By Jacoby Ballard

This article was originally written for the Birthing Mama Prenatal Yoga Teacher Training in Amherst, MA. Please do not reproduce or share without explicit request.

We were in a squat in a class at Kripalu, taught by the Director of its Yoga School. “This posture is great for pregnant people…” I breathed a deep breath, so grateful that my path to parenthood was welcomed and anticipated here. That bubble burst when the teacher ‘corrected’ himself, saying, “Er…pregnant women!” Everyone around me burst out in laughter at the seeming thought of a pregnant man. Thomas Beatie’s pregnancy had been covered three years before by mainstream media outlets, bringing transgender pregnancies into awareness, but apparently the 200 students in this large room hadn’t taken note. Hot waves of shame washed over me. I felt alone, my connection with others in the room severed by their jeering laughter-not intentionally at me, but at me nonetheless. After the class I spoke to the teacher, telling him the pain of that moment and my plans to give birth and parent as a man. He received my words with presence, attention, and tears. We have remained connected to this day because of that harm and repair, and that experience of transformation is part of what leads me to write this article now. I know that our yoga practices can lead us to powerful places especially through the practices of ahimsa and satya. 

I have been practicing yoga since 1999. Yoga has seen me through vast changes and transitions in my life: through college where the classism I faced was incessant, through coming out as queer, through my beloved grandmother’s death, through the victories and losses of social justice activism, and throughout my gender transition. Gender transition is popularly understood to be a singular moment in a person’s life, but for me, it has been ongoing for much of my life, a path rather than a destination, greatly informed by my yoga and Buddhist practice. I came out as trans when I went to herbal medicine school in Ithaca in 2004, just after receiving my 200-hour yoga teacher certification. I had top surgery in 2007. I began taking a low dose of testosterone in 2008. I completed an advanced certification at Kripalu in 2010, and part of that process led to my mom and I reconnecting after years of difficulty due to my transition. I’ve taught holistic trans health workshops and Queer and Trans Yoga for the past decade, and due to being an out trans yoga teacher, I am hired to consult for schools, meditation centers, yoga teacher trainings on diversity, inclusion, and equity. And this past January, I had a baby.

I had some fears in becoming a pregnant man as a yoga teacher: being assumed to be available for unwanted conversations or comments about my body or process, being laughed or jeered at, my pregnancy being invisible, my bodily changes being on display as I continued to teach, being misgendered once students and colleagues realized I was pregnant. And, due to my yoga training and practice and interest in physiology and anatomy, I found the process incredibly mesmerizing and magical, that new life could take root in and emerge from my body, and being witness to the minute and profound changes taking place. In fact, my work prevented me from heightened gender dysphoria, which many trans guys experience.

I have been teaching yoga for two decades as well, and have trained with some incredible teachers who I’ve had to educate and push back on in many ways. I have taught yoga in schools, recovery centers, to survivors of sexual violence, with queer and trans communities, in homeless shelters, at conferences, at nonprofit offices, in parks, in YMCAs, and yes, in yoga studios. Due to my identity and values, I have come to understand my work as a bridge builder, bringing together the worlds of embodied practice and social justice, trauma and community work, working with white folks on anti-racism while collaborating with people of color on projects together. And so now, having had the experience of being both masculine and pregnant invites me into bridgebuilding again-between birth work that tends to assume both heterosexuality and femininity and my own queer and trans communities.

For me, navigating the pregnancy and birthing world was predictably full of landmines. Contrary to popular belief, lots of men have babies! People who are gender non-conforming or genderqueer have babies. And luckily for me, I had an amazing partner who fielded every provider that I saw initially, directly telling them that her partner is trans, goes by he, and is carrying and will be birthing the child. She asked each provider if they’ve worked with trans or GNC people before. She asked if there were queer people in their practice. Some of the providers enthusiastically proclaimed, “I’m an ally!” and then did exactly what we asked them not to do. Others just listened to our words, our process in bringing our babe to this world, committed to educating themselves if necessary, mirrored us, and offered affirmation. We managed to find an amazing midwife, a queer doula with a trans partner, and a Bradley Method birthing class teacher who we’ve now adopted as a grandma to our babe.

I want the birth work world to know that we exist–transguys and gender non-conforming people carrying and giving birth to babies. I want there to be room for us. I want there to be fewer hurdles. I want respectful treatment. I want us not to have to choose between getting insurance coverage for birth and having our legal documents reflect our sex. I want us to not be objects of curiosity in the National Enquirer, but to have our humanity and pregnancy anticipated and welcomed. I want our many paths to parenthood to be known before we arrive so that the person carrying child or the person by their side is not obligated to educate. Some of us use a sperm donor, some of us have both sperm and egg within our relationship. Some of us are partnered with other trans or gender non-conforming people, some of us partner with cismen, some of us partner with ciswomen. Some of us are polyamorous and with share parenting duties between more than two adults. Some of us chestfeed, some of us have had breasts and mammary tissue removed as part of top surgery. Some of us rely on donor milk, some of us use formula. True to queer culture, there are hundreds of us internationally connected in various organizations and Facebook groups, and communicate with each other and provide assistance and personal experience around pertinent questions like birth certificates (who is the “mother”? Is it listed parent/parent?), chestfeeding in public as masculine parents, navigating insidious gender norms as early as infant daycare, alienation or isolation among other parents, second parent adoption, our babies on the way and our photos of our big bellies beneath our masculine clothes, and anything else that arises!

Germination: A Journey of Language, Resonance, and Truth

I carried our baby and my partner has fed our babe through induced lactation, which we have called “a queer distribution of labor”. Given these atypical roles, of the fella birthing the babe and the non-birthing parent chest-feeding, we’ve had some educating to do.

In line with queer and trans legacies with language, through my process, I disposed of some commonly used words and replaced them with language that resonated for me. If you’re not queer or haven’t dated a trans person before, you may not be familiar with our creative and ingenious use of language. We rename our body parts, we use a wide variety of words for our lovers and sexual/romantic relationships, we cultivate intimacy and interdependence with community members that we rename as family. My partner and I renamed pregnancy “germination”-as an herbalist and gardener, this resonated, and didn’t feel gendered in the way that pregnancy is. We renamed vagina “the baby chute”, and the uterus “baby sack”. We wrote up a manifesto about our family making journey and values, trying to head off some of the missteps we’d already received from close family members, and trying to give our family some guidance, along with some humor, cute photos and drawings, and delightful format, entitled the “Germination Proclamation”. In the Proclamation we asserted that I could be called parent, papa, a seahorse papa, dad, gestational parent, germinating fellow, or The Germinator, and that my ciswoman partner could be called parent, fierce protector, lioness, chest-feeder, or Maddie.

To people that we knew well, I was comfortable sharing about my germination process down to the vitamin regime, my weird food preferences, and the large pillow I slept with as baby grew. To people who we were just meeting or who didn’t need to know the specifics of our family-making process, we let them assume that my partner was carrying the child, which most people did assume, out of the cultural idea that “men don’t have babies” and out of what they thought was respect for my gender. Yet gender is complex, and lots of guys  have had a baby or are trying to conceive! In fact, in our small Bradley Method birthing class, in two of the three couples, a guy was going to give birth!

I attended a total of two prenatal yoga classes during my germination. There were a few reasons for this-being an experienced teacher, I had worked with many pregnant people, and was familiar with the adaptations. As a yoga practitioner, I was tuned into my body, it’s limits and possibilities, and how that shifts day to day. I had the support of a good birth team and good birth education through books and classes, and so didn’t necessarily need the information on birth. And, as a feminist guy, I both respect the importance of women’s spaces, and didn’t want to explain why I was in the prenatal classroom when no other guys were present. One of the teachers was a new friend and ended up being my backup doula and her use of language was not memorable (which is a good thing). The other teacher my partner had spoken to directly when we were to attend a “partner’s prenatal yoga class”, and despite her enthusiasm, she directed attention to me as the birthing partner when we asked beforehand to attend without acknowledgement of which of us was carrying our child. More broadly, I knew that the world of prenatal yoga has strong expectations about gender roles, and sometimes doesn’t even anticipate queer relationships and paths to parenthood, let alone trans pregnancies. I wouldn’t recommend to all gender non-conforming germinating folks or pregnant trans guys to skip the prenatal yoga, but what worked for me was to continue to attend regular yoga classes, speak to the instructor privately about my germination, and adapt my practice as needed.

From Stealth to Revealed Germination

As my belly grew, I was pretty stealth as a germinating person. In my new home in Salt Lake City, new friends and yoga students didn’t necessarily realize that my body was changing: I was just another chubby fella–maybe not the mountain fitness type as is so common around these parts! In some ways, I appreciated this invisibility for not having to have conversations that I didn’t want to have with people led by their curiosity or “good intentions.” When I visited New York City at 26 weeks, and took the subway, signs coached riders to give up a seat to the elderly, pregnant, or disabled. I was uncomfortable, invisible, and left to stand on long rides. As I grew, my partner found me larger and larger hip urban wear that fit my gender, nowhere near the “maternity” aisles. No new parent friends gave me hand-me-downs for my germination. Though pregnant friends were celebrated by strangers in their impending birth and family growth, my weeks ticked along with collective silence in my new city. And I know that this is common for some trans folks in general, to pass as the gender they present themselves as, without full knowledge of their history or lived experience.

My last week of teaching yoga classes before parental leave was at 38 weeks. As my germination progressed, I demonstrated less and less, and became precise in my vocal instruction, and made other adjustments that were necessary to my teaching practice, but I hadn’t directly disclosed what was going on in my body. I made my announcement at the end of each class that week, which surprised almost all of my regular students. My announcement resulted in both students’ joy and excitement for me being on this journey towards parenthood, and being misgendered by some regular students that I had grown a fondness for. I was disappointed to hear the wrong pronouns be used, but I expected it, and so it did not harm me.

During that same week, I was interviewing to teach at another studio, and so guest taught a regular class. The owner of the studio introduced me, and I told the class that that would be a regular class for me starting in March, as I was to be out on parental leave for two months. I left it vague, not wanting to explain my gender, but students asked followup questions and I disclosed that I was the person carrying our child. Afterwards, I overheard a student misgendering me to the owner, which the owner corrected seamlessly. When I returned to the studio two months later, I was met with all kinds of questions about the birth and my child, in front of students and teachers who hadn’t been there for my interview, but now were privy to this information about me just given the kinds of questions that were asked. I didn’t know how to advocate for myself without shutting down or alienating new students of mine. To be clear, I was happy to share information about the baby, but did not necessarily want to be known as the birth parent if that wasn’t necessary. I am not ashamed of my role, it’s just complicated given my masculine gender-I don’t want to be continually misgendered, insisted to be a woman because I gave birth, be the subject of someone’s curiosity, or be expected to educate someone on gender when I was just showing up to teach yoga. This too, is so many trans people’s experience, to have to come out over and over again, advocating for their self knowledge to be seen and mirrored daily, and it’s exhausting and gets in the way of other things we would like to and need to think about and do!

In preparing for the birth, I did 100 squats per day and walked a lot. I had learned about the anatomy of the pelvis through this process and knew that I needed to strengthen some muscles! I was also meditating daily and doing a regular asana practice that prepared me for birth and cared for the aches and pains of my germinating body. As it turned out, probably not separate from my nearly two decades of yoga, I labored at home for 6 hours and pushed for 15 minutes in a first birth. I had imagined that this would be a lot of effort, harder than climbing the 12,954 foot mountain above my hometown in Colorado, but my experience is that there was a force moving through me, and I just had to allow it to happen; it was more surrender than effort. At one point when doubt was rearing its ugly head, my doula stood forehead-to-forehead with me and told me, “Look at me! Look at me! You can do this,” in a serious tone. We had asked the birth team for no sex announcement when the baby came out, and our queer doula reminded the midwife of this at precisely the right moment. When the midwife knew the birth was imminent, she told me, “Now Jacoby, standing up is a perfectly fine way to give birth, but if you’d like to sit on the squatting stool, now is the time you’d want to do it.” My partner and doula helped me get to the stool in my disoriented state, and minutes later our babylove was born. It felt surreal and magical what my body could do, surprising when this new being squawked and screamed, so squishing and slippery between my partner’s body and my own. Soon we were laying in bed, our babe latched to my partner’s breast. The snowstorm had parted and morning sunlight poured through the south-facing window. The birth team brought us food, helped me shower, weighed the baby, cleaned up, and by early afternoon we were on our own, new parents.

Now I have daily encounters with the realm of gender and parenting, which is so interesting! I will go to a bakery with the baby strapped to my body and get a lot of attention for being in public with the child. My partner will do the same but not get any increased interaction at all. When we are together with the baby in public, strangers will ask Lezlie about Gigi but not me, assuming that as the “mom” (she goes by Maddie), she has all the information on our child but for me as the “dad” (I go by Papa), I do not. When strangers ask, “is it a boy or a girl,” my partner obfuscates the question, often saying, “we don’t know yet! We’re excited to find out!” and I often keep walking, leaving her to have the conversation that I’ve had hundreds of times about my own body/heart/mind. Many of our friends and some of our family have assumed that as a queer couple with a Gender Studies Professor and out trans educator, we would raise our child with gender neutral pronouns. A few of our trans friends raise their children with ‘they’ pronouns and keep information about the anatomy of the child private and close to home as possible. We are raising our child gender neutral-right now eschewing gendered clothes that pair with our child’s sex in a way that is expected with society, and as our babe gets older, we will provide lots of different activities, hobbies, crafts, colors, clothes, toys-some gendered for boys, some gendered for girls-giving opportunity for Gigi’s full humanity to surface. When we go to the local hand-me-down children’s clothing store, it’s separated by gender. We shop in both aisles. We want to give Gigi all the options, and will try our best not to cast shade on some or lift other options up-attuning ourselves to the babe’s interests and preferences.

I have struggled to find a parent community. I showed up for a group that strolls around the park with the babies, and was the only non-straight, masculine person present. Folks were nice, but didn’t know how to relate to me. We showed up for a new parent group at the local Pride Center, but it was small and awkward, and even though the other parents were gay, their priorities and values didn’t align with ours. I am in constant touch with my queer parent friends around the country, so I know I’m not alone, but in this new state and new role, I am lonely. I struggle with the things many new parents struggle with-when to shower, how to take care of my own needs and work while being responsible for full-time baby care, how to get groceries, with or without the baby, when to try a new family adventure, and when to abort plans according to the baby’s cues.

I am grateful that I went through this germinating and birthing process. I am mesmerized by how new life is created, I appreciate my body even more, and feel in some ways even more attuned to it. And, there are processes that a cisgender parent wouldn’t think about; I’ll have a revision on my chest surgery in the next year because there were some mammary glands left there that swelled after Gigi was born, and I want to return to a flat chest. I’ve legally changed my sex since Gigi was born, because I was afraid I’d be denied prenatal care by insurance if my legal sex read female, a denial well known in trans communities. I have held off on the legal process for over fifteen years, which meant trading in side eye looks from TSA at the airport for excellent healthcare for 10 months through germination and birth. And, now I have yet a new area of experience to offer up to educate my yoga communities, expanding pre- and post-natal offerings to include many different kinds of bodies and families and ways to bring a young one into the world.

I am so grateful that an article like this could be included in prenatal yoga materials. I am hopeful that you will see us, anticipate us, make room for us, humbly ask for suggestions, and probably, find further sources of education, and seek forgiveness again and again. As an old yoga friend reminded me years ago, it’s taken me many years to get to this place with my gender, it could take you just as long! So, I pledge to be patient, forgiving, determined, and gentle with you, my cisgender friends, as you learn how to be skillful in the birth world around the universe we call gender. Deep bows to your practice.

Suggestions for welcoming queer and trans families and students into prenatal classes/birth communities:

• Posture Benefits. Try to let go of the idea that some postures are better for one gender or another. Present the benefits of the posture without assigning gender, such as, “this postures is great for pregnancy!” or “doing this squat 100 times a day could tone your pelvic floor!” It’s fine to talk about anatomy (though queer and trans folks may rename them, see below), but try to separate that from gender.
• Family Structure. There are lots of ways to compose a family! Try to keep your language as open as possible, not assuming a monogamous heterosexual pairing.
• Who is this class for? Consider if your prenatal or postnatal class is open to men who have given birth. What changes will you make to create room for us, for the space to be welcoming?
• Body Language. Don’t assume language for how someone refers to their body. Ask each student if there is any language you can use or not use to make them more comfortable in class. Considerations may include chestfeed, baby chute, baby sack, birthing parent, and alternative names for parents (not necessarily mom/dad).
• Gender Normative Speech. Self-examine how your speech reflects gender and sexuality norms for parenting-what are women and men expected to do? The birth parent may be a man who is chestfeeding the babe. The sperm for conception may have come from a trans mom who is inducing lactation. The dad may be the stay-at-home parent within a straight couple, and do all the diaper changing and sleep training.
• Titles. Be careful of titles for your programs and classes! “Mommy & Me” classes excludes involved dads of any kind but especially gay dads. “Postnatal” could exclude gay dads as well, who are not themselves postnatal, but may want to do yoga with their baby.
• Class culture. Be careful of creating a culture of asking if the baby is a “girl or a boy”. First of all, we won’t know for a long time! We may be able to determine the sex at birth, but the child’s gender will develop over time, and we hope they have many more than two options-our lives and paths have hopefully left a legacy for such spaciousness and self-determination! And for those of us who are asked that question most days of our lives as gender non-conforming adults, it’s painful to witness that gender process through our children.
• Birth Details. Being masculine or gender non-conforming and giving birth is delicate! Some of us may publicly want to share our plans and stories, and many of us may want to have that information fairly private. Ask for consent when bringing it up either 1-on-1 or in a classroom setting.