but as a talented skater and an incredible kid.

It's given her space.

Freedom.

Joy.

And as her parent, getting to watch that?

Getting to watch her become more herself with every push, every fall, every try again?

There's nothing like it.

Because as Logan puts it: "Finding skateboarding after figuring out I was a girl made me feel confident, like I wasn't just figuring out I'm a girl, I was figuring out more about myself and who I am as a person."