About us

There was a time in my life when I worked very hard to disappear.

Not physically.
Emotionally.

I learned early how to turn all the volume down, how to mute myself.

When I was 11, I knew I was different.
I liked boys.
I liked girls.
But I didn’t have language for it.

By high school, it was clear to me that I was attracted to women as well as men.

I already had a boyfriend, but I knew something about me didn’t fit the story everyone expected.

Then a classmate outed me in our yearbook.

That made me decide to tell my dad before he read it in the book.

I plucked up enough courage and told him…
And like many parents, he said, “Nne, it’s just a phase.”

And I believed him.

And I did what a lot of kids do when they want to stay safe…
I tried to erase that part of myself.

I buried it.

I focused on being successful.
On being good.
On being acceptable.

Then I went to medical school.

And there, I was taught something that still hurts to remember:

That being bisexual was a mental illness.

So now it wasn’t just “a phase.”
It was something “wrong.”

I decided that that part of me didn’t deserve oxygen.

And pretty much laid it to rest.

I went on to become a pediatrician.
Got married.
Built a life that looked heterosexual and conventional from the outside.

I thought that was what survival looked like. I thought that was what the world needed.

For me to become palatable, tolerable, manageable…anything but my true self.

But the truth?

The feelings never left.

They just waited quietly…inside.

Until I became a parent.

And life has a way of bringing you back to the lessons you tried to avoid.

My first child was assigned male at birth, but from very early on, the child was soft,

expressive, effeminate in ways that scared me.

Not because something was wrong with the child.

But because I knew exactly how the world treats kids like that.

And if I’m being honest?

Because I was afraid people would blame me.

So, I did everything I thought would “protect” the child.

I tried to manage it.
Control it.
Tone it down.

At 12, I asked what I now think of as my first “mistake.”

I asked, “Do you think you’re gay?”

“Mom, I’m not sure.” Was the response.

But what I heard was, “No.”

Because “no” felt safer for me.

By 16, my kiddo had joined the GSA and was pretty much living as a closeted gay teen.

Sadly, we never talked about it at home.

It wasn’t taboo, it was just never brought up. I have so many mixed emotions about those days, top of which is regret.

As time went on, I thought I had wrapped my head around it.

I thought I understood.

Then at Stanford, during graduation, I heard the announcer referring to my child with they/them pronouns.

And later that day, I learned the term nonbinary, much to my bewilderment.

I had never thought about gender identity or gender diversity as a conversation I would be having with my kid.

Yet, on Christmas day the next year, she called and said:

“Mom, I’m transgender.”

Nothing prepares you for that moment.

Not medical training.
Not parenting books.
Not even love.

Just reality.

An existential jolt, I believe, is the term I can use to describe that moment.

And I had to face it and face it alone.

Even as a queer person…
even as a pediatrician…
even as someone who thought she was “open-minded”…

I was afraid.
I held grief.
I felt confused.
I had questions.

I still had to unlearn, a lot.
I still had to grow, a lot.
I still made mistakes, a lot.

This journey has changed everything.

Because suddenly I am no longer just:

the queer kid
the queer young adult
the queer doctor
or the queer parent

I am all of them at once.

And I have realized something powerful:

Families don’t struggle because they don’t love each other.

They struggle because no one teaches them how to navigate identity, culture, healthcare, and fear at the same time.

They’re overwhelmed.

They’re spinning.

Just like I was.

And I must add here that, when a child is transitioning, the entire family is also transitioning.

That’s why I created Dr. Lulu’s Pride Corner.

It’s not therapy.
There’ll be no diagnosing.
And no fixing.

Just a steady, affirming adult in your corner.

Someone who understands both the system and your story.

Because I’ve been:

the queer child
the confused young adult
the parent getting it wrong
and the physician trying to do better

So when you sit with me, you don’t have to explain everything.

I already get it.

And if you’re the parent or caregiver walking this road?

I’ve made the mistakes, so you don’t have to.

You don’t have to do this alone.

I am here. We are all here with you.