I didn’t know this night would end with my son on my chest.
At around 9 p.m., my body started whispering to me. A quiet cramping settled into my stomach. My lower back ached in that familiar-but-distant way, and I paused, listening closely. It wasn’t unbearable or dramatic. It was subtle enough that I almost ignored it.
I didn’t know then that this was the beginning of giving birth to my second child—or that the night ahead would ask everything of me.
Trusting My Body When Doubt Crept In
By 10:30 p.m., the discomfort hadn’t faded, but exhaustion had won. I went to sleep unsure if labor would truly follow through.
When I woke at 12:30 a.m., the pain was still there—steady, rhythmic, impossible to dismiss. I started timing contractions. Five to six minutes apart. Close enough to matter, but not as intense as I remembered from my first birth.
That hesitation was familiar. As a transgender man, I’ve learned how often doubt can creep in when my body does something the world insists it shouldn’t.
But my body was clear. It was time.
When Everything Suddenly Moved Fast
We left for the hospital at 1:10 a.m. By 1:30, I was in triage answering questions between contractions, hoping someone would move faster.
When they told me I was five centimeters dilated, disappointment washed over me. I braced myself for a long night.
And then—everything changed.
During a contraction, I felt the unmistakable urge to push. My water broke. The room shifted from waiting to action. When they checked again, I was fully dilated. There was no more time to prepare.
This wasn’t a slow unfolding. This was my body taking over, rewriting every expectation I had about giving birth again.
Pushing Through Fear, Pain, and Memory
In the delivery room, the pain was raw and unfiltered. Things were moving too fast for pain medication. I was fully present in my body—every sensation, every fear.
As I pushed I screamed. Screamed in pain, in fear. I told them I was scared. My first child had been big, I almost needed a c-section. I’d needed help. I was afraid history would repeat itself.
The doctor looked at me and reminded me gently: this labor was its own story.
So I pushed.
The nurse counted. Slowly, I felt him moving lower. There was a moment where I thought it wasn’t working—followed by the realization that it was. I could feel the stretch, the pressure, the closeness of him.
I pushed through fear, through the sting, through everything my mind tried to tell me I couldn’t do.
The Moment He Was Placed on My Chest
And then he was here.
They placed him on my chest immediately—warm, slippery, alive. He cried as they cleaned him, and I held him close, grounding myself in his voice. As the doctor finished the delivery and checked me over, I learned I hadn’t torn. My body had held strong.
My son fell asleep on my chest, soft little snores escaping him. I asked my partner to take a picture. I wanted proof—not for the world, but for myself.
Proof that giving birth didn’t take anything away from who I am. It added to it.
What Giving Birth Taught Me
I am a transgender man.
I gave birth.
And I did it on my own terms.
This experience didn’t contradict my identity—it strengthened it. It reminded me that our bodies are not mistakes or exceptions. They are powerful, complex, deeply human.
This story isn’t about defying biology or fitting into boxes. It’s about love, resilience, and the quiet courage it takes to trust yourself when the world doesn’t.
And it ends the best way possible—my second son asleep on my chest, exactly where he belongs.
Read the Powerful Story Of Welcoming My First Son Into The World here!
Leave a Reply