I’ll never forget the long dark night and the cold sweat brought on by the fear and panic I felt my freshman year of college, when I realized that my partner’s condom had failed, and I might get pregnant. I had never felt so scared and alone. He wasn’t a serious boyfriend. He wasn’t someone I could rely on in this potential crisis. It was early in my freshman year at Stanford. I went from having a whole exciting new world opening before me to feeling like I could lose everything. All of the consequences would be mine. Motherhood? I couldn’t fathom it at that age. I was more worried about my parents disowning me. They could never know. If they did, I’d certainly have to give up Stanford. In my freshman reality, I knew I would have to get an abortion. I saw no other way. I was petrified.
Luck was with me that time – I didn’t get pregnant. The road I traveled in the next ten years was complicated. It began with a strong desire to control my fertility – I started taking the birth control pill after my initial pregnancy scare. But my life was increasingly filled with uncertainty about choosing motherhood. The idea of motherhood became more present as I moved through my twenties and knew that the biological clock was ticking. I had married the serious boyfriend I started dating sophomore year of college. But I was an ambitious young woman who wasn’t sure if I wanted to have children. My own mother had to give up her career once she was pregnant with me in 1966. In 1990, it was hard for me to see a different path. I liked the idea of children, but I was worried that the burdens would be all mine: the physical risks of pregnancy, the loss of career prospects, the unrealistic expectations of motherhood, and the societal double standard (“motherhood is good,” but there are few societal supports). With this uncertainty, birth control was essential.
Regarding birth control, I remember a moment during graduate school when I was in the clinic at Harvard and the doctor suggested that I take a break from the pill, in case I wanted to have children later. I felt panicked – I told him there was no way I could switch to another form of birth control if it wasn’t as reliable as the pill. I knew that the only way I could complete my demanding program was if I was not pregnant. I had to control my fertility.
Little by little, things changed. After graduate school, as my 30th birthday approached, I decided to choose motherhood. I had begun to see a path. I had married someone who would truly share in the work of parenting. And, just as importantly, higher-level opportunities in the work world were gradually opening up to childbearing women.
But motherhood didn’t initially choose me. I struggled with infertility. I began the gauntlet of tests to diagnose the issue. Throughout this time, I experienced tremendous guilt and self-doubt. Was infertility my “punishment” for being ambitious? For not choosing motherhood sooner?
Thanks to the infertility treatments, my luck turned. I got pregnant, with twins. I carried them to full term, was fortunate to avoid bedrest, and returned to work 12 weeks later. (There was little to no flexibility in the workplace, and certainly no telecommuting options. I had to get back to my desk downtown or risk losing my job.)
I had not thought I could get pregnant without fertility treatments, but I got lucky again. Six years later, I found myself pregnant with our third child. It was confirmed in that same Harvard clinic, where I felt panicked 15 years earlier at the prospect of getting pregnant. This time, I welcomed a pregnancy. I was choosing motherhood (again).
Fifteen years later, I chose motherhood once more. As the world was shutting down for Covid in early 2020, I became a foster parent. I was witnessing firsthand the pain of my daughter’s friend who was being forced into foster care because their biological parents were unable to care for them. We had to intervene. In so doing, we welcomed our newest addition to the family.
Through this journey, I have come to understand motherhood, with all of its challenges and complexity. I’ve embraced it and loved much of it. But the time had to be right. I could not have been a mother as a scared 18-year-old, with the inevitable shame and hardship it would have brought. Especially in a society that gives lip service to motherhood but doesn’t have the social policies to fully support us. Even those of us with privilege. It’s hard enough to become a mother, and to be a good mother, even with the advantages of privilege. It’s nearly impossible for those who are young and vulnerable, who lack support and resources.
Motherhood is a deeply personal choice, and it includes whether to have children and how many to have. This choice should be one of our essential freedoms. The risks are real for women. We need to be fully ready. If we’re not, we need to be able to terminate our pregnancy. Making this decision is extraordinarily difficult. And it’s situational. Our situations can vary over our childbearing years – mine certainly did. So did those of my friends. I have one college friend who made the painful choice to have an abortion after she and her husband already had two children. She knew that her physical and mental health would be severely at risk if she proceeded with the pregnancy, and that would put their whole family at risk. I’ve also seen the harsh consequences for children whose parents can’t properly care for them, and the after-effects of that trauma.
It is this lens that I bring to the fight for reproductive freedom. No matter how far we’ve come with women’s equality, we cannot get around the biological fact that women bear the physical cost of having children, and much of the related emotional cost. From infertility treatments to morning sickness to bedrest to giving birth to post-partum depression. All of it. Repeatedly. And sadly, it all takes place during the formative stages of our careers.
I now see my own daughters facing this complexity, including the need to control their fertility, as they pursue their dreams. They want to choose motherhood on their own terms. Unfortunately, this fundamental freedom is being taken away from them. One in three women of childbearing age are now living in a state with abortion restrictions. Roe v. Wade was overturned almost two years ago, and this aftermath was unimaginable. But it’s our new reality.
Now more than ever, the personal is political. We must use this fact to galvanize ourselves to take political action. To that end, I will be co-hosting a nationwide fundraiser dedicated to protecting reproductive freedom and mobilizing grassroots voters in swing states. If you’d like to receive an invitation to this virtual event, please contact me. We cannot ignore what’s happening – we must act. This fall’s election is right around the corner. Join me. The time is now!