My Abortion Story: 16, Unafraid, and Unashamed

I  was 16 years old the first time I chose to have an abortion. 

Yes, I said “the first time.” Meaning, there were other times. But I’m only going to tell you about the first. 

To be clear, you’re not owed any of my stories. But this one, I choose to tell. 

Why? 

Because as I’ve written before, I won’t sit silently and watch as the decision of when and if a person chooses to carry a child within their womb, give birth to it, and become a parent is stripped from individuals and turned over to the cruel and indifferent hands of an increasingly religiously conservative state. 

And because most pro-choice narratives leave my story out altogether. 

So here we go. 

Abortion Isn’t Always About Trauma

When I became pregnant at the age of 16, it wasn’t at the hands of an incestuous family member. Nor was I raped at a party where I’d later be questioned as to what I was wearing or how much alcohol I’d consumed. 

I was simply in love. Madly so. With a boy who was madly in love with me in return. 

We explored each other’s bodies in full trust of one another, and in total innocence. In the way we all dream our first loves will unfold, mine did. It was sweet, and passionate, and consuming. 

In the way of teenage lust, sometimes we used protection, and sometimes we didn’t. Those times we didn’t were usually when I’d run out of birth control pills and couldn’t afford to get more or couldn’t get a ride to Planned Parenthood to pick them up. 

During those times, the responsibility lay on him to produce and use a condom. For myriad reasons – most of them related to societal shame and lack of easy access (things we still contend with today) – we didn’t always have those readily available. 

So. 

One day, I realized my period was a few weeks late. My best friend drove me to the drugstore and paid for my pregnancy test. He waited with me for the 30 seconds it took for two little pink lines to show themselves, holding my hand and squeezing it every so often while I stared quietly down at what I already somehow knew: confirmation I was pregnant.

Abortion as Safety and Security

I don’t remember any “oh shit!” moment after seeing those two pink lines appear, as if by magic, in the palm of my hand. 

What I do remember is an unshakeable sense of calm and acceptance, because I already knew what I was going to do. What I was able to do. 

Girls like me – meaning, those who are acutely aware of how biology works and therefore understand that choosing to have sex with someone with a penis means there’s at least a slight chance of getting pregnant – have plans in place. 

I wasn’t freaking out over the idea I’d have to become a mother against my will. I didn’t have to: not only was abortion legal, there was no question about it not being legal, and therefore I’d never thought about it being inaccessible. 

If you got pregnant and didn’t want to be, you didn’t have to be. End of story. 

I didn’t have to tell my mom (because Washington state lawmakers had the foresight to know that young adults’ decisions might go against their parents wishes and honored the fact that young adults are autonomous human beings, just like their adult counterparts). I did tell her, but I wasn’t compelled to. 

I needed no one’s permission. I had a decision to make about my own damn body, and I made it. 

I was 16 years old. I was in no way, shape, or form ready to become a mother. It most likely would have devastated not only my life, but the life of my boyfriend and child, as well. 

I was 16 years old, making my first adult decision. 

Perfectly Held and Totally Supported

When I told my boyfriend I was pregnant, he immediately wrapped me in his arms and asked me what I wanted to do. 

I told him I was getting an abortion; that I expected him to help me pay for it; and that I needed him to drive me to the clinic, wait until the abortion was over, drive me home, and stay with me until I didn’t need him any more. 

He gave me a look as if to say, “Duh.” 

When we arrived at the clinic, a nurse practitioner brought us both to a small room, where she explained what I could expect from the abortion procedure. She didn’t hold anything back, but neither did she pressure me to rethink my decision or try to rush me through the process. 

In fact, what I recall is a woman full of compassion who was also pointedly matter-of-fact: this wasn’t anything to be ashamed of; I was perfectly safe; and there was staff on hand I could talk to, after, if I wanted to. 

She also made a point of telling my boyfriend exactly what his role was in this scenario: stick around, be gentle. He reached over and took my hand, telling her he wasn’t going anywhere. 

He kept his word. When I emerged into the waiting room a few hours after first stepping through those heavy double doors, he took one look at my face and rushed over to scoop me up into his arms and carry me out to his car. He tucked me into the passenger seat, cupped my face in his hands, and kissed my forehead, eyes, and lips. 

I was perfectly held and totally supported. 

Pregnancy Isn’t Always Beautiful 

It didn’t hurt. I felt no more pressure than I do during gynecological exams. (Actually, those are way more intrusive and painful, now that I think about it). 

After, I was encouraged to rest in a dimly lit room for as long as I wanted, and given orange juice and graham crackers, while every so often a nurse peeked in to ask, “How you doin’, hon?” 

How I was doin’ was tired. My body wanted rest. So did my mind and my heart. While I never once doubted my choice, I still felt sadness at making it. 

My body had been pregnant. Now it wasn’t. It was – and is – momentous. Which is exactly why pregnancy needs to remain a choice, not a compulsion.

Pregnancy is life-changing. It can be a wondrous, magical experience full of love and miracles. But if forced upon someone it can be terrifying and full of horrors. 

Because pregnancy, and giving birth, are both traumatic to the body. It’s forced to grow in monstrously distorted ways, and behaves mercurially, often out of control of the person who’s pregnant. 

Giving birth is painful. It just is. Women have died, and will continue to die from it. 

So don’t ask us to undertake that burden without our full consent. Because it is a burden, even when it’s a welcome one. 

Abortion Stories Are For All of Us

I tell you this story so you can erase from your anti-abortion mind any insistence that abortions are harmful, dirty, shameful, or unnecessary. They are not. 

I tell you this story so you can erase from your pro-choice mind any insistence that the only abortion narrative to be told is one filled with trauma and rage. It is not. 

This is my abortion story. I bet, if you ask, one of the many women you know has a similar one to tell. 

I bet, if you ask, you’ll discover you love someone who’s had an abortion.

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I welcome respectful dialogue about this, or any other, topic. Comment below, or drop me a line.