A Child-Free Choice

My pregnancy was an accident, one big, unplanned mistake. There was no future for me and the baby’s father, my boyfriend Josh*. I didn’t love him. Additionally, I was unemployed, dead broke, and barely staying afloat. I could not support another human. I was stuck in a rut and completely disillusioned with life. I would not call myself happy. And I didn’t have any interest in being a mother, then or later.

I can’t pinpoint when I realized I didn’t want kids. It’s just something I always knew. My dolls were never really my “babies.” I don’t think this is for one reason but the culmination of many. My dad made me feel like fatherhood wasn’t a choice he would make again. He had good moments but wasn’t the loving father one wished for. And since we were so alike—an understood fact—I assumed I’d be a crappy parent, too. But this isn’t the only reason. My maternal instinct never kicked in. I wasn’t at ease holding babies; they cried the moment they hit my arms. I never felt comfortable playing with kids; I would grow overwhelmingly impatient after just a few minutes. A fussy child would irritate me so much that I was the one who would end up having the major meltdown. Making this the perfect storm was that I struggled with anxiety and depression, and the thought of passing that on to a child felt cruel.

***

I never worried about getting pregnant because I’d been on the pill since I was a teenager. But then, at 27 years old, my gynecologist took me off of it because “my body needed a break.” He stressed the importance of using protection, and I committed his words to memory: Always use a condom. Always use a condom. Always use a condom.

Not being on the pill was a big transition for Josh and me, but I heeded my doctor’s advice… until I didn’t. In the heat of the moment, with no condom in sight, I told Josh to “just pull out.” I didn’t give it much thought. The whole scenario was forgotten almost as quickly as it happened. I never thought I was the type of girl who’d get pregnant, whatever that means.

***

A month later, with no memory of not using a condom, I began having pains—not quite cramps—in my lower abdomen. The thought of pregnancy never once crossed my mind. Because these pains felt so unusual, I made an appointment with my gynecologist. Three days later, I was in his office, getting a transvaginal ultrasound.

“You’re almost four weeks pregnant,” he said somberly. Panic set in. Tears flowed down my face. Visions of a lifetime with Josh filled my head. There was no question: I was having an abortion.

I made an appointment to have the procedure at my gynecologist’s office eight days later and returned to my car to call Josh.

Still shocked, I told Josh the news. The first words out of his mouth were, “You’re having an abortion, right?” He didn’t ask about my physical or emotional state. He showed no compassion. I confirmed I was ending the pregnancy and hung up. I saw his true colors, and they were ugly.

***

That next week, my anxiety and depression were at DEFCON 1. I worried I’d feel the suction, which made my skin crawl. Punishing thoughts that people would look at me and know raced through my mind. The idea that I was doing something wrong plagued me, even though, rationally, I knew this was completely ridiculous. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was a lesser person for ending up in this situation. “Abortion is normal,” I said again and again, “it’s just not for people like me.” The stigma is real.

***

The procedure was $300. I didn’t have that kind of cash, so I asked Josh for it. Of the opinion that we should split it, he turned me down because I didn’t have my share. I was furious—what did he think I was going to do?—but I didn’t have the energy for an argument. I turned to my mother, who, without judgment, gave me the money and took me to the doctor the following week. Josh offered a flimsy excuse as to why he couldn’t go, although he later came through with a check. I should have been furious that he wasn’t there, but I just didn’t care anymore. My mom was empathetic and said all the right things. She was the soothing presence I needed and I was so grateful she was there.

Despite my mom’s calming influence, I was in tears entering the surgical room. The idea of having an abortion was almost too much to bear. I was terrified. Would this haunt me for the rest of my life? But the idea of having a baby was enough to make me want to die. 

Under a thin white sheet with my knees spread wide, the doctor sedated me so I wouldn’t feel a thing, but I will never forget that feeling of shame. When I woke up, I was sore, but it was over. Relief rushed over me.

With a bloody pad between my legs, my mother drove me to Josh’s apartment to recover. She was firm that it was his responsibility to take care of me. I spent two days in bed eating Chinese food and planning what I’d say when I ended things between us, while Josh all but ignored me. Then, feeling human again, I made my exit. A few days later I broke things off.

Freedom.

Enthusiastic and full of ambition, I sprinted towards my future, motivated by the opportunity my abortion gave me. I worked hard and established a career as a successful copywriter. Nine years later, I married my high school sweetheart Brian, who also had no desire to have children, and built what is a beautiful life. And today, I am a cat mom to a rambunctious furbaby, Freda, whom my husband and I love with all our hearts. 

Abortion helped me live the life I was meant to by allowing me to escape a reality I didn’t fit into. Abortion is healthcare every pregnant person deserves access to. By sharing my story, I hope I can help break abortion stigma, reclaim the narrative around bodily autonomy, and prove abortion has the power to create better futures.

~Stacey Howard

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 Stacey is the founder of Write for Rights, a platform for people to share their abortion stories. Visit www.writeforwomensrights.com to read the moving narratives and share your own.

*Names have been changed to protect people’s identity.