My abortion story: Getting pregnant in college

Before I was in a committed relationship, before I was a mother; life meant something very different. I was a senior at the University of Missouri, and I was on my way to being the first in my family to graduate from college.

I had a 3.8 GPA, an off-campus apartment and a work-study job to pay for that apartment. I also mentored other students, helped lead several school organizations and made it my job to know nearly every black student at Mizzou.

I was thriving academically and socially.

Still, I was only responsible for myself where it counted.

So when I missed my period in September 2008, my mind exploded.

I tried to convince myself that the weight of supporting myself through school was starting to get to me. It’s stress, I reasoned.  It’s a hormonal imbalance, I convinced.

Yet, a dollar store pregnancy test confirmed what I feared.

I was pregnant.

I wasn’t raped or a victim of incest. I had consensual protected sex, and a condom failed.

I was disappointed in myself. I was a student with my whole life ahead of me.

I called my best friends crying so hard they could barely understand me. I went across the street to their apartment and ran to the bathroom threatening to take a bottle of whatever pills were available in the medicine cabinet.

I threatened to get in my car and drive off a bridge. In my mind, life was not worth living anymore.

The suicidal feelings passed rather quickly. I went to bed that night uncertain about what my next steps would be.

My friends hid my keys and told me everything would be alright. I wasn’t sure about that, but I think it’s what I needed to hear. Their reassurance calmed me down, and I began to think rationally.

I had less than a year left in school and no visible support system.

I felt conflicted.

On one hand, I was capable of being a mother. I was 21-years-old. There are amazing mothers who started their journeys much earlier in life than that.

On the other hand, I was on my way out of college with only a summer job lined up. I had no long term plans in place. I was considering graduate school and couldn’t imagine doing that with an infant.

I was also grappling with my faith. I was already a sinner having premarital sex, but somehow an abortion weighed more heavily on the scale in my mind.

My biggest concern was disappointing those who loved and cared for me. I didn’t want to be another young, unwed mother, a statistic.

Aside from my two best friends and the person I’d been intimate with, I told no one that I was pregnant. My friends would support me in anything I wanted to do.

The guy made it clear he was not ready for a child. I didn’t fault him.

Though his opinion did play a role in my reasoning; ultimately, how I was going to handle it was my choice to make, and I made it.

I decided I wasn’t willing to have this situation determine the trajectory of my life.

Abortion was the best option for me.

I contacted Planned Parenthood. Although the nonprofit didn’t perform abortions where I lived, they had knowledge of the resources in the area. I reached out to one of the facilities they told me about, and I scheduled an appointment immediately.

I was told that it was too early and that before 6 weeks the fetus is so small that there is a chance of leaving pieces of tissue, which could cause severe health issues.  So I scheduled an appointment for a few weeks out and focused on how I would pay for what I remember being about a $500 bill.

The guy I was in this situation with agreed to pay half, but I couldn’t even come up with $250.

It was time to tell someone else. I called my sister and explained the situation. She was not disappointed. She was sad that I felt like I needed to go through this alone. She reminded me that I had insurance, which could substantially lower the cost.

We decided I would come home, and she would sit with me through the procedure. I was relieved that she was there for me. Her support solidified my decision.

I was having an abortion.

Weeks passed, and soon enough, it was time. Soon-to-be President Barack Obama was speaking at Mizzou, and I was driving home to Kansas City.

I’ll be honest. Missing that rally was my biggest regret in this whole thing. Though it might seem trivial, a black man was running for president of the United States in the first election I’d ever exercise my right to vote in. I was vice president of the black student government at Mizzou. I was supposed to be there.

Still, we left home on a Friday morning and crossed the state line from Missouri to Kansas. I had knots in my stomach by the time we made it to the doctor’s office and it was my turn to see the doctor.

He rubbed a wand across my stomach for the mandatory ultrasound.

I watched the walls.

He gave me some pain and numbing meds and did a physical exam. He commented that there was a lot of dried blood and that I’d likely already miscarried.

In the moment, a possible miscarriage didn’t mean anything to me. I’d made a conscious decision to have an abortion, so that was my reality.

The procedure was quick. I remember staring at a wall the entire time.

On the drive home, I wiped away tears in silence.

I wasn’t necessarily sad about the abortion.

I was still disappointed in myself that I’d gotten pregnant in the first place. I felt irresponsible. I was upset that life hadn’t gone according to plan.

Over the years, I started to lean into the possibility of having miscarried. If I decided to share my abortion story, which was rare, I was always sure to include that.

It felt redeeming in the face of judgment.

I don’t regret my decision. I’m not ashamed of it. I was, however, looking for something to justify it to others.

I’ve since stopped trying to rationalize the past. I’m 32-years-old now, financially stable and happily married with three wonderful kids.

I rarely think about my abortion at all. But I know if I had to make the decision again, I would make the same choice.

I did what was right for me.