I Didn’t Have a “Good Reason” to Get an Abortion. I Got One Anyway.
Editor’s Note: In our post-Roe society, it’s no secret that our right to bodily autonomy is in a more pressing—and more precarious—place than ever. In the past two years, nearly two dozen U.S. states have passed more restrictive abortion laws; 13 have banned the procedure. That's likely why, according to Cosmopolitan’s The Youth Vote project, reproductive freedoms are the most important issue for Gen Z women in the 2024 election (and the second most important issue for Gen Z as a whole). This story, along with a collection of others, looks at what's at stake on November 5, through the lens of young people's real-life experiences. Many states have restriction or bans in place that would make the abortion the writer describes below nearly impossible to get.
I found out I was pregnant two years ago, at the world’s largest Bike Week in Daytona, Florida. As a gonzo journalist from downtown New York, I’ve visited many corners and subcultures of America in pursuit of understanding our nation’s differences; I’m determined to find common ground with bearers of Confederate flags, TRUMP-emblazoned monster trucks, and Second Amendment rhetoric. In Daytona, I succeeded.
Dressed to the nines in pink terrycloth and waving around a wireless microphone, I was welcomed as an equal—the bikers and I reveled in each other’s exoticism. I joyrode on the back of strangers’ Harleys and picked their brains at the counter of Waffle House. They talked to me about freedom of expression, identity, the importance of finding people who understand you—the same things I ponder with my girlfriends up north. We’re all just looking for a home, I thought.
But the roar of thousands of engines and the smell of fried seafood felt particularly nauseating, and the third day of the rally was my eighth without a period. I took a pregnancy test in a Holiday Inn bathroom. It came back positive, and I came crashing back to reality. Many of the people around me wore Pro-Life T-shirts, Silent Majority hats, and ‘I ride with Jesus’ leather vests. Telling them I wanted an abortion would make our unexpected mutuality vanish into a cloud of exhaust fumes. Suddenly, I felt like a fraud.
As young girls, women of my generation were repeatedly told that we could do and be anything, everything. Dream big little girl, the omnipresent “They” encouraged. When we reached childbearing years, however, the narrative abruptly shifted: now, it seems nothing is more important than being a mother. Valuing any other aspiration over starting a family is deemed “selfish.” It’s confusing, to say the least.
I’m a college-educated woman with relative financial stability and neurotic Jewish parents who love me a little too much. My former partner, by whom I got pregnant, treated me with kindness and respect; I knew he’d make a great father regardless of whether we continued to be a great couple. Plus, single moms are “in” right now—look at EmRata, Gigi Hadid, and Julia Fox. All those facts suggested that I could (and maybe should?) have seen a pregnancy through at 28 years old.
But while money and social status make it easier to be a parent, they do not, contrary to popular belief, automatically guarantee a good one. In New York City’s private school system, I was surrounded by kids who had unlimited resources and very little supervision. One friend’s single mother was a musician who’d often tour Europe, leaving her ninth-grade daughter in their Central Park apartment with no groceries, a carton of Marlboro Reds, and a shoebox full of cash. Another friend’s glamorous single mom canoodled with men more than half her age while we, just a flight upstairs, filled the house with enough weed smoke to signal the fire department. I see parts of myself in those mothers. I see—even with a decade of therapy—the likelihood of making their mistakes.
Though professionally trained in theater, I bomb auditions for the role of “parent.” Plants wilt rapidly on my windowsill. Goldfish float to the water’s surface on their backs. The respect I have for myself isn’t much better, consistent only in its inconsistency—and, like many performers, it’s highly dependent on external validation. I’m worthless without an audience. Look inward, they (and my therapist) say. What you seek is already inside you.
After finding out I was pregnant, I certainly wasn’t seeking what was inside me—but boy, did I try. I attempted to conjure maternal instinct in the shower, lighting candles and lathering up in grapefruit-scented bubbles. I’d hold my still-flat belly with two hands, squeeze my eyes shut, and try to envision the life force inside me. Night after night, I saw nothing. No part of me wanted what was in there; the tests said PREGNANT, but I felt possessed. Gagging at my favorite foods, sleeping until 1 p.m., and sobbing at subway ads for erectile dysfunction, I resented the loss of control over my body. At the same time, scrolling past gender reveals on Instagram, I worried I was somehow defective. Pregnancy is marketed as agift, yet I found it an inconvenience. Was I a failure not just of a mother, but of a woman?
How much of “maternal instinct” is a ticking biological clock, versus a societal edict that says a woman’s purpose is to have children, raise children, and give her parents grandchildren? The women in my life are career-minded, creating full lives for themselves before dedicating those lives to anyone else’s. My mother went back to work as a lawyer shortly after I was born, but she had already achieved a suitable level of success and subsequent self-esteem. I was never made to feel that her clients or professional reputation took precedence over my needs.
You always come first, she’d frequently remind me. You’re the center of my Universe.
Right now, I’m the center of mine, too.
I decided the only thing more selfish than depriving an embryo the right to develop into a child would be bringing a child into the world knowing I’m not ready for it.
I chose to have a medical abortion. It’s a two-step, at-home process using mifepristone and misoprostol, and I ordered the pills via Telehealth. While anxious to no longer be pregnant, I was terrified of potential pain—and of the unknown. None of my friends had ever admitted to having an abortion, leading me to the internet in search of first-person accounts of what to expect. What I found, or the lack thereof, was shocking. Reddit and deep-cut message boards showed stories of rolling on the floor, projectile vomiting, explosive diarrhea, blacking out—suffering on a biblical level, much of it self-induced. I couldn’t believe how many women said they consciously chose not to take painkillers or anti-nausea medication, wanting to be faced with “the consequences of their actions.”
It was impossible to determine what kind of symptoms I’d experience, so I decided the best course of action was just to numb myself. With a heat pad underneath me and a garbage can beside the bed, I curled up next to my then-boyfriend and began a Wes Anderson marathon. We envisioned skiing down the mountains behind The Grand Budapest Hotel and drooled over Mendl’s Courtesan au Chocolat. Then, about an hour in, my stomach started to sear. I was stoned out of my mind on a combination of Oxycodone, THC, Zofran, and Ibuprofen, but the pain was still a 7.5 out of 10. It came in waves of extreme cramping I imagined were akin to early labor contractions. You know those moments in an intense workout class that are so hard you think your body is about to collapse? But you push through, and it doesn’t, and you emerge stronger than you ever thought possible? It felt like that for six hours. And somewhere along the way—plop.
I debated whether to look in the toilet—would I see a dead baby? But knew that fear primarily exists in mystery. What my body expelled looked nothing like a tiny human, merely a dense blood clot. I later learned that at 6 weeks, the stage of my pregnancy, a fetus is smaller than a grain of rice—no limbs, organs, or facial features. The following week I wore a maxi-pad everywhere, took down a bottle of Advil, and finally admitted to my friends why I’d rejected their recent invites to go out drinking.
I’ve since concluded that much of the “unbearable suffering” associated with abortion comes from stigma and guilt. When we are angry at or resentful of our bodies, or the way the world treats them, emotional tension can manifest in pain. In truth, the worst part was the waiting: for the result of the pregnancy test, to hear back after applying for treatment, for the medicine to show up in the mail. Taking the first pill, waiting two days before taking the second. Taking the second pill, waiting to bleed. Waiting for the bleeding to end. Waiting to take another test to make sure the pregnancy passed. Waiting to get a period again. And, after it was all over, waiting for judgment from someone else’s God.
At peace as I was with my decision, having an abortion still made me feel guilty—not out of obligation to my unborn clump of cells, but to other women. As I sat on the toilet waiting for clots to pass, I thought about all the miscarriages that are not intentional. The women forced into abortions because of unfavorable circumstances. The women who try and fail for years to have children. The women who put the money I’d blow on SSENSE into IVF and their trust into the power of prayer. I got to skip to the front of what’s implied to be the world’s most coveted waitlist, and promptly forfeited my spot.
A few months later, I went to a party and quickly bonded with another woman there. We exchanged eyebrow product recommendations and later, over margaritas, more substantial tidbits about our lives. I brought up the abortion casually, as I would the discovery of a great-smelling sunscreen or an anecdote from a bad date, and she didn’t flinch. This was a stylish, fast-talking city girl. She had spent the past decade climbing New York’s publishing ladder to a high rank at a prominent magazine—my Bible as a teenager. Awestruck, I peppered her with questions about the fabled beauty closet. You have my dream job, I told her.
“Well, you can take it,” she sighed, licking a clump of spicy salt off the corner of her mouth. She hated working there—in fact, she hated working.
“Like, was all that hustling even worth it? I went to grad school to make my parents happy. The only thing I’ve ever really wanted is to be a mom.”
She went on about a recent doctor’s appointment where she was informed that her ovaries had fewer follicles than expected. She was considering freezing her eggs, or putting more pressure on her boyfriend. I nodded politely while she spoke, watching the frost on my glass melt away until it was as transparent as the silence that followed. She hadn’t judged me for having an abortion, but the tone of her voice suggested she also kind of did. Acceptance and resentment are not mutually exclusive.
“I wish I could give you some of mine,” I finally responded. “Apparently I’m a follicle farm.”
She forced a laugh. With stiff smiles, we quickly finished our drinks.
You Might Also Like
