Childbirth is more admirable than conquest, more amazing than

Host: The hospital corridor stretched long and dimly lit, humming with the low rhythm of machines and murmured footsteps. Beyond the sterile glass doors, the city’s night glowed faintly—soft orange halos above streetlights, the occasional wail of an ambulance piercing the quiet. Inside, the air carried the faint scent of antiseptic and coffee, the strange perfume of life beginning and ending in the same place.

Host: Jack leaned against a vending machine, his shirt sleeves rolled up, his face pale, the kind of exhaustion that isn’t physical but emotional. He’d been pacing for hours. A single red light above a delivery room door blinked like a heartbeat.

Host: Across from him sat Jeeny, slumped in a chair, her hands folded loosely in her lap. She was calm, but her eyes—deep, warm, unflinching—held that gravity only women seemed to carry when they spoke about pain and creation in the same breath.

Host: The quote came from a crumpled magazine she’d found in the waiting area, its page folded neatly as if by fate:

“Childbirth is more admirable than conquest, more amazing than self-defense, and as courageous as either one.” — Gloria Steinem

Host: The words landed between them like a revelation neither could ignore.

Jack: quietly “More admirable than conquest.” He let out a low breath. “That’s… something.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “It’s everything. We glorify the men who build and destroy, but not the women who endure.”

Jack: pacing a little “You make it sound like the world’s been keeping score wrong.”

Jeeny: softly “It has.”

Jack: “You really think childbirth is courage? I mean, it’s… natural. Instinct.”

Jeeny: turning to him, eyes narrowing slightly “So is survival. Doesn’t make it less brave.”

Host: The monitor beeps from the room beyond the glass, rhythmic and steady. Jack’s hand trembles slightly as he runs it through his hair.

Jack: “I don’t know, Jeeny. Courage, to me, is running into fire. Facing something you can choose to avoid.”

Jeeny: “And what do you think childbirth is? You think we can choose to not face the fire once it’s begun?”

Jack: sighs “It’s different.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s the same courage, Jack. Just quieter. Slower. It doesn’t come with medals or parades, but it’s still the act of walking willingly toward pain to create something bigger than yourself.”

Host: Her voice trembled, not from anger, but from truth—raw and unapologetic.

Jack: after a moment “You’ve seen it before.”

Jeeny: “I’ve lived it before.” She touches her stomach unconsciously. “And I’ve seen women break and rebuild in the same breath.”

Jack: quietly “I didn’t know.”

Jeeny: “Most people don’t ask.”

Host: The hall lights flickered, casting long shadows that moved like ghosts across the floor. Somewhere down the corridor, a newborn cried for the first time—fragile, defiant, alive.

Jack: softly “You really think it’s more admirable than conquest?”

Jeeny: “Absolutely. Conquest destroys to claim power. Birth gives power through pain. Tell me which is harder.”

Jack: smirking “Depends who you ask.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Ask the conqueror, and he’ll show you his scars. Ask the mother, and she’ll show you the life she built from hers.”

Host: The sound of the crying grew louder, echoing faintly through the sterile air. Jack’s eyes lifted toward the delivery room door.

Jack: “You know, when my father used to talk about bravery, he meant war. Guns. The kind of courage that leaves bodies behind. He never talked about… this. About giving life instead of taking it.”

Jeeny: nodding “Because our stories are told by the ones who survive destruction, not the ones who survive creation.”

Jack: half-smiling “And you think Gloria Steinem got it right?”

Jeeny: gently “She didn’t just get it right. She reminded us that courage doesn’t always shout. Sometimes it screams in silence while a woman bleeds for love.”

Jack: after a long pause “That’s… poetic.”

Jeeny: “It’s truth. And truth always sounds like poetry when people haven’t heard it enough.”

Host: The nurse’s silhouette passed by the glass, shadow and motion merging into one. The red light above the door flickered off. The waiting room seemed to hold its breath.

Jack: barely above a whisper “She’s in there. My sister.”

Jeeny: smiling softly “Then tonight, you’ll see what courage really looks like.”

Jack: sitting heavily “She’s terrified. Always has been. Said she didn’t think she could do it.”

Jeeny: with quiet conviction “That’s the secret, Jack. None of us think we can. That’s why it’s courage.”

Jack: “And you said you’ve done it?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Twice.” pauses “The first time, I thought I was dying. The second time, I knew I was living.”

Jack: meeting her eyes “And both hurt?”

Jeeny: “Every kind of creation hurts.”

Host: The door opened, and a nurse appeared—a small woman with kind eyes and exhaustion painted into the corners of her smile.

Nurse: “It’s done. She’s all right. So is the baby.”

Host: Jack’s breath caught, the relief crashing over him like a silent wave.

Jack: standing, his voice cracking “Can I…?”

Nurse: nodding “Soon. Give her a few minutes.”

Host: The door closed again, leaving the faint echo of joy and exhaustion beyond it.

Jeeny: watching him “You ever notice how every war cry ends in silence, but every birth begins with one?”

Jack: softly “A scream that means life.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s why it’s more admirable than conquest. Conquest ends with bodies. Childbirth begins with one.”

Host: A long pause. The cry of the newborn filtered faintly through the wall again, softer now, like a promise.

Jack: quietly “She’s going to be an incredible mother.”

Jeeny: smiling “She already is. The moment she faced the fear, she earned it.”

Jack: turning to her “You make it sound like every woman is a warrior.”

Jeeny: meeting his gaze steadily “Every woman is. We just fight different battles.”

Jack: “And men?”

Jeeny: softly “The good ones learn from us.”

Host: He smiled, a faint, tired thing, but real.

Host: Outside, the rain had stopped. The sky beyond the glass was pale now, the first threads of dawn unfurling like hope itself.

Jeeny: rising, pulling her coat around her “You should go to her. She’s just done something you’ll never truly understand—but you can still stand beside her.”

Jack: nodding slowly “Yeah. I will.”

Host: He hesitated a moment before turning to her.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny… you talk about pain like it’s sacred.”

Jeeny: smiling sadly “Because it is. Pain’s the proof that something real is happening.”

Host: And with that, she turned toward the door, her silhouette framed in the sterile light, quiet and strong, like every woman who’s ever walked out of the battlefield of creation still breathing.

Host: Jack stood there a long while, listening to the hum of life beyond the glass—the sigh of machines, the murmur of nurses, the small, impossible cry of new beginnings.

Host: The camera panned upward, through the sterile light, through the ceiling, into the sky above, where dawn stretched across the world like a wound that had chosen to heal.

Host: And over it all, Gloria Steinem’s words seemed to echo softly through the rising sun:

that there is no act more courageous than bringing life into a world built to destroy it —
no conquest more powerful than creation —
and no silence more sacred
than the first cry
of someone new.