Read Sample Chapters Free - LESBIAN DEVIL TO STRAIGHT MAN SAINT - A trip through trans HELL & back! You hold the KEY to save gender confused kids! Will you unlock the door?

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Help is needed to stop the medicalization of gender-confused children. So far, 136 books have been distributed to spread awareness about this issue. After reading the sample chapters, if you believe this heartfelt journey could help stop the travesty of childhood medical transition, please purchase and read the rest of the story.

This memoir was challenging to write, and every word is mine. I am just one person without a team. I do not have a Daily Wire to promote, or Fox News or Turning Point to dot every 'I' and cross every 'T'. It's just me, with raw emotion that can touch people's hearts with honesty that is so lacking in the media today. Support the little person with big heart!

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-Scott Newgent

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On the day designated for the interview for Matt’s film, ‘What Is a Woman?’, I trudged up the hotel stairwell in New York, attempting to elude my offspring so I could dial in and cancel the appointment. My daughter stood on the fourth-floor landing, predicting my intentions. I am aware of my tendency to retreat at the last moment.

She crossed her arms over her chest, giving herself an air of maturity beyond her thirteen years, while I felt like a rebellious teenager under her gaze. Her eyes rolled before she seized my hand and recited one of my worn-out, grating phrases. “You’re always lecturing me about how anxiety is just a part of life’s rich tapestry; well, look at you now; congratulations, MaPaw, you’re feeling alive! Now, pivot on your heel; you got this. You’ve given your word. What message will it send to me if you surrender now?”

“Ah...” I flapped my hands dismissively, echoing the old mantra I used to soothe myself: “You’re overreacting, Gooia Gelf. I was grabbing my jacket, not backing out. Easy there, Julia.”

“Oh, so you’ve resorted to lying to your offspring now?”

Our laughter intertwined as her fingers grasped mine, guiding me towards the waiting Uber. As I prepared to slide into the backseat, she leaned in to address the driver, her instructions clear and firm - he was to take me where she directed, regardless of any objections I might voice. His laughter echoed hers as he nodded in understanding, and I muttered an expletive under my breath; she had read me like an open book yet again.

A part of me yearned to defy her predictions, but deep down, I knew she was right. With a resigned sigh, I ducked my head to enter the vehicle when her voice stopped me.

“MaPaw,” she began, her tone severe yet laced with mischief. “You can do this. You have to do this. There’s no backing out now.” Then came the punchline: “Maybe after you’re done here, we can get you a pot brownie from that street vendor.”

I froze on the spot, shocked. Me? Pot? The very idea was absurd! I’ve always vehemently opposed drugs, and here she was suggesting it. The sound of her laughter brought me back from my stupor just in time for her coup de grâce before I could even think of a retort, she’d left me speechless and off my comedic game.

The door slammed shut behind me, and the car pulled away, leaving me shaking my head at her audacity while chuckling at myself. That girl had gotten one over on me. Glancing out the window, she stood; hand raised not in farewell but wagged a finger at me as if admonishing: “Don’t you dare turn around!” My

My thirteen-year-old daughter had out-maneuvered me again!

That day was more than just an additional exposure to my raw, emotional underbelly. My protective love for my children was the sole energy potent enough to compel me to weather it. During those three days on our journey, they evolved into caregivers, buoying my morale with their treasured words of wisdom and steadying my mental state with their gentle yet resolute demands. They were privy to a secret that eluded others.

The expedition to New York was among the first times I had ventured beyond the confines of my basement, where I rarely strayed from. Label it as PTSD or whatever you wish, but that threshold at my door served as an immediate catalyst for perspiration to cascade down and for my capacity to draw in breath to vanish.

As the unblinking eye of the camera lens zeroed in on me, an all too familiar sensation churned within my core; it was akin to standing on the precipice of an emotional landslide. In the wake of these tumultuous events, I had somehow maintained a façade of calm, allowing only a few sparse tears to escape – a stark contrast for someone who would well up at the sentimentality of Hallmark commercials. Yet that day, I felt my emotions surge like a storm as I resonated with the concept of surmounting adversity. As my interview was ending and my tale reached its climax, I looked around the room and experienced an overwhelming victory.

As a business salesperson and presenter, I’ve spent years honing the skill of vocal modulation - deftly mixing tones of fervor and unassailable logic to clarify my message. Mastering the art of emotional communication has been a lifelong pursuit, observing the subtle shifts in expressions as each word and its delivery impact - be it triumphant or not.

Emotions don’t dwell in shades of gray; they’re black or white. Did the intended sentiment come across? Did you sway their stance? Were you able to stir emotions within them, Kellie? These are the questions I pose to myself.

Transforming entrenched perspectives about a commodity can be an arduous task. It becomes even more challenging when it involves altering views on religious, fanatical, or intolerant propaganda—disguised as civil rights issues—that pose a threat to our democratic structures and the well-being of our offspring and women. This problematic endeavor is indeed challenging, but it’s a responsibility that somebody has to shoulder.

The influence of the LGBTQ movement has become pervasive, and it seems to go largely unchallenged. It’s baffling to consider how society has permitted a generation of children to undergo irreversible changes. Currently, society views them as saviors, seemingly incapable of making mistakes, but eventually, the reality will surface. More and more parents are noticing the media’s frenzied approach to this

topic.

They’re paying attention when writers for respected publications like The New York Times casually discuss topics like breast binders and the permanent harm inflicted on young women’s bodies with an air of moral superiority reminiscent of a Chinese foot binder.

But on that fateful day, everything fell into place in the heart of New York. The agony I’d withstood over the years morphed into something extraordinary; it forged a tool that I’ve been sharpening throughout my existence. It all culminated when I could enlighten others about the grave injustice being done to children. The torment and deprivation handed me an emotional catalyst potent enough to transform those who needed altering that day.

As the cameras wound down, a sudden rush came over me, and I knew I had done it right; I had conveyed the deep well of emotions within me. As the lights turned off, I could no longer control or hide, and I lost it. I burst into tears without warning.

My hands covered my face like I was pushing the tears back inside. There was a chance for Matt Walsh and his crew to humiliate me, to let my emotions run rampant and unchecked on the screen for all to see, but he, they didn’t. My breakdown is nowhere within the movie. Despite any disagreements or contrary opinions that might arise between Matt and me in the future, it’s clear he possesses a compassionate heart, and that is something to be respected.

The speech you saw was the pre-break, and I knew I had just delivered one of significant power and influence; I felt it. It represented a firm conviction that I would willingly die for it. Until that moment, I hadn’t grasped its importance to me. But as I sat there, the realization hit me like a wave crashing against the shore.

I was aware of my potential to transform people’s perspectives, but I was unsure if my heart was in it. That day, something undeniable proved that I was wholeheartedly committed to this cause. Back at the hotel room, my three hearts—a personal metaphor for those who meant everything to me—awaited my return.

Confined within those four walls of the hotel, my children were aware of how much their presence meant to me, just like your children mean the world to you. My daughter’s voice shatters the tranquility, “Is it time for your Cannabis Cookie?”

A ripple of laughter cuts through the room, and I can’t help but let loose a few teardrops. They all gather around me in an embrace; no words are necessary.

Kellie Ellen King

Mother to Joshua, Julia & Justice