I was 23 years old when I found out I was pregnant for the first time. I was less than a year out of college and living paycheck to paycheck with my then-boyfriend. While I loved him, very much, we had a toxic, and sometimes verbally abusive, relationship, and that positive pregnancy test removed our rose-colored glasses. We realized, abruptly, that our relationship wasn’t sustainable, that neither of us were happy, and that there was no way we could raise a child in that environment, together, or in a way that would be best for a child. So both of us knew that terminating the pregnancy was the best decision we could possibly make.

We lived in Washington State, so I didn’t have to endure a mandatory waiting period, drive thousands of miles to a clinic, or go through mandatory counseling. Instead, I made an appointment at a local Planned Parenthood five minutes away from our apartment, walked into a safe and caring environment without protestors present, had a surgical abortion, and walked out of that clinic with my body, my freedom, and my future back.

A week later, my boyfriend and I broke up, and six years later I was pregnant again. This time I was in a happy, healthy relationship, I was financially stable, and I knew I was ready, willing, and able to be a mom. I walked into another Planned Parenthood and, for the first time, had someone tell me I was going to be a mother.

My abortion is why I am the mom I am to my now 3-year-old son. My abortion is why I have a loving relationship with a man who is kind and supportive. My abortion is why I was able to fulfill my childhood dream and become a writer and editor in New York City.