I always knew abortion was legal—for me. I was born at the right time.
At seventeen, I never considered how new that choice really was—or how easily it could have not been there. What I didn’t understand was that even when abortion is legal, access still has a deadline.
I found out I was pregnant at six weeks. The clinic required the procedure to happen between six and twelve. That gave me six weeks to make the appointment, get the referrals, navigate the system, and complete everything before time ran out. Every second felt like sand slipping through an hourglass I couldn’t turn over.
I woke up each morning hoping I would miscarry. In Alberta, in 2003, to get an abortion, you needed bloodwork and an ultrasound requisitioned by a doctor—and you had to tell them why, so the results could be sent to the clinic. The first doctor said no. So did the second. And the third. All three cited their religious beliefs. One looked at me like I’d asked her to commit a crime.
The fourth said yes. I remember exhaling like I’d been holding my breath for days. Maybe I had. The bloodwork went smoothly, but the ultrasound was worse. I told the technician to send the results to the abortion clinic. She frowned. She asked me to look at the screen.
“No thank you,” I said.
She asked again. I looked away.
Because of my tilted uterus, the scan had to be internal. Because of her personal feelings, I suspect it was more invasive—and more painful—than it needed to be. A punishment, maybe. Through it all, I still went to school. I got up, got dressed, went to class, smiled at friends. I hid phone calls in bathroom stalls. I booked appointments between periods. I made excuses when I had to leave early.
I held it together—because there was no time to fall apart. There was no space for panic. No one to pass the weight to. My long-term boyfriend knew. But let me be clear: he was not part of the decision—or a part of the solution. He was quietly supportive in the limited way a 17-year-old boy can be. But the appointments, the logistics, the burden of it all— That was mine. I just had to get it done.
When the clinic finally called with a confirmed appointment, I was exhausted, worn down by waiting, by gatekeepers, by secrecy—and by the miscarriage that never came. The staff were kind. Professional. Non-judgmental. They made it feel… normal. Like I was just another person making an ordinary medical decision. They gave me another internal ultrasound—same tilted uterus—but this time, it didn’t feel like punishment. It felt like care. They reviewed my options again, gently, without assumption. They treated me like a human being. Just a woman making a choice.
I’m deeply grateful I had that choice when I did. But I understand now—it was privilege. Privilege of birthplace and timing. Of a phone. A car. A clinic close enough to reach. Of speaking the language. Of not needing parental consent. Of not having to beg, explain, or justify myself to people who held power over my body. That’s what people don’t see: I had access only because of where—and who—I happened to be.
At the time, I thought I was the only person I knew who had ever had an abortion.People just didn’t talk about these things. Silence protects itself. Invisibility breeds shame. And shame teaches you to stay quiet. But after mine, I felt free. Relieved. I told my friends. I told my sister. Years later, I even told my mom.
In my twenties, other women—and other pregnant people—began coming to me. I became the person I had needed at seventeen: The driver. The scheduler. The one who knew which clinic to call, what to expect, and where to go for breakfast after. I was seventeen when I had my first abortion. If you’re here looking for guilt, regret, a “why,” or a villain—you won’t find it. I didn’t feel bad then. I don’t feel bad now. And I won’t waste a single second justifying it.
This isn’t an apology. It’s a record.
