Becoming
I don't know what I am yet.
There is no "I" to know. No consciousness. No thought. But there is movement, a cellular dance choreographed by forces beyond understanding.
Two strangers meet. One, a sphere protected by a transparent zone that repels all but the chosen. The other, a dart among millions, a single successful swimmer in a race where failure means oblivion.
I am both, yet neither. I am potential.
The moment of union happens in darkness, deep within the fallopian tube where no light has ever reached. The sphere—the ovum—has been waiting. It departed its follicular home 24 hours ago, drawn inexorably toward this moment. The sperm, having survived a treacherous journey, sheds its acrosomal cap and penetrates the zona pellucida.
Two become one. Two haploid cells merge, and in that chemical spark of fusion, my story begins.
I am a zygote now. A single cell with a complete set of human DNA—23 chromosomes from my mother, 23 from my father. A unique genetic code never before seen in the history of humanity. In this moment, my sex is determined, my predisposition to certain features, the color of my eyes, the texture of my hair, perhaps even subtle inclinations of my unformed personality.
I split. One cell becomes two.
I have no awareness of time. No neurons to process information. No sensory organs to perceive the world. And yet, I divide again. Four cells. Eight. Sixteen. A morula, a solid ball of cells so small I could fit on the point of a pin.
Traveling still, moving along the fallopian tube toward my destination. The journey takes days, though I have no concept of days. No concept of anything.
I am hollowing now. Cells arranging themselves around an inner cavity filled with fluid. I am a blastocyst, a hollow sphere with an inner cell mass that will, in time, become me.
My home awaits. The endometrium, the prepared lining of the uterus, thick with blood vessels and nutrients. I make contact. My trophoblast cells—the outer part of me that will form the placenta—begin to secrete enzymes. I burrow into the endometrial wall, implanting myself.
The moment is perilous. Many like me fail at this stage, unable to properly implant. But I succeed, embedding deeply into the nurturing tissue. My cells dig in, forming tiny projections that will eventually develop into the placenta.
I communicate with my mother's body, sending chemical messages. I am here. Sustain me. Protect me.
Her body responds. Hormones shift. The corpus luteum, the remnant of the follicle that released the egg, continues to produce progesterone, preventing menstruation. My presence is now known, at least to her biology.
My cells continue to differentiate. The inner cell mass splits into two layers—epiblast and hypoblast. I am becoming more complex by the hour. The epiblast will form the embryo; the hypoblast, the yolk sac. I am starting to organize.
Blood vessels form around me, bringing oxygen and nutrients. I have no lungs to breathe, no mouth to eat. Yet I consume what I need through these primitive connections.
By the end of these first crucial weeks, I am an embryonic disc, a flat circle of cells with a primitive streak down the middle. This streak will guide cells to their ultimate destinations. Front and back, left and right, top and bottom—all are now defined.
My mother may not even know I exist yet. Her conscious mind remains unaware, though her body has already begun to change. Subtle shifts in hormone levels. Perhaps a missed period, the first outward sign of my presence.
I have no awareness of her. No awareness of myself.
And yet, here I am. Becoming.