Content note: This piece includes personal experiences with abortion, miscarriage, and spiritual struggle. Please take care while reading.
Where Grief and Choice Collide
There are parts of my story that are hard to say out loud. This is one of them.
I had an abortion. And before I started miscarrying, the one I’ve spoken about here before, I was going to have another.
I can tell you that I was pushed into those decisions by the partner I had at the time. I can tell you about the psychological abuse. But that doesn’t change the fact that I made that choice, and I carry it with me.
It’s a horrific choice, no matter which side of it you stand on.
Some people will call me a monster.
Sometimes, I call myself one too.
My body feels like a graveyard.
I mourn my babies as though they were both miscarried, because the truth is… I didn’t want to lose either of them.
And still, the clinic I went to for the abortion was the same place I went when I miscarried and needed care—because my experience at the hospital had been so cold, so frightening, that I was afraid to go back.
Those women were the only medical professionals who showed me any kind of empathy in the middle of that nightmare.
I’m not writing this to argue for or against the choice.
I can’t imagine ever wanting to be in that position again.
But I also refuse to judge anyone who finds themselves there.
Because the truth is, it’s hard on both sides of that decision—and I think that’s the part people don’t talk about enough.
The Fear of Being Unforgivable
The real reason I’m sharing this is because I’m a follower of Christ.
And that made everything after even heavier.
I was terrified.
I wondered if God would punish me for what I had done.
If He would distance Himself from me.
If I had somehow disqualified myself from His love.
I wondered if the miscarriage was because of my first decision… or because I was going to make the same one again.
I wondered if I had turned my body into something unforgivable.
If I had become something unforgivable.
Where Grace Found Me
But the moment I reached for Him, He was there.
Not hesitant.
Not distant.
Not condemning.
Just… there. With open arms.
And in that place, my fears began to unravel.
I was met with love.
With protection.
With a kind of grace I didn’t think I was allowed to receive anymore.
Take that however you want—but to me, that felt like forgiveness.
It felt like being reminded that I am still His.
Still loved.
Still held.
Even now.
Holding Space for What We Don’t Understand
I don’t know what the “right” answer is in this conversation.
But I do know this:
It’s not fair to judge someone for a decision like this if you’re not willing to sit with them in the weight of it… and hold space for their humanity while they carry it.
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