How Does 'This Is How It Always Is' Handle Transgender Themes?

I've read 'Felix Ever After' multiple times, and what strikes me most is how raw and real Felix's journey feels. The book doesn't sugarcoat the messy parts of being trans—like dealing with deadnaming or the constant self-doubt. Felix's anger and vulnerability hit hard because they're so relatable. The author nails the small details too, like how Felix's binder leaves marks or how he hesitates before entering gendered spaces. It's not just about transitioning medically; it's about navigating friendships, crushes, and art while figuring out who you are. The romance subplot is refreshing because Felix's trans identity isn't treated as a tragic obstacle. His love interest sees him as a whole person, which is rare in YA.

I recently read 'This Is How It Always Is' and was struck by how real it felt, but no, it's not based on a specific true story. Laurie Frankel crafted this novel from her own experiences as a parent of a transgender child, blending personal insight with fiction. The emotional authenticity comes through in every page—the confusion, love, and fierce protectiveness feel raw and genuine. While the characters and events are fictional, the struggles mirror real-life challenges many families face. It's those universal truths about identity, acceptance, and family dynamics that make the story resonate so deeply. Frankel's background adds layers of credibility without tying the narrative to one specific case.

The heart of 'This Is How It Always Is' revolves around the Walsh-Adams family, a vibrant tapestry of personalities navigating love, identity, and change. Rosie, a pragmatic yet fiercely compassionate doctor, anchors the family with her steady hands and heart. Her husband, Penn, is a stay-at-home dad and a storyteller, weaving fairy tales that mirror their lives—especially for their youngest, Claude, who later becomes Poppy. Then there are the siblings: Rigel, the quiet, observant eldest; Ben, the mischievous middle child; and Orion, the athletic one. But it’s Claude/Poppy who transforms their world. At five, Claude declares she’s a girl, and the family’s journey begins—full of stumbles, growth, and unconditional love. The novel’s brilliance lies in how each character reacts: Rosie’s protective worry, Penn’s unwavering support, and the siblings’ blend of confusion and loyalty. Even secondary characters, like Poppy’s school friends or the wary parents in their community, add layers to this poignant exploration of family and transgender identity.

I dug into this because 'This Is How It Always Is' is one of those books that sticks with you. As of now, there’s no movie adaptation, but the story’s depth and emotional resonance make it prime material for one. The novel delves into family dynamics, gender identity, and unconditional love—themes that could translate powerfully to film. I’ve seen rumors about production companies showing interest, but nothing concrete. If it happens, casting would be key—imagine someone like Cate Blanchett or Viola Davis bringing Rosie’s fierce love to life. The book’s nonlinear structure might challenge filmmakers, but done right, it could be a masterpiece. What’s fascinating is how the story balances heartbreak and hope. A film adaptation would need to preserve that delicate balance. The scenes in Thailand or the quiet moments between Claude and his siblings could be visually stunning. I’m hopeful because recent years have seen more LGBTQ+ stories on screen, and this one deserves the spotlight. Until then, the book remains a must-read—raw, real, and revolutionary in its honesty.

On TV, a handful of shows have treated a transgender lesbian coming-out with real nuance and heart, and those are the ones I keep returning to when I want to feel seen or to understand better. For me, 'Sense8' is a standout: Nomi Marks (played by Jamie Clayton) is a brilliantly written trans woman whose love life with Amanita is tender, messy, and full of agency. The show gives her space to be political and intimate at once, and it avoids reducing her to trauma—her coming-out and relationships are woven into a wider story about connection. I still get goosebumps from how normal and fierce their partnership is; it feels like a healthy portrait of a trans woman in love with a woman, which is exactly the kind of representation that matters. 'Pose' is another personal favorite because it centers trans femmes in a community where queer love is everyday life. The show doesn't make a single coming-out scene the whole point; instead it shows layered experiences—family dynamics, ballroom culture, dating, and how identity shifts with time. That breadth helps viewers understand a trans lesbian coming-out as part of a life, not as a one-off event. Meanwhile, 'Transparent' offers something different: it focuses on family ripples when an older parent transitions and explores romantic possibilities with women later in life. The writing often nails the awkward and honest conversations that follow, even if some off-screen controversies complicate how I reconcile the show's strengths. I also think 'Orange Is the New Black' deserves mention because Sophia Burset's storyline highlights institutional barriers—medical care, prison bureaucracy, and how those systems intersect with sexuality and gender. The show treats her as a full person with romantic history and present desires rather than a prop. 'Euphoria' is messier but valuable: Jules's arc is less of a tidy “coming out” checklist and more a realistic, sometimes uncomfortable journey about identity and attraction that can resonate with trans lesbians and allies alike. Beyond TV, I recommend pairing these with memoirs and essays like 'Redefining Realness' for context—seeing both scripted and real-life voices enriches understanding. Overall, I look for shows that center trans actors, give space for joy as well as struggle, and treat coming out as one chapter in a larger, lived story—those are the portrayals that have stuck with me the longest.

Laurie Frankel's 'This Is How It Always Is' has been celebrated for its poignant exploration of family and identity. It snagged the Stonewall Honor Book Award, a huge nod for its LGBTQ+ themes, and was a Washington State Book Award finalist. The novel also made the American Library Association’s Over the Rainbow list, highlighting its impact on queer literature. Critics adore its blend of heart and humor, landing it spots on must-read lists like Amazon’s Best Books of the Year. Its awards reflect how it pushes boundaries while staying deeply human—no easy feat. What’s striking is how the book’s accolades mirror its message: acceptance matters. It didn’t just win awards; it started conversations. Book clubs, universities, and advocacy groups have embraced it, proving literature can change minds. The recognition isn’t just about trophies; it’s about how the story resonates long after the last page.

'All This Could Be Different' dives deep into the messy, beautiful reality of queer relationships, refusing to sanitize them for easy consumption. The protagonist’s love life isn’t a parade of triumphs—it’s flawed, tender, and achingly human. Their connections with lovers and friends blur lines, showing how queer intimacy often thrives outside rigid labels. Desire isn’t just romantic; it’s woven with economic survival, immigrant identity, and the hunger for belonging. The book captures the quiet moments—stolen glances, shared meals in cramped apartments—where love flickers brightest. The novel also confronts power imbalances, like the protagonist’s fraught dynamic with an older, wealthier partner, exposing how race and class warp even queer spaces. Yet, there’s joy: queer chosen family becomes a lifeline, celebrating messy, imperfect solidarity. The relationships aren’t subplots; they’re the backbone, revealing how love can both wound and heal when you’re fighting to exist on your own terms.