I’m pregnant—oh, but not with a second child, as so many of my friends currently are or intend to be. Growing in that space Jack once inhabited (and which I always imagined would soon be home to his sibling) is some altogether different being. Like Jack in those very early weeks, this life form is still undifferentiated, loved and yet not always wanted. At my most optimistic, I think this new being might actually be a more passionate and alive version of myself.

As a writer, I’m used to these symbolic pregnancies; every major writing project is a magical and excruciating labor and delivery. Psychoanalysis is a similar journey, and considering the deep imprint I’ve made on my analyst’s couch, I’m used to birthing new versions of the old. And yet, as familiar as I am with the art of conceiving and delivering, I’m equally prone to miscarrying. Over the years, I’ve spent just as much time shrinking as I have growing.

With this particular pregnancy, I’m at an important crossroads. In my evolution as both a woman and a writer, I can feel the accumulation of energy—a certain escape velocity—necessary for flight. Typically, this energy builds, reaches a peak, and then somewhere around the third tri, I panic and abort the whole process. This time, though, I’m deep in the final weeks and feel the potency of a life ready to be born. This time, I think I might actually give birth.

But what is it that I’m birthing? I’ve come to realize lately that my newfound humility—the acceptance, finally, that nature can and will kick my ass—is what allows this most recent pregnancy to thrive. I’ve quit trying to shape or manage evolution; finally, I’m not strangling the life out of every opportunity for genuine change. Still, surrender is threatening. What if I can’t stand the very thing I bear? What if this new life destroys the old life I already love?

At the top of my list of fears is the worry that my womb will remain permanently occupied with emotional strivings. All of that maternal hunger that went into imagining Jack is now channeled into giving birth to something that can’t be spotted on an ultrasound screen or nursed to sleep in my arms. What if that baby fever I felt so acutely with Jack (and which I still feel toward all things toddler) never returns? What if the womb that biology intended for human procreation always remains filled up with other endeavors? Can I call myself truly maternal if I choose to mother only one child?

In place of the fever, I feel loss. Upstairs in our attic, Jack’s old toys and clothes wait for another little boy or girl whose name I’ve already imagined. I’ve envisioned the necessary renovations to our home and what a new nursery might look like. I’ve rehearsed the talk I’d have with Jack to prepare him, ready him, for this new adventure we’d be taking on as a family. Twenty years—more—roll forward like footage already taped. Is it murder if that child, already so close to life, is never conceived?

In the midst of so much living, I feel like I’m also at a point of death: a pregnant pause, as some have termed abortion. I can’t know what the future will bring, or what it won’t. I do know that I’m at this crossroads, though: pregnant and waiting. Waiting for what? To know the reason for choices I’ve already made, I suppose. Or not. First comes this birth. And then…?