The Secret Shame I Feel After Having An Abortion

The writer of this essay asked that TODAY.com withhold her last name for privacy concerns.

About a quarter of women will have an abortion in their lifetime, according to the Guttmacher Institute, an organization that advocates for access to reproductive care — and I wonder how many of those women will tell someone. I wonder because I’ve had an abortion, and even some of my closest family members and friends have no idea.

I know that many of them support a woman’s right to choose. I know they do because I see their posts on social media with support for Roe v. Wade. I am on text message chains where they express disgust at the recent Supreme Court decision to overturn the landmark ruling that granted abortion rights. But many of them don’t realize just how close to home this hits for me.

I’d be lying if I said that I don’t feel any shame about what I did. I am an educated, successful, social woman living in New York City. I work a fast-paced job at a big company. And my abortion didn’t happen when I was a teenager who didn’t know any better — it happened last year, in the middle of a worldwide pandemic, when I was well into my 30s. With a man who at the time was my boyfriend, not a random one-night stand.

I feel shame that this happened to me, that I messed up. I feel shame that I am keeping this secret from people I love. That I am not shouting it from the rooftop to let other women who went through something similar feel less alone.

I feel shame that I let the man I was with dictate the decision and that I didn’t speak up louder for myself. I feel shame that it is my body so ultimately it was me who made the decision. I feel shame because I do want to be a mother; I want a baby so badly, but I want it in the confines of a family. I feel shame for not wanting to be a single mother, knowing that we wouldn’t stand a chance as a couple if I went through with it. And then I would be left alone, with a baby. I feel shame that I chose my life over the potential for another. I feel shame that I didn’t have to resort to abortion due to a medical issue like so many others. I feel shame that so many women my age struggle to get pregnant and I terminated mine. Now, as states roll back abortion rights, I also feel shame that so many women won’t have the right to make this decision for themselves.

I am lucky. I have the resources to get an abortion: good health insurance and the finances to pay for what that did not cover, access to multiple places providing abortions where I live and an employer that provides sick days. It breaks my heart that fewer people will now have access to a safe abortion. It was a hard enough decision to make in a state that supports the right to choose, in a city that provides not just one but so many options to those women who choose to not go through with a pregnancy.

Research shows that most women don’t regret their abortion — being denied an abortion is actually more harmful for their mental health. Many feel relief. I know I made the right decision. I am in favor of abortion rights. But I want people to know that doesn’t negate the difficulty of the experience. Given my personal stance, some people may be surprised to hear that many mornings I wake up feeling regret about my decision. On the days that I wish I didn’t go through with my abortion, I replay the events of that day over and over in my head — from the moment my then boyfriend came to meet me and drop me off at the clinic to the hours I sat in the waiting room, alone, watching maybe a hundred other women wait for the same procedure. All the times I could have changed my mind, but I didn’t.

Do I wish things were different? Yes. Every. Single. Day. I wish I had been with a loving, caring partner who had reacted with excitement to the idea of starting a family with me (even if unplanned) instead of an emotionally abusive, cold man who didn’t call me once during the six hours I waited for the procedure. I wish I had been with a kind man who picked me up with flowers and had all my favorite food waiting for me when I got home, rather than asking me what was for dinner, after I had been fasting all day. The kind of man who would have checked in to see how I was feeling in the days following the procedure rather than cracking jokes about what had happened.

There are some days I can’t stop crying — I feel like I chose my life over another and I wonder what could have been. Every time I see a fat baby giggling, I feel it deep down in my stomach, the pain a reminder of what happened and what I do not have. My grief is what I’ve learned is called a forbidden grief. It’s a grief that I am not so sure I am allowed to feel. It was my decision, wasn’t it? I brought on this pain, this misery. It’s my fault. Perhaps I am not allowed to feel sad. I am no longer with the man I experienced this with, but leaving him made me feel even more alone. I have sought out therapy, but finding the right therapist has been exhausting. I have finally found someone who is helpful but seeing her is prohibitively expensive, as she is out of network.

I have been crying for a few weeks now — triggered by the use of the word “murderer” to describe women who terminate pregnancies and by the men and women yelling on my TV about what a horrible person I am. Before my abortion, I used to say, “I am pro-choice, but it’s not like I support abortion.” That was so easy to say as someone who thought this only happened to other people but not to me. People with less education and life experience. Now those words, coming out of other people’s mouths, are triggering for me. I was wrong. I understand now that you can be insensitive even while you’re shouting support for abortion rights. And sensitivity is important here. I’ve learned that being sensitive with our word choice and leading with kindness and understanding is the only way forward — we never know what others are going through.

I know I am not alone when I am triggered by the same emotions that have been haunting me since the day I had the procedure. I am your sister, your daughter, your friend, your colleague. I might be you. The abortion stories we hear are often black-and-white — I did this, and it was the right decision, no looking back. But that’s not my story. Maybe it’s not yours, either. And maybe those are the abortion stories we really need to hear.