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The ultrasound tech told us to close our eyes. For a split second, I wanted to peek. I wanted that little piece of information — to know something concrete about the tiny human I’ve been growing for months. But then the part of me that has spent over a decade as a gender specialist spoke louder: You don’t actually want to know. Because I know what happens when we find out the sex. We start building a story about who our child will be — what colors we’ll paint their nursery, what toys we’ll buy, what sports they might play, who they might grow up to love. Advertisement I spend my professional life helping parents dismantle those narratives when they don’t match who their kid really is. So this is my chance to resist writing one in the first place. I work with trans and gender-diverse youth and their families every day. I’ve seen what happens when kids grow up under the weight of expectations that have nothing to do with who they actually are. Sometimes it’s subtle — the way adults quietly hope for one outcome over another, or sigh in disappointment when the doctor announces “it’s a boy” or “it’s a girl.” An ultrasound tech once told me that “gender disappointment” is so common that parents will cry in the exam room when they hear a result that doesn’t match the picture they’d imagined. I’ve also sat with parents years later as they cry a different kind of tears — grieving the version of their child they thought they were raising, even as they love the one sitting in front of them. Advertisement I’ve even seen parents who were certain they were having one gender, were “corrected” by the doctor, and were ultimately proven right years later when their child came out to them. Those moments remind me how fragile and imperfect these early pronouncements really are — and how much pain they can cause when we cling to them too tightly. That grief is real — but it’s also a hurt I can attempt to prevent for myself and for this baby by not getting attached to a tidbit of information that may or may not line up with who they truly are. By choosing not to know, I’m giving them a little more space to arrive in this world without everyone’s projections already waiting for them — space to simply be, before the world starts telling them who they’re supposed to be. And given how small the percentage of trans people is, this choice is less about predicting whether I will have a trans kid or not and more about committing to a practice of generational change, one where we allow children to explore who they are beyond the limitations of the binary, on their own timeline, with their own voice. Advertisement When those kids grow up and realize those expectations don’t fit, they have to do the hard work of disentangling who they are from who the world told them to be. I know I can’t protect my own child from every expectation, but I can choose not to start the narrative for them before they’re even born. That doesn’t mean it’s easy. There’s a part of me that is wildly curious — who wouldn’t be? There’s a reason gender reveals are so popular (despite the fact that what’s being “revealed” is really just anatomy). We crave certainty. Pregnancy can feel like nine months of questions, so knowing even one thing feels like a lifeline. When the tech asked us to close our eyes, I squeezed my husband’s hand. I felt the tug of wanting to know, of wanting to imagine who this baby is going to be. But then I reminded myself that knowing the sex wouldn’t really answer that question. It would just give me a category, one our culture fills in with a thousand assumptions. Advertisement When people find out we’re not finding out, their reactions range from nostalgic to a little anxious. Older generations often smile and tell me how wonderful they think it is. “We never used to know,” they say, “and life has so few true surprises left.” They seem genuinely delighted that we are letting this be one of them. It’s the Gen Xers and millennials who are most likely to say things like, “You are so brave!” or my other favorite: “I could never do that — I’m such a planner.” Advertisement I usually laugh and reassure them that I still have a plan: for diapers, wipes, a safe car seat and a stocked freezer. Not knowing the sex doesn’t mean I’m unprepared. It just means I’m prepared for whoever this baby turns out to be. I’ll admit I feel a certain amount of pressure to keep my credibility — I am a gender specialist, after all — and I also see this as an opportunity to gently challenge the people in our lives. The ones who have struggled the most with what to buy this “unknown” baby are often the ones who might project the strongest gendered assumptions onto them. I’d rather give them the gift of practicing something different before the baby even arrives. “Choosing not to find out is more than a preference — it’s practice.” Advertisement When a colleague asked if I was going to do the “sad beige” thing, where every item in the nursery is cream, tan, or muted gray, I laughed and said I’m doing the exact opposite. Our nursery doesn’t have a color — it has all of them. Babies have very limited color detection at first anyway, but when they can, typically around five or six months, I want there to be a happy plethora to look at and choose from. Choosing not to find out is more than a preference — it’s practice. As a parent, I will spend years making decisions about how to protect this child’s autonomy, how to let them express who they are, and how to resist the pressure to force them into boxes that don’t fit. Not finding out the sex is my first chance to practice setting boundaries about how much of my child’s identity I share with the world. It’s also my chance to sit with uncertainty, which is something parents of trans kids have to do all the time. Will my child be comfortable in their gender? Will they need support in exploring it? I can’t know those answers yet, and I don’t need to. My job isn’t to have a plan for every possibility — it’s to create the kind of family where every possibility is safe. Advertisement This pregnancy has already been an exercise in acceptance. After months of fertility treatment, I learned over and over that I could not control the outcome — only how I showed up for the process. More than anything, I am just grateful to be pregnant, grateful to get the chance to meet whoever they are. The truth is, I don’t need to know the sex of my baby to know they are already a whole person. They are someone who does somersaults after I eat ice cream, tap dances dramatically when I try to fall asleep on my left side, and saves their strongest kicks for the middle of my therapy sessions — almost as if to affirm what’s being said. This child is already teaching me patience, flexibility and humility. They are already making me laugh. They are already someone I love fiercely — and none of that depends on the sex printed on an ultrasound report. Advertisement One day, I will meet this baby and learn more about who they are. I will learn what makes them laugh, what soothes them when they cry, and what they notice first when we go outside. And over time, they will reveal themselves to me in ways no ultrasound ever could. That, to me, is the real reveal — not a moment at 20 weeks, but a lifetime of getting to know each other. I’m not suggesting everyone should make the same choice I did. But I do hope more parents pause before they start writing the story of who their baby will be. Whether or not you find out the sex, you still get to decide how rigidly you cling to gendered expectations. Advertisement You get to decide whether your child’s closet will only be filled with blue onesies and dinosaurs or pink dresses and bows — or whether it will hold a little bit of everything. You get to decide whether you tell them who they are, or let them tell you. For me, not finding out the sex is one way of saying: I’m ready to meet you, whoever you are — as you discover that in your own time, and on your own terms. HoldThemAccountable Your SupportFuelsOur Mission Your SupportFuelsOur Mission Join HuffPost Membership The government shutdown puts millions at risk of losing food assistance — and Trump and lawmakers are MIA. We're covering the devastating consequences of the government's inaction. Support the journalism that holds our leaders to account. We remain committed to providing you with the unflinching, fact-based journalism everyone deserves. Thank you again for your support along the way. We’re truly grateful for readers like you! Your initial support helped get us here and bolstered our newsroom, which kept us strong during uncertain times. Now as we continue, we need your help more than ever. We hope you will join us once again. We remain committed to providing you with the unflinching, fact-based journalism everyone deserves. Thank you again for your support along the way. We’re truly grateful for readers like you! Your initial support helped get us here and bolstered our newsroom, which kept us strong during uncertain times. Now as we continue, we need your help more than ever. We hope you will join us once again. Support HuffPost Already a member? Log in to hide these messages. Rebecca Minor, LICSW, is a queer clinician, consultant, and educator specializing in trauma, gender, and sexuality. Rebecca is the founder of Prism Therapy Collective, offering therapy and coaching to parents and caregivers of transgender youth. She has authored articles on LGBTQ+ youth, contributed to textbooks, and is frequently quoted as an expert on gender-affirming care. Her internationally recognized consulting and coaching work supports organizations, schools, and businesses in building cultural responsiveness and inclusivity. She is adjunct faculty at Boston University and the author of the book “Raising Trans Kids: What To Expect When You Weren’t Expecting This.”
