All pregnant women are warriors. It takes strength just to get

Host:
The morning light poured through the cracked window blinds, pale and gentle, but unrelenting. A small apartment hummed with the quiet chaos of life — a half-eaten toast, a blinking alarm clock, a pile of unwashed dishes, and a single heartbeat echoing softly within another.

The rain outside whispered against the glass, the world grey and soft, like the calm before a confession.

Jeeny sat at the kitchen table, her hands wrapped around a chipped mug, her eyes heavy but bright, her belly rising beneath the folds of a worn sweater. She looked both fragile and indestructible, like something the universe had both tested and chosen.

Across from her, Jack stood by the stove, pouring coffee, his movements slow, deliberate — as if afraid that any sudden sound might shatter the fragile morning. His grey eyes carried the look of a man caught between admiration and helplessness, between logic and awe.

On the table, written on a wrinkled piece of paper, were the words that had sparked the conversation:
“All pregnant women are warriors. It takes strength just to get up and go to work.” — Camilla Luddington

Jack:
(quietly)
“Warriors,” huh? It sounds poetic, but... isn’t that a bit much? Warriors fight wars. They go into battle. You — you’re just...

Jeeny:
(interrupting, calm but sharp)
Just what, Jack? Existing? Breathing? Carrying a life inside me while the world spins and expects me to keep up — that’s not a war to you?

Host:
The rain grew louder, tapping against the window like a thousand tiny heartbeats. Jack froze mid-sentence, his coffee mug hovering between hand and mouth, his expression shifting from argument to reflection.

Jack:
No, I didn’t mean— I just meant, it’s... I don’t know, Jeeny. You make it sound like every woman who goes through this is a kind of... hero.

Jeeny:
(softly, but with fire)
Maybe because she is. You think a warrior has to hold a weapon, Jack? Sometimes the battlefield is just a day — getting up, moving, smiling through pain. Every morning feels like lifting mountains no one else can see.

Host:
The light shifted, catching the faint lines of exhaustion beneath her eyes, the shadows of sleepless nights, the strength stitched into her quiet movements.

Jack:
(sitting down across from her)
I get it, it’s hard. But... isn’t that just what life is? Everyone struggles. Everyone has their own battles.

Jeeny:
You’re right — everyone does. But not everyone fights with two hearts beating inside them. Not everyone has to protect something so small, so silent, and yet so powerful it changes the gravity of your world.

Jack:
(nodding slowly)
So that’s what makes you a warrior. The weight of what you carry.

Jeeny:
(smiling faintly)
Not the weight, Jack. The will. The will to rise every morning, even when your bones ache and your spirit feels like it’s made of glass. That’s where the war is fought.

Host:
The steam from their mugs rose like quiet ghosts, curling between them, vanishing before they could touch. Outside, the rain had slowed to a drizzle, a kind of apology from the sky.

Jack:
You always make it sound... noble. But I look at you, Jeeny, and I just see someone who’s — I don’t know — suffering. I don’t want you to have to fight this hard just to get through a day.

Jeeny:
(looking up at him)
You think I’m suffering? Maybe a little. But I’m also becoming. Every day my body breaks a little, but every day it builds something stronger. That’s not pain, Jack. That’s purpose.

Jack:
And what about the world out there? The work, the expectations, the noise. Doesn’t it ever feel... unfair?

Jeeny:
Of course it does. The world was built for speed, not for creation. It doesn’t stop to make space for women who are building life. But that’s why we’re warriors. Because we still show up.

Host:
Her words lingered in the small room, like music no one wanted to stop. Jack looked at her — really looked — and for the first time, the fear in his eyes softened into reverence.

Jack:
You make it sound like strength and pain are the same thing.

Jeeny:
Sometimes they are. Sometimes strength is just enduring what no one sees — and doing it with love anyway.

Jack:
(leaning forward)
So, you think every woman who gets up, goes to work, carries that — that invisible weight — she’s a warrior?

Jeeny:
Absolutely. Because every one of us is choosing to keep the world alive, one heartbeat at a time.

Host:
The clock ticked softly. A moment of stillness. Then Jack reached out, his hand resting gently over hers.

Jack:
You’re right. I’ve seen soldiers come back from wars, and not one of them has the kind of courage you do. You don’t have armor. You don’t have a weapon. But you still fight. Every. Single. Day.

Jeeny:
(whispering)
That’s what makes it sacred, Jack. The quiet battles no one applauds. The sacrifices no one films.

Host:
The light had turned golden now, spilling through the window, touching her face with a fragile glow. Her eyes closed for a moment, one hand resting on her belly, the other still holding his.

Jeeny:
You know what’s funny? People always talk about miracles like they’re rare. But the truth is — they happen every day. They just wear tired eyes and stretch marks.

Jack:
And they still go to work.

Jeeny:
(smiling)
Exactly.

Host:
They both laughed, softly, the kind of laughter that felt like a truce — between fear and faith, between exhaustion and hope.

The rain outside had stopped. A ray of sunlight broke through the clouds, landing directly on the table, illuminating the crumpled paper with Camilla Luddington’s words.

Jack picked it up, read it again, and then — gently — slid it toward her.

Jack:
You know, I used to think warriors were all about fighting. But now... I think they’re about enduring.

Jeeny:
And becoming, Jack. Don’t forget that part.

Host:
The world outside began to stir again — the distant sound of footsteps, car horns, the rhythm of life continuing. But inside that small apartment, there was a kind of stillness, sacred and strong.

Jack stood, poured her another cup of coffee, and said nothing. He didn’t need to. The moment itself was enough — ordinary, but quietly divine.

Jeeny looked at him, her eyes full of peace, and for the first time that morning, she smiled — not from ease, but from understanding.

Host:
Perhaps that’s what strength really is — not in the battle, but in the continuance. Not in the noise, but in the quiet act of rising, moving, and loving through the weight of it all.

The sunlight filled the room. The coffee steam rose like a soft halo. And in that light — ordinary, yet infinite — a warrior sat, breathing, enduring, and quietly becoming.

Fade out.