I spent Mother’s Day in Washington, D.C., standing before the Supreme Court. My two children accompanied me, celebrating my son’s 2nd birthday. We drove six hours from Cleveland to be part of this moment. The weather was chilly, hovering around 50 degrees, and the crowd had dwindled from nearly 2,000 protestors earlier in the week to about 100, many coming and going.
The atmosphere felt subdued, with barricades restricting access to the iconic building. A young woman in a black beret and bold red lipstick led the protest with a green megaphone, rallying the crowd with chants like, “Pro-life is a lie, they don’t care that people die” and “My body, my choice!” After nap time, parents began to arrive with their little ones, and later, protestors gathered outside the homes of Supreme Court Justices in Maryland and Virginia.
I had been anticipating this moment, like many other pro-choice advocates. The overturning of Roe v. Wade was the result of decades of organized efforts by the right wing. The death of Ruth Bader Ginsburg in September 2020 and her replacement by Amy Coney Barrett made it clear that the anti-choice faction would soon hold a majority in the Supreme Court. When the Supreme Court agreed to hear Mississippi’s appeal in Dobbs vs. Jackson Women’s Health Organization, the urgency grew even louder.
So, when the draft of Justice Samuel Alito’s decision leaked, I was not surprised—but I was furious. I felt a mix of frustration and caution, initially hoping it might be an error or wishful thinking. However, as I learned more about the implications of Roe v. Wade’s potential dismantling and witnessed states drafting restrictive laws against abortion and contraception, my anger intensified. I watched footage from LA, where a peaceful protest turned violent on May 3, and felt a deep sense of turmoil within me.
Not long before this pivotal moment, I had gone through an abortion myself. In 2017, while living in Hawaii with my partner, we had been successfully using protection for four years when I realized I had missed a pill. I took Plan B and carried on, but a few weeks later, I noticed my period hadn’t arrived. Given my endometriosis, irregular periods were not unusual, so I didn’t think much of it.
After purchasing a cheap pregnancy test from Walmart, I took it at home, expecting nothing. But as I saw the two pink lines appear, my heart sank. I was unsure how far along I was and concerned about the implications of having consumed alcohol and taken medications for a sinus infection the week before.
That evening, I found the courage to share the news with my partner, but despite our four years together, he wouldn’t even look at me as I broke the news. The following day, he accompanied me to the doctor, where we learned I was eight weeks pregnant with twins. Faced with financial struggles, I was advised to apply for WIC, marking my first experience with public assistance. I felt overwhelmed by the stereotypes of being an unmarried, unexpectedly pregnant Black woman on welfare.
Yet beyond these external pressures, I sensed something was profoundly wrong. I didn’t feel like myself. My OBGYN dismissed my concerns, but within a week, I lost over ten pounds. As my partner and I sought solutions, it became increasingly clear that I might not survive the pregnancy.
Intrusive suicidal thoughts plagued me day and night, driven by a surge of hormones flooding my system. I became a stranger to myself, unable to eat and constantly nauseated. While I had always dreamed of being a mother, my work in a school setting now felt unbearable.
With each passing day, the voice in my head urging me to end my life grew louder. After my termination, we discovered I had experienced perinatal depression, with lingering symptoms that would fade as my hormone levels stabilized. Unfortunately, a psychiatrist had attempted to treat me but failed to provide adequate relief, and our local healthcare system lacked the necessary psychiatric resources.
By ten weeks, we made the difficult choice to terminate the pregnancy. It was not an easy decision, but it was one that felt necessary. We traveled from our outer island to Oahu, as the local clinic had a waiting period that would have delayed the procedure unnecessarily.
Lying on the clinic table, I cried and apologized to the twins for what felt like my failure as a mother. Afterward, I sat in the clinic lobby, eating banana bread without tears. I spent the following weeks in a near-comatose state, going through intensive outpatient therapy in Honolulu, flown back and forth by my insurance due to a lack of facilities on our island. At a temple across the street from therapy, I lit incense daily in memory of our twins.
Through therapy, I learned that my condition could have been prevented with the right medication early on. We wouldn’t have lost our twins if I had a doctor who recognized the signs or took my concerns seriously. I now know that my first pregnancy symptom is a voice urging me to end my life, a warning that precedes morning sickness or a missed period. This has been the case with my subsequent pregnancies, and I have learned how to seek the appropriate support and treatment.
We eventually moved to ensure better healthcare access and a supportive medical team for our next two children. Not everyone is as fortunate.
Despite everything I endured, I continue to support a woman’s right to choose. It was my body, and while I may not seek another abortion, I recognize that I wouldn’t have survived without that choice. Many women face similar struggles, and the decision is often fraught with pain and complexity.
I love all my children and will always remember my twins. Their ultrasound picture remains on our family altar. My decision to terminate my pregnancy was deeply personal and complicated, but it was the best choice I could make given the circumstances.
The emotional toll of having to contact providers about abortion services felt like asking for a manicure, and the waiting period after making that decision was unbearable. The charge for my hotel stay for the procedure sat on my credit card for years, a stark reminder of the inadequacies of our healthcare system for women.
I cannot imagine the cruelty that would accompany the criminalization of such a deeply personal decision. While my story may not change the minds of those determined to regulate my body, I hope it sheds light on why the right to choose is crucial.
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