The experience of pregnancy assumes that you’re a woman. It also sassumed that the person who got you pregnant is a man
PART I: THE DISCOVERY
Aryn’s mind is racing as they pedal furiously down the road, the tires of their bike crunching over the fall leaves scattered across the pavement. The cold Ohio morning air cuts through their jacket, but they barely feel it. They’re focused solely on the path ahead. One thought has hijacked everything and it’s ringing in their head, over and over again.
It can’t be true. It just can’t be.
It’s an attempt to push away the panic that is rising like a wave. The drug store is a mile away from their college dorm. It might as well be a hundred. The distance stretches out in front of them, the bike ride feeling like a blur of motion. Aryn’s breath comes in shallow bursts, their focus narrows to the path ahead. They turn a corner, pushing harder now, feeling the burn in their legs.
Don’t think. Just get there.
Aryn’s heart skips a beat as they pull into the parking lot. They slammed their bike against the rack, hands shaking as they dismount. The store smells of antiseptic, sharp and clinical.
Don’t look at anyone, just get it.
***
Thousands of miles away in Texas, Sophie’s mind spins as a storm of what ifs crash together. Panic flickers in her eyes as she enters a different drug store. She tries to push the thoughts away but they cling to her, impossible to ignore.
Doctors told me I’m infertile. There’s no way this is happening.
The fluorescent lights overhead flicker as she walks through the store, barely registering the aisles as she passes them. But then, her eyes land on a display of colorful flowers and cards. It takes her a moment to process the scene, and then it hits her – Mother’s Day.
The universe has picked an interesting moment to play its joke.
***
When the door to her apartment finally clicks shut behind her, the silence feels heavy. Sophie hands the test to her partner Derek, who hurries into the bathroom. The flat is still, their roommates still asleep. It’s just the two of them now. As the minutes pass, the tension stretches on, thick and suffocating. All the worst fears are racing through their heads.
We can’t afford this. We aren’t ready. What if our families don’t accept this?
***
In Aryn’s dorm, they pull the test from their bag and stare at it for a moment, the weight of the decision almost unbearable.
Do I want to know?
The thought whispers, but it is quickly drowned out by the urgent need for certainty.
I need to know. I need to know for sure.
Their heart races as they hurry down the long hallway to the communal bathroom, their footsteps echoing in the silence. The bathroom, lined with ten stalls, feels empty and impersonal. Aryn goes to the one that is furthest away – the one most likely to go unnoticed.
They lock the door behind them. What if someone walks in? What if they see?
They rip open the box with shaky hands, the plastic of the test cool against their fingertips. Everything else in the world fades to white noise – the chatter of people washing their hands, the clatter of feet on the tile floor. It all becomes distant.
***
Meanwhile, Sophie sits in the bathroom waiting for the result. Minutes, or perhaps hours, stretch on – time seems to lose all meaning. Her mind is running wild thoughts she can’t quite piece together. But she’s looking at it: A single red line. Tears start streaming down Derek’s face as it all hits Sophie.
This can’t be happening. I’m on estrogen. There’s no way I could have gotten Derek pregnant.
***
Becoming a mother – a mother – feels like an impossible role that neither Derek nor Aryn were meant to play.
As Aryn leaves the stall, they toss the pregnancy test into the disposal bin, and move toward the mirror above the sink. They glanced up at their reflection. The face staring back – long, curly blonde hair – feels like a stranger.
Who is this person? Who am I?
“It was like a light switch flicked on,” Aryn later recalls. “I understood, at that moment, that I wasn’t a woman.”
***
Sophie leaves to go to work. As she walks out the door, Derek collapses in front of the door of one of their flatmates, Tara, wailing, “I’m pregnant!” and wakes her from sleep.
Tara opens the door, steps out of the door, a little confused and shocked, her hair messy and her eyes heavy with sleep. She’s still processing what’s happening but the words spill out of her mouth, as if they are rehearsed. As she is processing what is happening, she asks, “What are you going to do?”
It was a big question, one that Derek doesn’t know how to answer. Their family would never have accepted them continuing the pregnancy, but they also knew they couldn’t come to terms with the idea of interrupting it either. Caught between two insurmountable obstacles, Derek feels lost.
Tara picks up the phone and calls her own mom, Kathleen, who has always been like a second mother to Derek.
“Everything will be okay,” she murmurs through the phone.
As the call ends, Derek stumbles toward Tara, collapsing into her embrace. “I can’t do this,” Derek chokes out.
Tara holds Derek tight. Her hands are smoothing over Derek’s back as her warm, steady voice whispers, “you will be fine.”
***
Growing up in conservative Ohio, Aryn had been raised in a world where labels were rigid, and gender defined by the sex you were assigned at birth.
“I was still very deeply in the closet,” they said. “I was falling into that compulsive heteronormativity, convincing myself that I was a woman.”
There’s an unspoken checklist that feels imposed on them: to be a good student, to avoid pregnancy, to marry to a good man, to follow a path that seemed to offer a sense of stability, even when it felt so foreign. A few months before, they started dating Jack to fit that checklist. He was in their college, and it seemed like the logical step.
They’d also been taught about abstinence, about the dangers of sex—pregnancy out of wedlock, STIs.
I already messed up on this one, let me not mess up on all these others.
***
Derek sits in a small, sterile exam room, the sound of the air conditioner humming in the background. The door opens, and a doctor steps in, clipboard in hand, ready to begin the usual routine.
“How are you doing today?” the doctor asks with a sense of nonchalance, eyes on their notes.
Derek forces a smile. “Same as usual,” they say. But the moment the doctor refers to them with the wrong name and pronouns, they feel a twinge of frustration stir.
It’s the same every single time. They’ll never learn.
As the exam progresses, Derek can’t help but think of Sophie – the mixed feeling of hilarity and exasperation about the absurdity of people reducing their relationship to something so narrow. “Heterosexual” they have been called by a doctor, simply because of the anatomy they shared. But neither of them fit into the box the world was so eager to force them into.
The doctor’s voice breaks through their thoughts. “Any concerns today?” “All good, thank you,” Derek says.
PART III: THE DECISION
The thought of going to a “women’s clinic,” of hearing a doctor call them one, feels suffocating to Aryn.
Flooding back are the mantras of Ohio sex ed class: This is what happens when you have sex.
This moment feels profound, and not just because of the pregnancy itself. It’s about a lifetime of feeling wrong in their own skin, a struggle that goes far deeper than this one experience.
Nobody has to know. There’s only one choice now.
***
Derek grabs the phone, quickly dialing the number for the abortion clinic. As it rings, a storm of thoughts rush through their mind.
A trans person seeking an abortion? How will I be treated?
As soon as someone picks up, Derek bursts into tears.
“Everything will be fine,” a soothing voice on the other end reassured them.
The clinic schedules an ultrasound and counseling appointment for the following day – as was then required by Texas law – before proceeding with the vacuum aspiration abortion. Derek goes alone, a swirl of anxiety churning within them.
What is going to happen?
Sitting in the waiting room for a mandatory ultrasound feels intrusive, like a government- sanctioned time out.
“It’s patronizing,” Derek recalls later. “They don’t trust you to make your own choices.”
To Derek’s surprise, though, there is a counselor well-versed in the needs of the trans community. She offers a sense of understanding amidst the tension. But as she begins to relay
state-mandated false information about risks – like breast cancer associated with abortion – a cloud of frustration settles in the air. Derek throws those pamphlets into the trash.
All of this is nonsense.
“You’ll need sedation for this procedure,” the counselor says. “It means you need somebody to pick you up.”
“Ah… okay,” Derek says.
I need Sophie for this.When is she free? Friday… no, Saturday, that’s her day off.
“Saturday should work,” Derek replies.
The counselor pauses for a moment, studying them with a look of concern. “It works for us,” she said, her voice laced with hesitation. “But keep in mind, protests are expected outside the clinic that day.”
***
It’s Thanksgiving break at school for Aryn, and they decide to use the time off to self-manage a medication abortion.
For a week now, Aryn has been taking pregnancy tests, endlessly scrolling through Tumblr as they wait for results, hoping for a different outcome.
Donald Trump has just been elected President, amplifying their fears.
What if someone finds out? I can’t risk being too open.
Instead, they search phrases like “what not to do when you’re pregnant” and “things to avoid in early pregnancy.” In the end, Aryn got some medical herbs through an acquaintance that internet message boards claimed would end a pregnancy.
To cover it up, they tell everyone — family, friends and their boyfriend — that they have the stomach flu and will be spending the break in the dorms.
It’s a convincing excuse. Aryn already has morning sickness anyway and has had to leave class several times to abruptly throw up. Several people have noticed them looking unwell.
The days are long. The tension is consuming. Every quiet moment is filled with questions.
What if this doesn’t work? Am I being reckless?
It isn’t a clean process. They had spent hours researching, sifting through forums, trying to find someone—anyone—who could give them a roadmap through this. But it isn’t as simple as following instructions from a stranger online, reading a few steps and expecting everything to fall into place.
Despite all the preparation, nothing about it feels straightforward or safe. But they can’t turn back now. This is their decision, and it has to be done.
My body is being occupied without my consent. I need to do this.
PART III: THE ABORTION
Derek sits in the car, eyes locked on the clinic in the distance, Sophie driving quietly beside them.
The protesters crowd the entrance, blocking the path, shoving pamphlets in their face, shouting. The chaos makes it feel like every step is a struggle. They manage to park, but as Derek walks toward the door, a voice calls out, loud and piercing.
“Who do you think you are?!” “Don’t kill your baby!”
The humiliation cuts deep—being watched, judged, every move scrutinized.
They don’t know anything about me.
Derek zones out, focusing on their breath. Focus. Breathe. Don’t make eye contact.
The meditation helps, but the shouts still find their way in, sharp and unforgiving.
One step in front of the other. It’s not that far away.
Derek moves with purpose.
Just keep walking.
The waiting room is crowded and not as quiet as Derek thought it would be. It feels thick with anticipation. Some patients are nervously sharing stories with others, as if this was the only place where they might have that sense of sanctuary.
The nurse hands Derek a small paper cup with an anti-anxiety pill. Everyone in the room has one. Derek takes a seat. Sophie sits with them. The distant shouts of the protesters linger. Derek can’t tell if it is real or still just ringing.
“This is murder!”
Derek watches everyone else find solace in one another. There is a sense of connection among the people in the room. But all Derek can think about is one thing.
This isn’t my body. This isn’t who I am.
“Derek Lloyd!” someone calls from across the clinic. Derek raises their head.
It’s time.
***
Aryn is alone in the quiet of an emptied out dormitory, curled up under a mountain of blankets with a box of Cheez-Its. The sitcom The Office is humming in the background –. Season 5, Episode 13, the one where the staff is learning CPR. They eat crackers, watching Michael Scott, in his usual absurdity, put the dummy’s face on his own, wearing it like a mask and awkwardly mimicking the dummy’s movements in a ridiculous dance. It isn’t the first time Aryn sees the episode, but in this moment it feels like the perfect distraction.
I wish someone was here to laugh about it with me.
The bleeding comes and goes in a strange rhythm. Aryn doesn’t know how to mark the moments. Is this the end? Or just another step of a process they are too scared to fully grasp? The isolation is overwhelming, but there is something else too — relief.
Another pregnancy test. This time, negative.
Aryn finally lets out a breath they hadn’t realized they’d been holding. But even then, the questions don’t evaporate. Aryn is left wondering.
Will this make me more of who I was meant to be? Or will it take me further from the person I’m trying to find?
PART IV: THE AFTERMATH
Aryn breaks up with Jack first. The relationship, once fitting neatly into the checklist of expectations, has become a facade. It isn’t until that break-up that the weight of everything— especially the abortion—begins to settle in. For months, Aryn has kept both the abortion and the self-doubts a secret from him. They can’t fully explain why they’ve kept it hidden, but the shame and fear of confronting the truth keep them silent.
It isn’t until nearly two years later that they start peeling back the layers of denial. “My abortion was really the catalyst in finding myself,” they say.
After ending the relationship, the next step is coming out. It isn’t easy, but it feels like the only way forward. As for their family, it’s still too soon to share that part of themselves. Luckily, they live on the other side of Ohio, so Aryn doesn’t have to face that conversation just yet.
Sitting with their roommates in the dorm, Aryn can’t help but notice Van Gogh’s Sunflowers poster hanging in front of the desk, its vibrant colors standing out against the grayness of the room. It feels almost ironic, considering where they are now.
Not long ago, this very room was where everything began—the moment they realized their period was late. One of their roommates had come in, casually asking for a pad, and in that instant, Aryn froze, the weight of the realization that they might have gotten pregnant hitting them like a wave.
Aryn struggles to find the right words. How do I begin? What will they think? But then, they just stop and say it.
“I… I’m not a woman,” they say, feeling a wave of uncertainty. “And, to be honest, I don’t even like men.”
There’s a pause. Then, to Aryn’s surprise, their friends burst out laughing. “Duh,” they reply. “We’ve been waiting for you to figure that out.”
A year later, Aryn gathers the courage to come out to their immediate family. The moment comes in the living room of their parents’ home, just a week after graduation. Aryn sits on the
couch with their parents, Robert and Sue, and younger brother, John, the room bathed in a soft green light. There’s an air of anticipation, as though something significant is about to unfold.
Aryn begins by acknowledging that their parents are already aware of their queerness—they had come out as bisexual and received acceptance. But this time, Aryn is ready to share more.
“Mom… Dad… John,” Aryn begins, taking a deep breath. “I don’t identify as a woman, and I don’t identify as a man. My pronouns are they/them.”
Sue looks puzzled for a moment.
“Do you remember my friend Soph?” Aryn asks. Sue nods. “They use the same pronouns.” “Oh, you’re like them?” she responds, a hint of understanding in her voice. Aryn nods.
Robert’s reaction, on the other hand, is far more practical. He glances up briefly, shrugs, and asks, “Okay… What’s for dinner?”
Over time, Aryn’s parents grow more comfortable with the new gender-neutral language they use to refer to their child. And gradually, certain moments from Aryn’s childhood begin to make more sense. This becomes obvious one day in particular, as they’re flipping through a photo album in their living room. Sue stops on a picture from Christmas—Aryn, around six or seven, with a frown on their face while sitting under the tree with a Barbie doll in their lap.
“Oh, I remember this,” she says, pointing to the image. “You threw that doll right into your brother’s monster truck and didn’t touch it again.”
Aryn chuckles softly, while Robert nods, scanning the next photo. This one shows them as a child, wearing their cousin’s clothes—baggy pants and a worn-out t-shirt—and holding a skateboard. Aryn’s hair is messy from playing outside, dirt smudged on their face from running around in the mud. As Robert’s glance moves from the picture to Aryn, his eyes shift, as if something is finally clicking into place. He turns to Sue, then back to Aryn.
“Maybe you weren’t just a tomboy,” he says, his voice thoughtful. “Maybe it was something deeper.”
Aryn’s heart skips a beat. They are finally seeing me for who I really am.
PART V: THE HEALING
It takes Aryn and Derek a long time to navigate the emotional complexities of being a transgender person who needs an abortion. Somehow they find themselves managing two of the most politically-charged lanes of healthcare in the United States. They feel double the isolation, double the confusion.
Derek had always prided themselves on resilience. Back in 2014, when they moved to Texas from a tiny town in the Midwest, it felt like a radical act of becoming – leaving behind a place that couldn’t see them, stepping into a version of their life they never thought they could claim. For a time, Texas offered that. In Houston, they found community, purpose, a kind of raw, sweaty joy that only comes when you’ve fought for something as simple as safety and finally, for a little while, have it.
But the landscape was shifting. And then, suddenly, it broke.
Derek sits frozen at their kitchen table, phone clutched in hand, reading the headlines that pour in after Donald Trump is elected president for the first time. One of the first things they see are tweets about “protecting women’s spaces” – code, they know, for targeting people like them. The fear begins as a whisper, low and constant. But over the next few months, it gets louder.
A trans person who had an abortion in Texas. That’s what I am.
It isn’t a single law or a single headline that breaks the spell. It’s the drip, drip, drip of dread. Until one day, Derek looks around and realizes the version of Texas that once felt like freedom no longer exists. They pack their car, quietly. Say soft goodbyes. Leave behind their apartment, their job, their life.
The relief of leaving doesn’t come right away. There’s grief in the departure – the kind that settles deep, the kind that comes from being pushed out of a place that once felt like home.
They move to the East Coast, hoping for safety, for breath. But the fear follows.
Every day, it still feels more dangerous to be who they are. The headlines don’t stop. Bills keep coming – bills that label people like Derek as predators. Clinics they once trusted are shuttered. Lawmakers go on national television and call trans people a “threat to children.” The Texas Attorney General, Ken Paxton, even suggests revisiting the persecution of sodomy – a chilling signal of how far they’re willing to reach into people’s lives.
And in the back of Derek’s mind, a question repeats, sharp and unrelenting: What if someone finds out?
Not just about being trans – that’s already out in the open, woven into their daily reality. But the abortion. The private, necessary, excruciating decision they made just months before. A decision that allowed them to keep moving forward – to survive. But in this political climate, it feels like a risk that could unravel everything.
They try to brush these thoughts off. They’ve been afraid before. They’ve survived worse. But something feels different now. There’s a current running through their body that won’t settle. In line at the grocery store, at the gas station, walking to their car after work – Derek starts looking over their shoulder. The anxiety isn’t theoretical anymore. The legal landscape has teeth, and it’s biting closer every week.
They don’t talk about it much. There’s shame in the fear. After all, they still have a job, still have health insurance, and are still white.
But they ask themselves the questions they don’t dare voice out loud: What happens if I need care again? What if someone reports me? What if I get arrested? What if the people who want us gone actually succeed?
***
Aryn and Derek cope in much the same way: they channel their pain into advocacy. But event after event, they leave feeling hollow. The healing they’re searching for never quite arrives — because no one else seems to carry the same layered, complicated experience. No one else is quite like them.
And then, slowly, something shifts. Derek begins to find their voice not just in service of others, but for themselves. They speak more openly, more personally. They connect with one person, then another, who shares a piece of their story. The isolation starts to crack. Derek starts to make a change — not just in the world around them, but in the way they see their place in it.
Less than a year after the abortion, Derek is speaking at a gala for a local abortion fund in Houston. As Derek stands backstage, the warmth of the spotlight just beyond the curtain, they glance at the audience. 20… 30… 60…the number of people packing into the room is growing faster than they can count. Their heart is pounding, the adrenaline surging.
I can’t do this, not in front of all these people. I could leave…
But the voice of the event coordinator announcing their name to the stage interrupts those internal voices. Derek takes a deep breath, closes their eyes, then opens them again as they step onto the stage. The words came spilling out effortlessly. They have no prepared speech, no written remarks. It flows from their soul as if they had been placed on this Earth to tell this story.
Relief consumes Derek. It is a physically unforgettable feeling. For the first time, Derek feels truly seen. Truly understood.
The crowd erupts in applause. Derek steps off the stage, legs unsteady by spirits soaring. They stand behind the curtain for a moment, letting the sound of that support ring a bit longer. So many voices have been in their head for so many years. This was a moment to savor.
“When I started talking about it, I couldn’t shut up,” Derek laughs, now recalling that day. Derek begins speaking at conferences and events, and with each opportunity, it becomes clear that their story is not as unique as they thought: within the trans community, abortion is a shared experience.
***
Aryn sits in the dim, intimate glow of a bar in Columbus, Ohio. They aren’t there for any particular reason — just to kill some time. But fate has other plans. It’s an open-mic night, and one by one, people are taking to the stage to share their voices. Then, a woman walks up, and the crowd falls silent.
“I had an abortion,” she begins.
The room hangs on her every word, and as she continues, detailing her experience with striking vulnerability, Aryn feels something stir within them.
We’re allowed to talk about that?
When the woman is finished, the crowd gives a small, appreciative applause, but Aryn jumps from their seat to approach her.
“Hi, I’m Aryn. Nice to meet you,” they say, their voice a little unsteady. “I—I just want to thank you for sharing your story.”
The woman smiles, extends her hand and thanks Aryn. “I… I had an abortion, too,” Aryn says.
Did I really say that out loud to a stranger?
The woman’s eyes soften, a quiet understanding passing between them. She studies Aryn for a moment, then smiles gently and suggests that Aryn apply to join the Youth Testify program – a group of storytellers who share their abortion experiences in an attempt to break the stigma around the topic.
“I think you’d be a great fit,” the woman says. Aryn stares at her, overwhelmed by the possibility.
Stepping forward and telling my story? Can I do that? Yes, yes I can.
“I think I will.”
In the quiet of that low-lit bar, Aryn feels the start of something life-changing.
***
A few months later, Aryn is sitting among a group of fellow storytellers in a buzzing room. The conversation is lively, with everyone sharing pieces of their personal journeys. Suddenly, the organizers play a raw, unpolished video of a person with short, buzzed hair and glasses, sitting in a chair and talking in front of the camera, while a cat wanders around. Aryn can’t help but think. It’ll be just like all the others — a bit annoyed.
“Hi everyone, I’m Derek,” they say.
Aryn’s gaze flicks upward, confusion in their eyes. Derek?
“I didn’t really feel like my body belonged to me,” Derek continues. “It was really hard to go through this because I am a transgender person.”
What did they just say? Did I hear correctly?
Oh my god. Aryn forgets to breathe, their heart racing in their chest. Stunned, their mouth hung open.
***
Months later, in a crowded conference hall, Aryn’s heart is racing. The buzz of conversations and footsteps fills the air, but everything seems to face as their eyes land on Derek. They’re standing near a table, talking with someone else.
They’re here! I cannot believe it.
Aryn feels a surge of excitement, as if spotting a Hollywood celebrity.
I need to talk to them… but what if they didn’t want to? Stop overthinking Aryn, just go there.
Aryn gathers their courage and begins to walk over. “Hi Derek,” Aryn says, emotion in their voice.
Derek looks up, their face breaking into a warm, familiar smile, the same that Aryn has seen through a screen. But this time it’s real.
Standing face-to-face, the loneliness that once lingered them dissolves.
Francesca Maria Lorenzini is a multimedia reporter based in the Middle East covering human rights, politics, and social justice.
