On assumicide, API, and the choice I make before my brain makes it for me.

I didn’t start practicing this for myself. I started it for my child.

My kid has been a glitter princess since age two. We never made them feel strange about it — and we were lucky. The people around them followed our lead. I worked with their school every year, ran diversity workshops, and watched teachers in a so-called machismo society learn to genuinely love my child. So did the other kids.

I made a choice early on: I was not going to be the one who planted the idea that someone might reject them because of who they are. That was going to be a new thought when it came — and I wanted them to have years of being completely accepted before they ever had to face it.

I chose the bubble. Deliberately. Knowing the world would arrive eventually. But by then, I wanted them to have enough foundation to meet it.

So when the moment came — someone cold, a classmate going quiet, a teacher responding differently, or someone just openly treating my kid badly — I wasn’t going to be the one who immediately said: it’s because of your gender.

Maybe it was. Maybe it wasn’t. But I wasn’t going to hand them that lens before they needed it.

And somewhere along the way, I realized I was applying the same rule to myself.

Years ago, in a coaching class I took, I learned a concept called API — assume positive intent. I can’t remember who taught it to me, and I wish I could. It’s one of those ideas that quietly reorganized how I move through the world.

And recently I heard another word that stopped me: assumicide. It’s been floating around in various circles for a while — no clear single origin, but the definition I like best goes something like this: the way we murder other people in our hearts by the false assumptions we make about them. Not just consequences to us. What we do to the other person — to who they actually are — when we’ve already decided.

Both ideas live in the same territory. And together, they describe something I practice every day.

Here’s what I’ve noticed: when I jump straight to it’s the gender, I flatten my child into a single thing. I reduce a whole, complicated, interesting person to a category. My child is so much more than their gender identity or expression. So is yours, probably.

And not everyone has to like everyone. That’s true of my nonbinary child. It’s equally true of my cis child. Some people just don’t click. Some people are having a terrible week. Some people run cold, always have, always will. None of that is automatically about us.

When I assume rejection before I have evidence, I arrive angry. I show up braced. I read every interaction through that lens and find exactly what I’m looking for — because a braced mind is very good at confirming what it’s already decided. That’s not protection. That’s a closed loop.

When I practice API first, I arrive open. And sometimes, after staying open and actually paying attention, I do eventually conclude that yes — this is about my child’s identity. Sometimes that’s just what it is. But I got there through observation, not reflex. And I got there without spending three days furious at someone who might have just been having a bad Tuesday.

Even if it turns out to be rejection based on gender, I still feel healthier for not having assumed it immediately. The outcome doesn’t change. My state does.

That’s the whole thing, really. It’s not about what’s actually true in that moment. It’s about which state I choose for myself while I’m still finding out.

I want to be clear about what this is not. It’s not naivety. It’s not giving anyone a pass. It’s not pretending the world is nicer than it is.

It’s a choice about where I want to live while I’m paying attention.

Happy people don’t treat others badly. Content people aren’t cruel. When someone behaves poorly — toward my child, toward anyone — they are not well. That’s not an excuse for them. It’s information about them. And it means I don’t have to take it as a verdict while it’s still unclear.

I didn’t arrive here because someone suggested I try it. I arrived because the alternative was making me sick. Chronic outrage is exhausting. Assuming the worst at every turn kept me scanning, tense, ready to fight battles that sometimes weren’t even happening.

API is something I learned. Assumicide is a word I borrowed. The practice is mine — built over years, applied to both my kids, not just my nonbinary one.

It’s a choice. And it’s a practice. Some days it comes easily. Some days I have to catch myself mid-spiral and start over.

But I keep choosing it. Because I like who I am when I do.

Visual transparency: All images in this article were generated via DALL-E to illustrate the concepts discussed.