I was in my late 20s living alone and making under $15 an hour after taxes while working overtime. One week out of each month, I could not afford to eat. Finding myself struggling to keep up with my bills and not having anyone else to help me, I knew having a child at that moment they would suffer in my care from lack of financial stability. I live in one of the poorest states in the nation with a catholic majority. I had to fight for my right to access reproductive health care. I was five weeks pregnant when I found out. I knew what I wanted, I still had to wait one more week before scheduling my appointment.
In the parking lot of the clinic, I was assaulted by catholic protesters. Shouting their words of judgment, waving banners. I knew they were only trying to redeem themselves from something else that haunts their lives. This has nothing to do with me or my future.
Once in the clinic, I had to be examined and tested for my strength or willingness to survive the situation. The technician showed me an ultrasound, I already knew what was right for me and my future, I did not need a man to ask me in his white coat and cold voice. Yet I had to be counseled and questioned over and over. Pregnant people of all incomes and ethnic groups surrounded me in the waiting rooms. I was not alone, neither were they. The moment I was finally given the package of pills, I was liberated. I knew this would save my life. I knew I would have a full future. I knew what I wanted. I have never, for one second, regretted my decision. I only wanted my right to choose. Fifteen years ago I was a person who had the privilege of choosing reproductive health care and it saved my life.
Remember, fellow people, “you are loved everywhere you go, I love you and I’m proud of you”!
