My Choice to Terminate a Pregnancy: A Personal and Complex Journey

My Story: A Personal Account of Pregnancy Termination

On Mother’s Day, I found myself in Washington, D.C., standing outside the Supreme Court with my two children. It was my son’s second birthday, and we drove six hours from Cleveland to participate in a rally that had become all too necessary. The weather was chilly, with gusty winds and temperatures barely reaching 50 degrees. The crowd, once nearly 2,000 strong, had dwindled to about 100, with many protesters coming and going.

The atmosphere was somber, with barricades erected to restrict access to the historic building. A young woman in a black beret, her red lipstick striking against the grey backdrop, led the protest with a green megaphone, rallying the crowd with chants like, “Pro-life is a lie, they don’t care that people die!” and “My body, my choice!” As parents arrived with their little ones post-nap, the protesters later marched towards the homes of Supreme Court Justices in Maryland and Virginia.

I had anticipated this day, like many pro-choice advocates. The eventual overturning of Roe v. Wade felt inevitable, a result of years of strategic organizing by the right. The death of Ruth Bader Ginsburg in September 2020 and her replacement by Amy Coney Barrett signaled a shift that would soon tip the balance of the Supreme Court. When SCOTUS decided to hear Mississippi’s appeal in Dobbs vs. Jackson Women’s Health Organization, the urgency of the situation became painfully clear.

When the draft of Justice Samuel Alito’s decision leaked, I was enraged. I had hoped it was a mistake or a misguided prediction. But as I delved deeper into the ramifications of Roe v. Wade being overturned—watching states draft restrictive laws against abortion and contraception—I became increasingly disturbed.

My anger was compounded by a personal history; not long ago, I had faced my own decision to terminate a pregnancy. In 2017, while living in Hawaii with my partner, we had been using contraception effectively for years. Then, one day, I realized I had missed a pill. After taking Plan B, I believed I was in the clear. Weeks later, however, my period still hadn’t arrived. Being diagnosed with endometriosis, I was accustomed to irregular cycles, but this felt different.

I purchased a pregnancy test from a local store, expecting nothing. However, the moment I saw the two pink lines, fear gripped me. I was uncertain about how far along I was, especially after indulging in drinks and taking medication for a sinus infection in the days prior.

That evening, I gathered the courage to inform my partner about the pregnancy. Despite four years together, our relationship had been tumultuous recently. He averted his gaze as I shared the news. The following day, we visited the doctor, where we learned I was eight weeks pregnant with twins. Financially, we were not stable, and I was advised to apply for WIC—my first experience with public assistance. I felt trapped in a stereotype: an unmarried, unexpectedly pregnant Black woman relying on welfare.

But beyond those societal labels, I felt something was deeply off. My OBGYN dismissed my concerns, even as I lost over 10 pounds in just one week. The struggle to find the right medication only intensified my distress, leading me to the realization that I might not survive the pregnancy.

I was overwhelmed with intrusive thoughts that clouded my mind, a result of the hormonal surge. I became a stranger to myself, unable to eat, constantly nauseated, and contemplating despair. My dreams of motherhood turned into loathing for the sounds of children at my workplace.

As days turned into weeks, the voice urging me toward self-harm grew louder. After the termination, I learned that I had been experiencing perinatal depression—a condition that could have been addressed had I received appropriate care earlier. Our local healthcare system lacked the resources to adequately support my needs.

By the time I reached ten weeks, we made the heartbreaking decision to terminate the pregnancy. The choice was not made lightly, but it was a necessity. We traveled to Oahu, where the only clinic available had a waiting period for counseling.

During the procedure, tears flowed as I apologized to my twins for not being the mother they deserved. In the days that followed, I felt numb, barely existing in my own life. Intensive outpatient therapy became my next step, as I navigated the aftermath of our loss. I lit incense daily for my twins at a nearby temple, honoring their brief existence.

Through therapy, I learned that had I been on the right medication, my condition might have been preventable. I realized that my mental health struggles were not just situational but rather a chemical imbalance exacerbated by pregnancy hormones.

Now, as I reflect on my journey, I support a woman’s right to choose. It is a deeply personal decision, and while I may not have another abortion, I recognize that my life—and the lives of many women—could depend on access to safe reproductive healthcare. Each decision is complex, often fraught with pain and difficulty.

I cherish all my children, including my twins, whose ultrasound picture remains on our family altar. The process of seeking abortion care was daunting; the act of having to inquire about services felt humiliating, like asking for a trivial favor. The lingering debt from the procedure continues to serve as a painful reminder of our healthcare system’s shortcomings for women.

I cannot fathom the cruelty that would accompany the potential criminalization of such a deeply personal choice. While my story may not sway those adamant about regulating women’s bodies, I hope it sheds light on the importance of choice from one mother to another.

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Summary:

My experience with pregnancy termination was deeply personal and fraught with complexities. Faced with mental health challenges exacerbated by pregnancy hormones, my decision to terminate was made out of necessity. I have come to support a woman’s right to choose, understanding that such choices are rarely taken lightly and require compassion and understanding. Each woman’s story is unique, and access to safe reproductive healthcare is vital.

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