I hadn't wanted to be pregnant but suddenly I was and the longer I spent in my thoughts imagining what it would be like to be a parent, the more and more I wanted it. The timing sucked. My marriage was falling apart. Money was tight. It felt like I'd made a mess of my life but suddenly I thought that maybe I had needed to go through the mess to get to this, to finally find my family.

I told my husband I was pregnant and that I wanted to leave him. I told my mom I was moving home. I found a new job and gambled everything I knew to start my life over again and settle down in a place that may not have been glamorus, but at least it would be safe and it would be our life.

A week after I told my husband I was pregnant I got the results of the genetic test that told me I was having a boy. It also told me that my baby was at high risk for Trisomy 18. I got the news in my health portal, while I sat in the car waiting for rain to stop in the Kroger parking lot.

I googled Trisomy 18. The end of the first sentence I read about the condition ended with "most babies won't survive beyond the first year of life." My resolution to make a new life for my baby melted into grief. I was stricken with a grief and sense of loss of someone I had never even met and that made me acutely aware of how much grief I would have with every loss yet to come in my life and it all felt like too much.

My doctor didn't call me for three days, apologizing for the weekend delay. He told me that maybe the test was wrong, it often could be. I don't know why, but I knew it was probably right and I knew that if it was, I owed him a peaceful death. After all, he had given me an incredible gift already- he had been my motivation for ending generations of violence, for walking away from a marriage so toxic that I carried its scars on my skin. The least I owed my baby was to keep him safe from suffering.

There was an appointment with lots of talking. Another one with an ultrasound and a long needle that they poked into my belly, trying to avoid my baby. But on the ultrasound he didn't look quite normal and the needle felt unnecessary but my doctor kept telling me to be hopeful.

When he called with the results, I knew what he would say. He told me I should return to the clinic in a few weeks and I said that won't be necessary. He told me I should think about what I was planning carefully because I might be tempted to numb the pain with drugs if I had an abortion or missed the chance to hold my baby in my arms.

Even though I loved him with all my heart, I knew I didn't want to see my boy's body. It wasn't going to look normal and I wanted to remember him instead as I'd imagined in my mind- perfect and too good for this world.

Knowing I wasn't going to get any help from my doctor, I did the same thing I did when I first got the news. I googled how to get an abortion. I took a day off of work, from a job I had just started, and made phone calls to find an appointment. I booked a flight and flew to DC the next week. I asked a girlfriend for a loan, and she gave me the money but said I wasn't allowed to pay her back. Someone covered my shifts. Someone else put me in touch with her brother who lives in DC and I stayed with him and his wife and they welcomed me when I arrived and his wife had a basket on the desk in the bedroom and it was filled with pads and that was the kindest thing that anyone had done for me in a long time. I noticed some holes in the walls and when I was taking a shower the morning of my procedure, I noticed a stack of framed photos of their small kids in the bathroom closet and I imagined they had taken them down for me. And I sat in the bathroom and cried as hard as I could.

The staff at the clinic were kind. Apologizing for the fact that I had had to travel so far to get care for my pregnancy. Before my procedure, I went to the bathroom and looked at myself in the mirror and wondered if I looked like a mother who had lost a child or if no one would ever know what I had to do to keep my baby safe. Before I went to sleep, they asked me if I wanted footprints. I said I didn't, I was worried he would have footprints that didn't look normal because I remembered the doctor having told me his feet were "rocker bottom". I thanked them, and said I had imagined his feet many times, and in my mind, they were perfect. As he was, as the changes he had forced me to make were. He gave me a chance to start over, and I gave him a chance to move on. We will be together again someday I hope, freed from the limitations of our bodies and our genetics. But until then, I will make the most of what he has given me.

We named them after flowers.

Not officially, of course. But on the whiteboard in our kitchen, next to the meal plan and dog meds, we wrote “Lily,” “Rose,” and “Daisy” in little loopy letters. It made the process feel a little more human. A little more hopeful.

My husband and I started trying to grow our family two years after we got married. At first, it was simple, tracking dates, holding hands, dreaming out loud. But months passed, and nothing happened. Then came the tests. The appointments. The heavy quiet in exam rooms where we hoped for answers.

Eventually, we were told our best option was IVF. We live just outside Nashville. I teach public school. My husband is a paramedic. IVF wasn’t something we could afford easily. Insurance didn’t help. We picked up extra shifts. We cut back. My mom offered to help, but I couldn’t bring myself to take her retirement savings. I already felt like I was failing.

They were able to preserve three chances for us. Each one felt like a little seed we were planting in faith.

The first didn’t work. The second ended in heartbreak. But the third time, Daisy, we finally saw two pink lines.

And then, a heartbeat.

Today, our daughter is here. She has my chin and her father’s eyes. She laughs with her whole body. She grabs blueberries like they’re treasure. She is the answer to every quiet prayer we whispered along the way.

I’m sharing this story because I know we’re not alone. Families like ours are all across Tennessee, hardworking, faith-filled people who want nothing more than the chance to build a family. IVF gave us that chance. It was medical care, yes. But more than that, it was hope.

I’m grateful that Tennessee has taken steps to protect access to fertility care. I was terrified when roe fell, IVF would be next. I hope lawmakers continue to see the faces behind this issue. This isn’t about politics, it’s about people. It’s about families and how we choose to grow them.

I didn’t tell anyone right away.

Not because I was ashamed, but because I was afraid no one would believe me. Or worse, that they would.

It happened after a work happy hour. A guy I knew. Someone I had laughed with before. Someone who didn’t hear “no” the first time, or the second, or at all. I said it anyway. I said it out loud, and I still remember the way he looked at me like it didn’t matter.

Two weeks later, I threw up at work and told myself it was just stress. But deep down, I already knew.

I took three tests. All positive.

I sat on my bathroom floor for hours. I kept thinking, I didn’t choose this. I didn’t choose any of this. And in Tennessee, there wasn’t a single doctor I could turn to for help. The law doesn’t make exceptions for people like me. Not unless I was dying.

I wasn’t dying. Not physically, anyway.

I called a clinic in Illinois. They were kind. They said they could help me. But it would take three days. An appointment, a waiting period, a follow-up. I used all of my PTO. I told my boss I had a family emergency. I drove six hours by myself. I paid for a hotel, gas, and childcare for my niece, who I usually help take care of. I bled in a state I did not live in.

And then I came home like nothing happened.

Except everything had happened.

I am not a political person. I grew up going to church on Sundays. I still do. But I do not believe God wanted this for me. I do not believe lawmakers who have never lived my life should get to make the most personal, painful decision I have ever faced.

I did not want to be brave. I wanted to be safe.

I am sharing my story because I know there are other women in Tennessee who are scared and alone and do not know where to turn. I want you to know you are not alone. You are not broken. You are not wrong.

You deserve care. You deserve peace. And you deserve to be believed.

I found out I was pregnant the week before midterms.

I was twenty. A junior. Studying communications, juggling a part time job, and trying to figure out who I wanted to be in the world. I had just applied for a summer internship in D.C. I was hoping to study abroad the next year. Everything felt wide open.

And then, one night, I stood in a Target bathroom staring at two pink lines. I had gone in for toothpaste and left feeling like the floor had fallen out from under me.

I wasn’t reckless. I was just... nineteen. The condom broke. I didn’t know it could happen like that. I didn’t know how fast everything could change.

I didn’t tell anyone for a few days. I just kept going to class. Kept checking things off my to do list. Kept pretending everything was normal.

But it wasn’t.

I knew I wasn’t ready to become a mom. I knew what that meant for my future. I knew I couldn’t take care of a child when I could barely take care of myself. I also knew that in Tennessee, I didn’t have the option to get care close to home.

So I drove to Atlanta.

I made the appointment online. I borrowed money from a friend and told her the truth because I needed someone to know. I said I was visiting family. I missed three classes. I cried when I got to the clinic because I was scared but also so relieved.

They treated me with kindness. No one yelled at me or tried to shame me. They just cared for me.

I think about that version of me a lot. The girl sitting in the waiting room with her sweatshirt sleeves pulled over her hands, praying this didn’t mean her life was over.

It didn’t mean it was over. It meant I got to keep going.

Today, I’m in grad school. I have a job I love. I live in a cute apartment with a dog and a lot of books and a full calendar. I have hard days, but I also have the freedom to imagine what comes next. I don’t regret my choice. I’m grateful I had one.

And that’s why I’m telling my story. Not because it’s easy. But because I don’t think any young woman should be forced into a future she didn’t choose.

We deserve the chance to keep going. To dream bigger. To come back from a mistake or a moment or a missed period. To write our own story, all the way through.