This is an ultrasound image of my firstborn son, Ben, taken 8 weeks into his mother’s pregnancy. This is the same head I kiss good night (though with much less red hair here). These are the same little hands I hold when we cross the street (though they are bigger now).

This is the same foot that loves to kick footballs and soccer balls in the backyard.

This is not an image of something that had the potential to become my son. This is an image of my actual son.

This was not a mere clump of cells or tissue that would become Ben. This was Ben, though we did not yet know his sex or name.

The fetus—a Latin word meaning “baby” or “child”— pictured here is my son, at an early stage in his development as a human being.

He was no less human or alive then than he is now as a 8-year-old. He is no less human than he will be at sixteen, sixty, or the day he takes his final breath.

His life wasn’t valuable simply because he was a planned pregnancy (though he was). His life wasn’t worth living because we were financially prepared to have children (we weren’t).

He didn’t deserve to live because we were going to be great parents (many days I don’t feel we are).

His life wasn’t worth living because his mother has autonomy over her own body (she does as much as anyone can). His life was no less valuable at eight weeks in utero than it is 448 weeks after birth.

He had a right to live because he was (and is) a human being. From the moment of conception, he has continuously, in perfect continuity, been the same human being he is today.

He has grown and matured, and God willing, will continue to do so for a long time to come

As a human being he had inherent dignity, value, and worth—even here as an eight-week old fetus. He didn’t earn the right to live by virtue of his mother’s or my choices.

It was never our right to snuff him of his life, no more than we have that freedom outside of the womb.

The pre-born are valuable, and they are loved. They are worth fighting for.