THE GUST THAT MADE ME

You know you’re going to be something special when you’re among the top of the selection. I’m pretty sure I was the only selection actually. My mom is young, healthy, and not trying to risk multiple pregnancies.

The people with the goggles couldn’t get enough of me. Poking, prodding, oooh-ing, ahhh-ing. Like a model walking down the runway, slowly smoldering their desperate audience. Then it was time for the transfer.

Goodbye bright lab filled with clicking instruments and way too many roommates. It’s time for me to get a new apartment. My new place was a one-bedroom. Dark, warm, very damp. It had a sound track too, but not clicking instruments; more like the beat of a drum. Maybe 80 beats per minute. Sometimes I get bored enough to count. And that’s the average.

Then the entry. I was thrust inside so fast I wasn’t sure I would stay together. A gust of wind with enough pressure to send me tumbling like someone sledding down a large hill, falling off, rolling, spinning, and then finally stopping, somehow intact, thinking:

How am I alive? Am I alive?

Turns out, I was. The place was nice. Pinkish-reddish walls, interesting shapes, a sneaky curtain-light glow. Between that and the steady audio, the whole apartment could rock me to sleep. It was pretty cozy, until the earthquakes started.

Every morning (I think? Time is fake here- but mom calls it morning sickness so that checks out), the whole place shakes violently. It feels like there is another tenant remodeling the foundation. It’s quite an experience.

I realized quickly that women are superheroes. Mom barfs daily and still checks on me afterward. “Phew… rough one. Feeling better now. How about you?”

I have no idea what this game is, but it feels nice to be included.

Dad… is also here. Technically.

His contribution so far is yelling, “Honey, you okay?” from a safe distance.

Which, I guess, is something. He could at least fetch her some water but I guess that requires back and forth movement. Maybe my arrival will warm him up. Maybe not. I don’t know much about men yet, but the evidence so far is underwhelming.

But just when I thought I had adjusted to the barf-quakes, Mom evolved into a whole new creature. Cravings. I didn’t know cravings were a thing. No one warns you about cravings from the inside. One moment, I’m floating peacefully. Next, the entire apartment does a violent shimmy, roll, or dance depending on her vibes. I swear the temperature changes depending on what she wants.

Pickles? A tidal wave that isn’t fun for me to float around in. Tacos? Spicy sauna. I’m on fire.

Ice cream? A full-blown blizzard. I genuinely thought we were experiencing climate change in here.

And the smells, oh god, the smells. She once wanted peanut butter and onions at the same time. Do you know what that combination is like from inside? It’s like being suffocated by a confused, sweaty chef.

At this point I began to wonder if pregnancy was supposed to come with a survival handbook. I was just a blob, trying to live my life, and Mom kept ordering emotional support snacks that triggered natural disasters. Still… she always checked on me afterward. “How you doing in there, little one?” Honestly? Terrible. But also loved. So I guess that’s a win.

One day, Mom suddenly starts rushing around. I brace for impact and begin to wonder if this is it? Am I being born today? I don’t even have limbs yet. Will she still love a torso with opinions? We end up at the hospital. Mom is calm. I am not.

Then a cold wand presses down from above and a blinding flash explodes in my face. Paparazzi. No boundaries. No consent. Just photos. Is mom going to show these to people? I am basically an ugly grapefruit. With my luck more like a tormented avocado. I hear chatter that these photos are definitely going out to friends and family.

Mom is relaxed, but I’m mortified. The photos will be public. I look like a peanut fruit. People will pretend I’m cute for my mother’s benefit. The womb was supposed to be private housing. Now it's apparently a glass-window apartment on the Vegas strip.

But then something happened that changed everything. The doctor said, “There it is,” and suddenly the whole room went still. I heard a heartbeat. My heartbeat. I didn’t even know I had one yet. Not officially. Mom gasped and held her breath, like it was so special she didn’t even want to start breathing again. Fairly dramatic if you ask me. “That’s my baby,” she whispered.

Dad went silent, too. Not useless-silent. Just taking it all in. Like someone just handed him the universe’s most fragile object and said, “Don’t drop this.” And I realized I wasn’t ever going to be alone. These people were crazy about me. In awe of the person I would become. I sure hope I didn’t let them down.

When the ultrasound event ends, we go back home, and things settle again. I grow. I stretch. I listen to Mom talk to me every day. Her voice pours warmth into the walls. Dad tries reading sometimes too, and honestly, he's getting better. Less like a decorative houseplant, more like a human trying.

Then came the whispers. “Maybe it’s a girl,” Mom said one night. She sounded hopeful and confident, like she already knew. I perked up. Girl sounded ideal. Girls, based on current data, seemed to handle life far better than boys. Boys were statistically more likely to be useless during vomit emergencies.

Dad said, “Either way is great!” in the exact tone of a man who absolutely has a preference but is trying not to ruin the evening. Which I supposed could be interpreted as a good quality for that gender. Not ruining an evening by saying what you actually think.

I wiggled dramatically to cast my vote, since what else can I do to get anyone’s attention around here? Did they get it? Hard to say. The reception in this place is terrible. Mom laughed. “Did you feel that? I think she wants to say hi.” Yes. Yes, I did. Put it on my lease agreement: I identify as whichever gender has working emotional intelligence. And based on what I’ve learned so far…let me be a girl.

I’ve been here for months now and genuinely love it. I’m hanging out, living life, just minding my own embryonic business, (I guess I’m no longer an embryo but it’s hard getting a name change). I’m ready to renew my lease for a full year when suddenly: A scream. Pain. The walls start squeezing tighter and tighter. My home is evicting me. I try holding on, but Mom screams louder. I think I might be the problem, but I’ll fight if she tries to kick me out. I’m not ready. I want to stay.

We rush. Again. To the hospital. Mom is pushing. Nurses are shouting. Dad is asking if mom is okay in his typical fashion. People are timing things. I overhear phrases like, “almost there” and “one more.” I am not ready. And I am still hanging on. Sorry mom. But what if it’s cold out there? What if I fall? What if the exit is a tiny tube and I pop out shaped like a cone? Is there an orientation packet for this?

Several hours later, or five minutes, who knows, the world explodes. A gust of wind so strong it steals the air from my teeny, tiny lungs. A force that grabs me by the head and yanks me into existence. The kind of wind that doesn’t ask permission, doesn’t apologize, doesn’t wait. It just shoves you into your destiny. It makes you want to scream. And I did. Loud.

I tumble out covered in goo and red slime, not the kind of blanket I ordered. People cheer. Someone rubs me with a towel like I’m a car being detailed. And then, finally, they hand me to Mom. Her eyes are wet. Her face is soft. She holds me like she’s been waiting her whole life for this exact weight in her arms.

Dad is there too, smiling, looking at me like he just discovered a new organ he never knew he had. At that moment, everything settles. Everything makes sense. I wasn’t just selected. I wasn’t just transferred. I wasn’t just shoved out by a gust of fate. I was wanted. I was fought for.

From dish to incubator, from incubator to tube, from tube to Mom, each stop was a deliberate step, a whole team rooting for me to stick, grow, become real. There was nothing accidental about me. I wasn’t a surprise. I was a project. A plan. I was loved before I ever had limbs. An experiment that went wildly, beautifully right. And honestly? What a great life.