On the morning you were born, what did you see?

Miki Imai's song "Hitomi ga Hohoemu Kara" (Because Your Eyes Smile) has been stuck in my head for a long time.

That opening question—on the morning you were born, what did you see?—that one line.

Since the day my son was born, that question has returned to my heart time and time again.


I was present for the birth.


Fifteen hours had passed since labor began. It was at that moment, when my wife's strength was reaching its limit, that my son let out a healthy cry and entered this world.


The maternity clinic had a policy of giving colostrum as soon as possible. The midwife gently placed my son in my wife's arms. My wife let out a small sob. It was a quiet, voiceless cry. My son reached out his tiny hands and clung to her.


And then—their eyes met.


They were clear. Even though he had just been born, his eyes were deep and quiet, as if he could see through everything. My wife held him without a word. The moment I saw those eyes, the 15 hours of pain must have felt far away. That feeling reached me, too, as I watched from beside them.


After the colostrum, it was my turn to hold my son.


He was truly small. His hands and feet were so delicate that they seemed like they might break if I applied even a little pressure. Thinking that such a small life had just arrived in this world, I couldn't even put strength into my arms.


At that moment, my son slowly turned toward me.


His tiny eyes moved as if searching for me—and then, they stopped.


In those eyes looking up at me, I felt as if I had been asked that question.


What was that? That moment when our gazes met. I still believe that was the beginning of my fatherhood.


A mother who came for a treatment told me about the time she gave birth.

It was a slightly difficult birth, she said. After spending a long time facing the pain, a small life was born into this world.


She says she still vividly remembers the moment the midwife said, "It's a healthy boy," and placed that heavy, warm weight into her arms.


She had decided on a name for the child while he was still in her womb. During her pregnancy, she would talk to him by that name almost every day. While placing her hand on her large belly, she would ask, "Are you doing well today?" Every time she felt him move, she would think, "Ah, he answered me."


The moment she lifted him up, she called out that name.


Then the child slowly opened his eyes. And—to the mother, it looked as if he had smiled at her.


"I was so happy that I couldn't help but call his name again as I hugged him," she says. "At that moment, the pain of childbirth just faded away."


When I heard that story, I couldn't help but wonder. Was that just a coincidence?


Babies hear their mother's voice while they are still in the womb.


Through the amniotic fluid and bones—a mechanism like bone conduction, so to speak—the inflection and rhythm of the mother's voice reach them gently. It is said that a newborn baby can already distinguish their mother's voice from others.


In other words, the mother's voice calling their name was not the first voice the baby had ever heard. It was a familiar voice they had been listening to for months inside the womb.


And the distance at which a newborn baby can clearly focus is about 20 to 30 centimeters. This coincides exactly with the distance from the arms where they are held to the face looking down at them.


Drawn by the voice, they turn their face and gaze at the face that is there.


Holding a baby is a place where all of that happens at once. The voice, the warmth, and the face all overlap perfectly. They must have also heard the beating of their mother's heart. That sound they had been listening to inside the womb all along.


So, on that morning—the first morning of being born into this world—what did the baby see?

It must have still been a hazy world. A landscape with soft outlines, where light and shadow bled into one another.


But, there was a voice.


It was a voice they knew. A voice they had been listening to for so, so long.


They slowly turned their face toward it. There was something there. Something warm, soft, and watching them intently.


The baby probably didn't know what it was. There were no words, no memories, nothing yet.


But—they felt like they knew.

#CreativeAward2026 #EssayCategory #PresentAtBirth #FirstThingSeen #MikiImai #FirstMorning

*This essay was written following the acoustic analysis and musical composition of Miki Imai's "Hitomi ga Hohoemu Kara".