My Life Now

I’m eight months pregnant, and sometimes I catch myself laughing at the ridiculousness of it all. I mean, look at me now — I just took a photo in my living room, lounging in sweatpants with my belly bare, one hand underneath, one on top, giving this little smirk like, yep, this is my life now. If anyone from my old life saw it, they’d never believe it was me. Because a year ago, I was a guy. A regular, beer-drinking, hockey-watching Canadian dude. Then the Great Shift happened, and everything I thought I knew about myself went up in smoke.

The Shift was chaos. One second, I was in Toronto, half drunk and laughing with friends. The next, I was blinking under fluorescent lights in a German train station, people yelling at me in a language I didn’t understand. I stumbled past the glass doors and saw my reflection — blonde hair, sharp cheekbones, a chest that was definitely not mine, and a waist that curved in like someone had airbrushed it. My first words in my new body? “No way. No freaking way.”

Turns out I’d landed in the body of a woman named Anna. German. Mid-twenties. Soft lips, long legs, and a closet full of clothes I didn’t know how to wear. I couldn’t even speak the language. The first time I tried to buy groceries, I asked for butter and somehow ended up with six cans of dog food. And don’t even get me started on the first time my period hit. I sat in the shower holding a pad, muttering, “I can’t believe this is my life now.”

Two months of stumbling through that mess and I’d had enough. Thankfully, Canada had this repatriation program — they couldn’t give you your old body back, but at least they could bring you home. So back I went, new passport in hand, officially Anna-but-not-Anna, trying to figure out how to live as a German woman in Toronto.

That’s when I saw Dan again. My old buddy. Somehow, the Shift skipped him. He spotted me in a coffee shop, squinted, and then his jaw dropped. “Wait… holy shit, is that you?”

I laughed nervously. “Yeah. Long story short, the universe decided I’d look better in a bra.”

He blinked, then grinned. “Well, they weren’t wrong.” His eyes flicked over me, and I caught it — that half-second of checking me out before he remembered who I used to be.

We started hanging out again. It was weird at first, catching up with him while I sat there crossing my legs in a skirt, pushing hair out of my face, feeling eyes on me in ways they never had before. And something shifted between us too. I caught myself staring at his shoulders, his smile, his hands. Hands I used to slap in high fives now looked strong and… well, hot.

The night it happened, we’d gone for dinner, then back to his place. We sat on his couch, laughing, and he asked, “You’re really you in there? Like, my buddy from before?”

“Yeah,” I said, softer than I meant to. “It’s me. Just… different wrapping.”

He tilted his head. “And how do you feel about that?”

I wanted to crack a joke, but instead I blurted, “Honestly? Lonely. Confused. Horny as hell.”

He laughed, then leaned in close. “Horny, huh?”

I kissed him before I could chicken out. My body reacted before my brain caught up — skin buzzing, chest pressed to his, a moan slipping out when his hands found my hips. It felt like falling off a cliff, terrifying and exhilarating all at once.

When we got to the bedroom, I froze at the edge of the bed, whispering, “I can’t believe I’m doing this. I used to be a guy.”

He kissed my neck, his voice low. “Then stop thinking. Just feel.”

And I did. God, did I feel. Every touch, every kiss, every thrust lit me up in ways I didn’t know were possible. I clutched his shoulders, gasping, moaning louder than I meant to, my hips moving without me even thinking about it. My head spun with thoughts like So this is what I was missing? No wonder women moan like this. At one point I even cried out his name, shocked at how natural it felt.

Afterward, I collapsed against him, sweaty and trembling, whispering, “If I get pregnant from this, I’m blaming you.”

Well. Guess what.

One night. One time. That’s all it took. When the test came back positive, I sat on the bathroom floor laughing and crying at the same time. “Of course. Of course this would happen to me.”

Pregnancy has been its own rollercoaster. Morning sickness that had me puking into the sink before brushing my teeth. Cravings that made me dip fries into ice cream like it was gourmet cuisine. Mood swings that had me sobbing over dog food commercials. And my body? I barely recognize it. My hips widened, my boobs got heavier, and my belly just… exploded.

Now, eight months in, I waddle everywhere like a penguin. Rolling over in bed feels like a five-point turn. The kid kicks me at three in the morning like she’s training for soccer. Sometimes I just sit, like in that photo, hand on top of the bump, hand underneath, smiling because I can’t believe there’s actually a little person in there.

Dan’s been here through it all. Midnight runs to the store, rubbing my swollen feet, laughing when I grunt just to pick something up off the floor. Sometimes I catch him staring at me with this goofy grin, like he still can’t believe his old buddy turned into this pregnant woman carrying his baby. And honestly? Neither can I.

But when she kicks, when I feel her move, I smile. Because yeah, the Great Shift flipped my life upside down. But it also gave me this. And somehow, in this crazy, twisted way, it feels right.

I still tell Dan, “You owe me. Diapers, midnight snacks, back rubs for life. This is on you.”

And he just grins and says, “Worth it.”