HERE WE ARE

At this moment, I am engaged in an intimate dialogue with my own thoughts. I am the product of my choices, a manifest destiny unfolding in real time. And now, as my chest expands and contracts; as my forehead beads with sweat; as my ankle, twisted outward trembles–– I am anxious. In my hands, a piece of plastic, a chemical reaction, and a miniature digital screen serve as the compass guiding me towards one of two profoundly divergent paths. I exhale, flip the stick, and where I anticipated the phrase takes up two lines, there is only one.

Though nothing has visibly shifted in my form— after all, my hormones have been quietly waging war these past three weeks, and the fertilised egg nested in my uterus is not new—I am, somehow, irrevocably altered. I am exhilarated, terrified, hyper-aware of every internal flutter. I am unrecognisable to myself. It is not quite an out-of-body experience, but it is one in which my body no longer feels wholly my own.

It is May. The test was taken in South Dakota. Here, “The Legislature finds that there is an existing relationship between a pregnant woman and her unborn child during the entire period of gestation.” I disagree. Our relationship began when the test confirmed it, and even now, the only proof of pregnancy is a burst of chemicals. I feel a connection that did not exist prior, but it is curious that a law fortifies this connection before I am aware of it. And I wonder, does my fetus feel any connection to me?

1,259 miles. Eight states. Over twenty hours of podcasts, songs, and audiobooks. I text my husband that “We have arrived in Washington, D.C.” Only he, I, and the forgotten stick in South Dakota know of this new life. Well— South Dakota knows too.

Here, I am protected from intrusion (see: Bill D.C. B24-0808). That is, I am allowed to be the sole bearer of this knowledge. And yet, I, no… we, feel invisible. I enter a clinic that smells familiar but feels alien. “Hi, I have an appointment for a confirmation ultrasound.” I say.

The receptionist smiles. “Name and date of birth?” I recite the all-too-familiar phrase. Her fingers click across the keys. The smile falters. 

“Is something wrong?” I ask. 

“No,” she replies, “but this is considered routine care and is not covered by your insurance. You can still be seen, but it will be out-of-pocket.” 

We leave the clinic. I am “protected” here, but I also feel unseen. The secret, so carefully guarded, remains evidenced by a mere piece of plastic. 

The July heat in D.C. is heavy; I feel it in every step I take in this supposed walkable city. I drive an hour to the NIH in Bethesda. I park outside the 300-acre campus enclosed in a fence. Is it to keep secrets in, or to keep the world out? The fence is transparent, screaming innocence. Yet every gate demands an ID badge. Entry is layered: scan, vestibule, scan again. Try entering with a vehicle, and the drama amplifies. I feel like that fence, see-through, yet sealed. My symptoms are plain. I avoid certain foods. I decline alcohol. I fatigue fast. It should be obvious. And yet, my blazer hides the curve of my stomach.

In Maryland, I am entitled to accommodations, if I disclose. My secret could liberate me. But without documentation, without more than that first whisper from plastic and pixels, the innocent fence deters curiosity.

I am in South Dakota again, where my child’s life is validated before I recognise their existence. Here, I am insured. We enter the clinic, and my secret feels more substantial. Thirteen weeks pregnant and the only evidence is that same plastic stick. My name is called. We rise.

“Good news… you’re thirteen weeks,” the technician chirps, “no need for a transvaginal view.” My husband raises a brow. 

“It’s the wand,” I say. “The one that goes inside.” His eyes widen. The technician nods. I lie back, prepared to see nothing. But there it is. A heartbeat. So foreign, yet instantly familiar. And then: a nose. Lips. Hands. I am in awe. What the state proclaimed thirteen weeks ago… I now, finally, begin to understand. 

“And here we are!” the tech beams.

The secret society expands: now one state, myself, my husband, the tech, a midwife. My child has sound, form, presence. We are moving to Texas. At sixteen weeks, four months, the sixteen-hour drive is torment. Drive. Vomit. Stretch. Drive. Reposition. Drive. Repeat. I am no longer enduring alone. My body is a vessel. A provider. And with every state border crossed, I feel redefined. My existence rewritten by strangers, my future prescribed before I consent to experience it.

Texas. Four months pregnant. We decide the secret must remain so. Here, “the act…to cause the death of an unborn child” is called abortion. Pregnant individuals are exempt from prosecution. Others are not. I crave this child. I yearn to meet them. But… miscarriage is not rare. If no one knows, no one can be culpable. I am not prosecutable, but somehow imprisoned. My baby and I, incarcerated behind legislation.

South Dakota again. I lie to my professor. Not quite, but not the truth. I say I must return for an important appointment. “Are you alright?” she asks, with sincere concern. 

“Yes, I’ll be okay,” I answer. I so desperately want to say that we’ll be okay. We enter the waiting room. My name is called. 

“Great to see you again!” the tech exclaims. 

Today, we learn their gender. The cool gel is slathered onto my skin. The baby resists a clear view. The technician laughs. 

“It’s alright, they don’t always cooperate,” she giggles as my baby darts across the screen. “Close your eyes.” Click. Click. Click. Click. We open our eyes. Next to three parallel lines on the ultrasound photo: the word girl. 

“I knew it,” my husband beams. I imagine her brave. Intelligent. Joyful. I imagine her.

“Now boarding, Flight AA756.” 

Texas again. Thirty-five weeks. The secret shows. Jackets no longer hide her. She moves virtually any moment that I sit still. It is time to tell my professors. But how? “I’ve been pregnant all semester, and I’m due in February?” No… Texas calls this a “reproductive condition… of having a living unborn child within the female’s body.” I am reduced to my uterus. But pregnancy is not merely biological. It is emotional. Spiritual. It is more than a condition. But to the world, I am merely due in February.

She’s here.

Her eyes, those dreaming blue eyes, somehow contain the universe. She gazes up, knowingly. We have endured much. We have crossed state lines, crossed definitions. And now, we simply are. Outside of law, culture, and expectation. Here we are, two lines transformed into two lives. My perception of reality transformed. Hers is just beginning. No one has ever felt quite this foreign yet so familiar all at once. Now, though she is separate from me and the womb that she once called home, we feel evermore connected. The law once separated us, but now, it has no prejudice over us.

What began as a lonesome reckoning with a plastic test became an odyssey of secrecy and revelation. And in the end, I am still me, transformed, not gone. Her name is a quiet reminder to slow down, to notice the sacred in the mundane. A life once announced in silence, now calling me forward both gently and powerfully.

Here we are, V. Your spirit reminds the world that miracles bound in secrecy do not fear darkness; they’re simply patient enough to shine in due time.