I rub my swollen belly absentmindedly, phone balanced in one hand as I catch my reflection in the mirror by the window. Eight months pregnant. The proof is right there in the glass: my round stomach stretching the hem of a soft gray tank, sweatpants sitting low beneath it, one hand cupping the curve like I’m afraid it might disappear if I let go. My hair falls loose around my shoulders, lighter than it used to be, my face softer too. I look… calm. Happy. I snap the photo without really thinking, winter light pouring in from the side, illuminating the quiet domestic mess behind me—our dining chair, the little stack of mail, the faint evidence of a life being lived.
It still amazes me that this is me.
Sitting here in our cozy apartment in Ames, Iowa, with the winter sun filtering through the curtains just like it did in the mirror, I can’t help but smile. My fiancé, Alex, is in the kitchen making breakfast, humming some old tune we used to listen to back in college. Life feels so normal now. Comfortably, beautifully normal. But if you’d told me a year ago that I’d be standing in front of a mirror like that—bare belly, engagement ring catching the light, a baby kicking inside me—I would’ve laughed in your face. Or maybe screamed.
Because a year ago, I wasn’t Emily.
I was Ethan.
It all started with the Great Shift. God, what a wild year 2025 was. One minute, the world was chugging along—wars, politics, memes on X—and the next, bam. Some cosmic glitch, scientists called it later, swapping bodies across the globe. No warning, no explanation. I was in my apartment, a 28-year-old guy, scrolling through my phone, when it hit. A wave of dizziness, like the worst hangover ever, and then... nothing felt right.
I stumbled to the mirror, heart pounding. Staring back at me was this stunning woman—long auburn hair, curves that could stop traffic, green eyes wide with shock. My hands—her hands—flew to my chest, feeling the weight of breasts that weren't there before. "What the fuck?" I whispered, my voice high and feminine, like silk over gravel. I stripped down, panicking, and there it was: no more dick. Just... this new anatomy, soft and unfamiliar. I poked and prodded, half in horror, half in awe. "This can't be real," I muttered to myself. "I'm Ethan. I'm a guy. I like beer and football and... oh shit."
The news exploded. Billions affected—men becoming women, women becoming men, some staying the same but swapped with strangers. Chaos everywhere: riots, identity crises, governments scrambling. Me? I locked myself in for weeks, learning to navigate this body. Bras were a nightmare at first—how do you even clasp them? Periods? Don't get me started. I cried a lot, alone, mourning the life I knew. But slowly, curiosity won out. I touched myself one night, exploring, and it was... electric. Different. Better? Maybe. "Okay, Emily," I said to the mirror one day, trying on the name I'd picked. "Time to face the world."
My first time out as her—as me—was a month after the Shift. I needed groceries, and hiding forever wasn't an option. I dressed simple: jeans that hugged my new hips, a sweater that hid my figure a bit. Makeup? Ha, I watched tutorials on my phone but ended up looking like a clown, so I wiped it off. Stepping outside, the cold Iowa wind hit me, and heads turned. Guys stared, women gave sympathetic nods—everyone knew about the Shift by then. I felt exposed, vulnerable, but also... powerful? Like I owned the sidewalk.
That's when I bumped into Sarah. Or rather, Sam now. We collided at the coffee shop downtown. "Watch it—oh my God, Ethan?" The voice was deep, masculine, but the eyes were hers. Sarah had been my college buddy, a petite blonde who'd crushed on me back then. Now, she—he—was tall, broad-shouldered, with stubble and that same mischievous grin.
"Sarah?" I squeaked, staring up at him. He was at least 6'2" now, towering over my 5'6" frame.
"It's Sam now," he said, laughing, pulling me into a hug. His arms were strong, enveloping. I felt a flush—heat rising in places I wasn't used to. "Holy shit, you... you're gorgeous. The Shift got you too?"
"Yeah," I admitted, stepping back, self-conscious. "Emily now. This is... weird."
"Tell me about it," Sam said, gesturing to his body. "Woke up with a dick and balls. Freaked out for days. But hey, coffee? Catch up?"
We grabbed lattes and sat outside, the January chill nipping at us. "Last year was insane," I said, sipping mine. "I was at a bar watching the game when it hit. One second I'm Ethan, flirting with the bartender, next I'm... this."
Sam nodded. "I was at yoga class. Poof—suddenly I'm the only guy in a room full of flexible women. Awkward boner city." We both burst out laughing, the kind that eases the tension. He told me about adjusting: learning to shave his face, dealing with random erections, the strength that came with it. "But it's not all bad," he added, eyes twinkling. "The orgasms? Shorter, but intense. And peeing standing up? Game-changer."
I blushed, sharing my side: the sensitivity, the way clothes felt different, the stares. "I feel like an alien in my own skin sometimes," I confessed. "But... it's growing on me."
We talked for hours, wandering the streets. Sam was easy to be around, like old times but charged with something new. Flirty glances, accidental touches. By evening, we ended up at a bar—my first drink as Emily. "To new beginnings," Sam toasted, clinking his beer against my wine glass.
"Cheers," I said, feeling bold. The alcohol warmed me, loosening inhibitions. "You know, back in college, I always thought you were cute. But I was too dumb to act on it."
Sam leaned in, his hand brushing mine. "And now?" His voice was low, sending shivers down my spine.
"Now... I don't know," I teased, but my body betrayed me—a flutter between my legs, nipples hardening under my sweater.
We left the bar, walking to his place nearby. "Just to talk more," I said, but we both knew. Inside, the door barely closed before his lips were on mine. Rough at first, then softening. His stubble scratched my skin—new sensation, thrilling. "Sam," I murmured, pulling back. "This is my first time... like this."
"Mine too, really," he admitted, hands on my waist. "We can stop anytime."
But I didn't want to. We kissed deeper, tongues exploring. He lifted me effortlessly—God, that strength—and carried me to the bedroom. Clothes came off slowly. I gasped as he unhooked my bra, his eyes widening at my breasts. "You're beautiful, Emily," he whispered, cupping them gently. His thumbs circled my nipples, and I arched, a moan escaping. It was nothing like before. As Ethan, pleasure was focused, quick. Now, it built everywhere—waves radiating from my core.
He kissed down my neck, to my chest, sucking lightly. "Oh fuck," I breathed, fingers in his hair. My body responded instinctively, hips grinding against him. I felt his hardness pressing through his pants—intimidating, exciting. "Take them off," I said, bold.
Sam stripped, revealing his new body. Muscular, aroused. I reached out, stroking him tentatively. He groaned, eyes closing. "Emily..."
Then it was my turn. He slid my jeans down, panties following. Exposed, I felt vulnerable, but his gaze was hungry, not judgmental. "Tell me if it's too much," he said, fingers tracing my thighs.
I nodded, pulling him closer. He positioned himself, rubbing against me first—teasing. Wetness built; I was ready in ways I never imagined. When he entered, slow and careful, it was... overwhelming. A stretch, a fullness that made me gasp. "Sam... oh God." Pain mixed with pleasure, but the pleasure won. He moved gently at first, building rhythm.
That's when I knew—I was no longer a guy. No more. As he thrust deeper, I felt it all: the friction against sensitive walls, building pressure. I moaned louder, uncontrolled—high-pitched, needy sounds I'd never made. "Yes, like that," I panted, nails digging into his back. My legs wrapped around him, pulling him in. Each movement sent sparks through me, clit throbbing where our bodies met.
"Fuck, Emily, you feel amazing," Sam groaned, speeding up. Sweat slicked our skin; the room filled with our breaths, the slap of flesh.
I screamed then—actually screamed—as the first wave hit. Not like male orgasms, sharp and done. This built, crested, exploded in shudders that rippled everywhere. "Sam! I'm... ahh!" My voice broke, body convulsing around him. He followed soon after, grunting, collapsing on me.
We lay there, panting. "That was... intense," I whispered, tracing his chest.
"Yeah," he agreed, kissing my forehead. "You okay?"
"More than okay," I said, smiling. But deep down, a shift—pun intended. I was Emily now, fully.
We didn't use protection. Stupid, in hindsight, but the world was still reeling from the Shift; normal rules felt suspended. A few weeks later, nausea hit. Pee stick confirmed: pregnant. "Sam, we need to talk," I said over the phone, heart racing.
He came over immediately. "Pregnant? From that night?" His face paled, then lit up. "Holy shit. We're having a baby?"
"If you want," I said, nervous. "I mean, this is crazy. We just reconnected."
He knelt, hugging my still-flat belly. "Emily, I want this. Us. Marry me?"
Tears welled. "Yes," I whispered. We got engaged that week—a simple ring, but it felt right.
Now, a year later, here I am. Eight months along, wedding planned for after the baby. Alex—wait, Sam insisted on Alex post-Shift, said it fit better—is my rock. "Breakfast's ready, babe," he calls now, setting plates down.
I waddle over, kissing him. "Thanks, love. Can't believe it's been a year."
He rubs my belly. "Wildest year ever. But worth it."
Yeah. From Ethan to Emily, guy to mom-to-be. The Great Shift upended everything, but it gave me this—a family, a love I never expected. And as the baby kicks again, I know: I'm exactly where I'm meant to be.
