I think pregnancy, like life, is what you make it. I received a

Host:
The evening had settled into that soft, golden hour between sunset and night, where the world feels suspended — not quite ending, not quite beginning. The sky was painted in slow-moving ribbons of pink and amber, and through the tall windows of the quiet apartment, the light poured in like honey.

The air smelled faintly of lavender and fresh tea. The kind of peace that doesn’t announce itself, but hums softly through the room.

Jeeny sat on the couch, her hands folded over her belly, her breathing deep and deliberate. The soft fabric of her dress flowed around her like water, catching the fading light. Her eyes, warm and deep, reflected something sacred — anticipation, love, stillness.

Jack sat nearby in a worn armchair, a notebook in his lap, a half-written page waiting for a sentence he hadn’t yet found. His eyes, usually sharp with skepticism, had softened tonight. He looked at Jeeny as if watching the quiet unfolding of a secret he couldn’t analyze — only feel.

The world outside buzzed faintly — distant traffic, the far hum of a city still awake — but in this room, time had slowed, breathing in rhythm with her heartbeat.

Jeeny:
“You know what Mara Brock Akil once said?” she began, her voice gentle, luminous. “‘I think pregnancy, like life, is what you make it. I received a good hand. I’m thankful and blessed and so peaceful and can’t wait to welcome my son.’”

Jack:
He smiled faintly. “That’s… rare,” he said. “To hear someone talk about life — or pregnancy — without fear, or exhaustion, or cynicism. Just gratitude.”

Jeeny:
“Because she sees it for what it is,” Jeeny said softly. “A creation inside creation. A reflection of life itself — unpredictable, fragile, miraculous.”

Jack:
“Miraculous?” He raised an eyebrow. “You mean biological.”

Jeeny:
She smiled knowingly. “You can’t separate one from the other, Jack. Biology is miracle when you stop to look close enough.”

Host:
The light dimmed, turning gold to amber, amber to soft rose. Shadows stretched long across the room, quiet witnesses to their words.

Jack:
“I don’t know,” he said. “When people call something a miracle, it always sounds like they’re avoiding the truth — that it’s just nature doing what it does.”

Jeeny:
“Maybe,” she said, her tone still calm, “but why does calling it ‘nature’ make it less extraordinary? The ocean doesn’t ask for applause, but that doesn’t make it less divine.”

Jack:
He leaned back, considering. “So you think gratitude changes how we experience things?”

Jeeny:
“Of course,” she said. “Pregnancy, life, love — they’re all mirrors. You get out of them what you bring in. Fear, resistance, wonder — it all shapes what grows.”

Host:
Her hands rested gently on her belly again, and for a fleeting moment, the world outside seemed to hush, as if listening for the next heartbeat.

Jack:
“You talk like life’s a game of cards,” he said, smiling faintly. “She said, ‘I received a good hand.’ What if someone doesn’t?”

Jeeny:
“Then they play what they have,” she said quietly. “Because it’s not about fairness — it’s about creation. You can turn pain into strength, emptiness into space, endings into beginnings. You can always make something out of what’s given.”

Jack:
“Sounds exhausting.”

Jeeny:
“Sounds human,” she countered gently.

Host:
A small silence bloomed — full, soft, unspoken. Outside, a bird called faintly as if punctuating her point.

Jack:
“You really believe life’s that simple?”

Jeeny:
“No,” she said, “I think it’s that beautifully complicated. Life gives you both sunlight and storms — but you still get to decide if you grow.”

Jack:
He nodded slowly. “So pregnancy, for her, was peace.”

Jeeny:
“Yes. Because she met it with peace. That’s the difference — she didn’t fight the uncertainty. She made room for it.”

Host:
Her voice carried a weight beyond her words, the kind that comes from someone who’s wrestled with meaning and come out gentler, not harder.

Jack:
“I think what scares people most,” he said quietly, “is the helplessness of it. Whether it’s birth or life itself — it’s something happening through you, not by you.”

Jeeny:
“That’s what makes it sacred,” she said. “Letting go of control doesn’t make you powerless, Jack. It makes you available.”

Jack:
He tilted his head. “Available for what?”

Jeeny:
“For grace.”

Host:
A faint smile curved her lips as she said it, and the word seemed to settle into the room like light through smoke — soft, invisible, everywhere.

Jack:
“Grace,” he repeated, almost to himself. “That’s a word I don’t use often.”

Jeeny:
“That’s because you think grace means perfection,” she said. “It doesn’t. It means trust. It means understanding that you’re part of something larger — whether it’s a life growing inside you or a moment you don’t yet understand.”

Jack:
He exhaled slowly, setting down his pen. “So you think that’s what she meant — that pregnancy, like life, is what you make it because it’s all about how much grace you allow yourself to feel?”

Jeeny:
“Yes,” she said simply. “It’s not about control. It’s about communion.”

Host:
The light outside dimmed fully now, and the room took on the soft blue of evening. The air seemed to hum with quiet presence.

Jeeny:
“You know,” she said, her tone thoughtful, “Mara’s words remind me that peace isn’t something that arrives. It’s something you choose, every breath, every heartbeat.”

Jack:
“And you think that choice makes you stronger?”

Jeeny:
“I think it makes you softer,” she said. “And that’s stronger than most people realize.”

Host:
He looked at her, and for a long moment, neither spoke. The quiet filled the room like music.

Jack:
“You know, for someone like me,” he said softly, “the idea of calling anything predetermined ‘a blessing’ is hard to swallow. But maybe you’re right — maybe life is less about what happens and more about how we receive it.”

Jeeny:
“That’s it exactly,” she said. “Pregnancy, life, love — they’re all invitations. The world asks you: Will you resist, or will you welcome?”

Jack:
“And what if you’re afraid to welcome it?”

Jeeny:
She smiled gently. “Then welcome the fear. Even that has something to teach you.”

Host:
Her words seemed to hang there, like the faint echo of a lullaby carried by memory.

Host:
The night settled deeper, and somewhere down the street, the sound of a car engine faded into stillness. The lamp beside them glowed softly, painting the scene in amber warmth.

And in that stillness, Mara Brock Akil’s words returned, tender and luminous, like a prayer meant not for the heavens but for the heart:

“I think pregnancy, like life, is what you make it. I received a good hand. I’m thankful and blessed and so peaceful and can’t wait to welcome my son.”

Because maybe that’s what life really is —
an act of welcoming,
a long series of moments asking to be received,
not with fear,
but with open hands and a quiet yes.

Host:
And as Jeeny leaned back, her eyes closed, the rhythm of her breathing steady and sure,
Jack watched —
not as a skeptic,
but as a man finally learning
that peace is not the absence of uncertainty,
but the soft courage
to meet it with love.