There are moments in life that split you open and remake you entirely. For me, that moment was giving birth to my first son—a moment I once believed could never exist for someone like me.
As a transgender man, I was told in quiet ways and loud ones that choosing myself meant giving up other dreams. That authenticity and fatherhood couldn’t coexist in the same body. And yet, on an ordinary Wednesday morning, my body began to prove all of that wrong.
When Labor Began at Home
On Wednesday the 18th, the contractions started softly—almost politely. Mild at first. Easy to dismiss. But as the hours passed, they grew stronger, more demanding, more real.
By bedtime, the pain had crossed a line I couldn’t ignore. Still, I didn’t want to rush to the hospital too early or risk a false alarm. So I stayed home, breathing through the night, listening to my body, sitting with the quiet intensity of what was unfolding.
When morning came, I knew. There was no waiting anymore.
The Fear on the Way to the Hospital
We arrived at the hospital around 10:30 a.m., but the drive there is burned into my memory. The pain was unlike anything I’d ever felt. I was scared—deeply, viscerally scared.
Would we make it in time?
Was I strong enough for what was coming?
What if something went wrong?
Those thoughts echoed in my head as we rushed through the doors.
Nine Centimeters and No Turning Back
Everything moved fast after that. Questions at the front desk. A wheelchair. Small talk from a nurse that felt surreal against the pounding urgency in my body.
The delivery room was bigger than I expected. As I changed into a hospital gown, fear and anxiety settled into my chest. They strapped a monitor around my belly to track my baby’s heartbeat. Then the nurse checked my cervix.
I was already nine centimeters dilated.
One centimeter away.
Giving Birth as a Transgender Man
When I reached ten centimeters, the nurses gave me a choice: I could wait and let my baby move down on his own, or I could start pushing.
I was terrified.
I chose to wait.
Much of that time blurs together now. I remember exhaustion. I remember lying on my back, gripping my legs, pushing with everything I had. Hours passed, and it felt like nothing was happening.
Then the room shifted.
My son was stuck. His heart rate was climbing. He needed to come out—now.
The Hardest Choice I’ve Ever Made
The doctor told me I had another decision to make: forceps or vacuum. If neither worked, we would move to a C-section.
Making that choice while exhausted, in pain, and scared for my child was overwhelming. But I tried again. And with the doctor’s help, after hours of labor, everything finally broke open.
At 5:37 p.m., my son was born.
The Moment That Changed Everything
He was small. He was loud. And he was perfect.
When they placed him on my chest, the world went quiet. All the fear, all the doubt, all the years of believing this life wasn’t meant for me—none of it mattered anymore.
Giving birth didn’t make me less of a man. It made me a father.
What This Experience Gave Me
This journey taught me that bodies are powerful, complex, and deeply personal. That masculinity is not fragile. That love will always find a way.
And most importantly, it taught me that giving birth to my son was not something I survived—it was something I was strong enough to do.
I will always remember the way he screamed, the way his weight felt on my chest, and the exact second I knew my life had changed forever.
I am a transgender man.
And a father.
And I am endlessly grateful for the son who made me both.
Read about the birth of my second son here!
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