We are all clumps of cells.
At conception. At birth. At ten. At fifty. At eighty.
There is no moment where we stop being “just cells” and suddenly become worthy of protection. We only become more complex. More organized. More miraculous. So when pregnancy is reduced to “it’s just a clump of cells,” I have to ask: when did cells stop being sacred?
Because the moment someone is pregnant, society quietly admits something important. Don’t drink alcohol. Don’t do drugs. Don’t take certain medications. Don’t eat certain foods. Take prenatal vitamins. Change your habits. Change your body. Change your life.
Why? If nothing meaningful exists yet — if there is truly nothing there — then none of this should matter. But it does matter. Everyone knows it does.
You don’t get to say “there’s nothing there” while also admitting it can be harmed. You don’t get to say “my body, my choice” while enforcing rules that exist solely to protect someone else.
That’s the hypocrisy no one wants to sit with. “My body, my choice” cannot mean absolute autonomy once another life is present — because absolute autonomy ends the moment responsibility begins. And pregnancy is responsibility from the very start, whether people like that fact or not.
Pregnancy is not a punishment. It is not an inconvenience.It is not a glitch in bodily autonomy. It is the natural consequence of an act capable of creating life.
If people choose sex carelessly and then resent the life that results, that resentment does not erase responsibility; it only reveals a refusal to accept it. The outcome is not society’s fault, not biology’s fault, and certainly not the child’s fault.
Ending a life does not undo the choice that led there. It only adds destruction on top of it. Calling that “freedom” or “choice” doesn’t cleanse it of moral weight; it just hides it behind softer language.
And yes — there are tragic, dire medical circumstances. Yes — there are emergencies where loss is unavoidable. That is not what I am talking about. What I am talking about is how casually destruction is justified instead of mourned.
If the issue is not wanting to parent, then parenting is not the only option. Adoption exists. Safe-haven laws exist. Even embryo adoption exists before pregnancy begins.
The absence of a desire to raise a child does not erase the child’s right to live. It simply means responsibility can take a different form.
Consider miscarriages. If what is lost was never a life, then why do miscarriages devastate people so deeply? Why does chronic alcoholism increase miscarriage risk? Why do doctors warn so urgently against behaviors that can cause loss very early on, long before any arbitrary line where some decide life suddenly “counts”? If something can be lost, harmed, or destroyed, then something meaningful was there to lose.
And rape must be addressed honestly—not avoided. Rape is an act of violence. The child conceived is not. The embryo, fetus, baby — whatever term is used — did not commit the crime. The person who assaulted did. Transferring punishment onto the most innocent party does not heal trauma; it multiplies harm.
I understand not wanting a living reminder of violence. That pain is real. But pain does not turn innocence into guilt. If someone is capable — emotionally, mentally, financially, circumstantially — why is the response erasure instead of transformation?
We celebrate unplanned children conceived through consensual sex all the time. We call them blessings. We love them fiercely. Why does the moral value of a child suddenly change based on the circumstances of conception?
No child asks to exist. That is true of every human being who has ever lived. The question is not whether the situation was wanted. The question is what we do when life appears anyway.
And this is where “vessel” matters. Mary is often brought up here — not only because I’m Christian, but because she illustrates a truth that applies to all pregnancy. A vessel is not disposable. A vessel is not degraded. A vessel is honored because of what it carries.
And a vessel is not an object. Carrying a life does not diminish the pregnant person — it amplifies their importance. It underscores their dignity, their strength, and the gravity of what they are entrusted with.
Pregnancy does not reduce someone to an object, despite what misogynists claim. It does the opposite: it reveals just how irreplaceable and vital the pregnant person truly is.
And the intimacy that leads to pregnancy is not impure or meaningless by default. An act capable of creating life carries inherent gravity. Infertility, medical realities, or not wanting children do not erase the nature of that act — they only change the outcome.
Pregnancy is not a punishment. It is not an inconvenience. It is not a mistake to be “undone.” It is cells doing what cells have always done: reaching for life.
The tragedy isn’t that people debate this. The tragedy is how far we’ve gone to strip awe, responsibility, and reverence from something so profoundly human.
