Social Media & Election Anxiety

The last time I took a moment to sit down and write was two years ago. Two. Years. Ago. Since the time of my last post, I went back to college, completed an internship with AmeriCorps, finished my degree (University Studies with a minor in Sociology), and got a job at a public library. Seriously. Best job I've ever had, and I've been through many!

In the last two years, whenever I had something pressing on my mind, I would turn to Instagram stories to share. However, the week of the presidential election sent me in a spiral to the point where I needed to separate myself from social media. I logged out of all my apps and then deleted them for good measure. Hi, I'm Sarah, and I have no self control. I couldn't trust myself not to just log back in out of curiosity. So into the metaphorical trash bin they went. And you know what? I haven't missed them. In fact, I don't know why I didn't do this sooner.

Social media started out a great idea, a way to keep tabs on one another and see what's going on in each other's lives from making moves to getting married to checking off bucket list items. Somewhere along the way, these spaces became more and more toxic. Honestly, it started with the Top 8 feature on MySpace and went downhill from there, especially once social media became a tool for politics. In some ways it could be useful and informative. In others, people use the safety of their keyboards to say hateful things that they wouldn't otherwise be caught dead saying in real life.

It just gave me anxiety.

I had an anxiety attack at work the night after the election. It had been a long time since I'd experienced one, probably around the time of my last blog post actually. It started with the shakes. Then came the nausea. Last, but certainly not least, my heart rate picked up and I could not bring it down. I had one hour left in my shift and chose to suffer through it. I thought when I got to my car that it would subside. It didn't. Not until several hours later. I listened to "Science" by Niall Horan while I stood in the hot shower trying to calm my racing heart.

Can you feel what's beneath?

Is it stone-cold under your feet?

Are you numb? Can you touch?

Is the silence a little too much?

And all you wanna do is break out

So when you feel there's nothing left

Oh, there's still a heart beatin' in your chest

And when you're runnin' from the flood

Oh, you've got nowhere left to run

It's just science

Don't let it break you down

I didn't realize that election results could impact my mental health so much. I was not okay. Many of the people I follow on socials felt the same way as me, but as with any other reason for existing in an echo chamber, it wouldn't prove useful in addressing my mental health by remaining on socials and seeing depressing, anxiety-filled posts day in and day out, even though I felt the same way. That doesn't mean I'm not still worried, but I'm not letting that worry consume me. I am still finding ways to stay informed and prepare myself to act once the new administration makes its way to Washington.

This isn't to say I'll never use Facebook, Instagram, or Threads again. But this week away has certainly taught me that moderation is critical in the fight for my own well-being. For the time being, I'm going to see how long I can stay away and see how much better I am for it.

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Heard

The Instagram algorithm constantly shows me artfully designed posts portraying the journey of healing and grief, how it is not linear. I saw one the other day that had a feminine figure traveling along the line of a rhythmic heart beat. There were several upward angles, then there were a few big dips, some short flat lines that would characterize what it is like to live with grief. It's a friend I've welcomed. I initially resented grief because of the pain that inevitably rears its head, but if there is anything I have learned in the past five years traveling this tumultuous road, it is that grief and its accompanying anguish and sorrow is proof that I have loved deeply. That to love is the greatest risk in life.

I have often talked about the grief of losing my brother to suicide, the instant and agonizing heartbreak I felt when I got that phone call and every month that followed the despair I felt watching his casket lowered into his final resting place.

Grief is often felt when there is loss. Generally, it is associated with the death of a loved one. But grief is more broad than that. There are no limits to grief. When there is love in a relationship, for a community, a career path, a home, grief settles in on the sidelines, waiting for the moment something comes to an end. You break up with your significant other. You leave a beloved community. The career in which you once found much satisfaction just hasn't been enough for you lately, so you quit. You are forced to reckon with a decision to leave your home and start over somewhere new, possibly foreign and unknown. Grief makes its move.

So it was when I had a moment of reckoning with the church and realized my heart wasn't in it anymore. I couldn't get it to beat to the same rhythm no matter how hard I tried. I have been through all the stages of grief in my faith journey: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. The funny thing about grief is that there really isn't a destination. One cannot simply go through each stage, wrap their grief up in a tidy little bow, and be finished. It's an endless road comprised of twists and turns, the scenery fields of wildflowers, muddy puddles, rocky terrain, deep trenches. You could be in the most beautiful setting, but while you're not looking, you stumble into a ditch.

I have come so far in my faith journey through setting boundaries, maintaining relationships with people who remain in the church, feeling more at peace and less in constant anger. But no matter how well I'm doing, there are still moments where I find myself in the anger stage. Grief is not linear.

I believe the question people wonder to themselves isn't necessarily why I feel anger, but instead, why I choose to express my anger when I feel it? Is my intention to harm members of the church? Why can't I just keep it to myself?

This answer is easy. Bottling up my feelings makes me feel worse. When I feel worse, I'm bound to explode. When I acknowledge my anger about something I heard or saw about the institution I once found myself in love with my whole heart, I write. I have to write. I have to share. I want people to know why I hurt. I want people to know why I ache.

Why I rage,

Why I cry,

Why I shake.

Because when we feel we are acknowledged, seen, and heard, we can continue to make strides in our healing. The raging sort of anger begins to subside and transforms into the righteous kind. We feel less inclined to find reasons to be angry with the church day in and day out and instead feel anger when necessary, when we feel called to protect someone, to defend them.

General Conference weekend was hard. I tried my very hardest to keep myself in the dark about what was said, to allow members to relish the peace I know was felt during many of the addresses. But the moment I saw active, Queer Latter-day Saints reeling from some hurtful things shared over the pulpit, my heart ached. It continues to ache. When my heart aches, I speak. I speak because words carry power to connect, to inspire, to heal, to change. I cannot speak for everyone in the ex-Mormon community, but I know that many of us do not have the intention to destroy the church, but rather to improve it so that everyone can truly thrive.

Because when you've loved something so fiercely...deep down, all you want it the best for it. That's what I want. I feel anger, sorrow, hurt, sometimes even laughter at things I used to do, because the church used to be the biggest part of my life. I loved it. I found community with the people in it. When my brother died, my life changed. I changed. Things that didn't matter before began to matter to me. I began to see people for who they are and not for who they should be in order to be accepted. I was told to be careful, that I was heading down a dangerous path.

Eventually, it became too much for me to stay when the church I loved didn't seem to love me back. I felt othered. Walking away allowed me to question the things I had stashed away. Had there been more people in my corner, ready to hear me, ready to stand with me instead of change me and demand I be a certain way if I considered myself a members of the church, perhaps my entire belief system would never have imploded. Two years later, I find myself comfortable with the unknown and all the possibilities it has to offer.

While I am thankful for where I am now, I still grieve my life in the church. I grieve my community. I grieve believing I had the absolute truth. I grieve the relationships I lost because of the path on which I've found myself. I grieve the lens through which I saw the leaders I loved. If I were offered the opportunity to unsee what I have seen, I would be tempted to snag it.

That grief I feel leads me to speak when the heat has them bubbling. It's a different kind of fire in my bosom, but it burns nonetheless. We all have something we want to say. Imagine what kind of relationship we could foster between members and former members if we could open our ears to hear, and our hearts to truly listen.

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Possibilities

My mind been filled with fields of wild thoughts today. It could certainly just be my ADHD ping-ponging from one subject to another in this constantly whirring brain of mine. The thoughts, regardless of cause, are wild, and as frustrating as I find that I just cannot reach a definitive conclusion for the questions I have about the world around me, I also find beauty in it. Curiosity is something I want to live and breathe. It helps me understand the people who are different than me. Curiosity invites me to learn and develop as a human. It fosters empathy and creates room for growth. It causes me to ask questions, sit in discomfort, consider different perspectives, either form my own opinion or choose the option of accepting the unknown.

The hardest part about the journey I have been on in my twenty-seven years of living has been coming to the belief that the unknown is not as scary as I have made it out to be. Where I used to deal exclusively in absolutes, I now marvel at the maybes. Possibility is one of my favorite words. It confidently rests in the gray, extending an arm of invitation to see what could be rather than what is. The word is inextricably tied to hope, to faith, to desire.

In a world where we are of many different belief systems, how beautiful would it be if we turned away from words like confusion, lost, wrong to define what we see and instead consider life as the galaxy in its vastness, stars innumerable. The possibilities of what lay in wait outside our atmosphere are endless. Depending on one's perspective, it might be terrifying, or it might be mesmerizing.

I have thought a lot about the words we use to describe our individual outlooks. In newspaper articles, we can detect how the writer might feel about a subject based on the words used in a simple headline. As writers, we choose our words carefully in an effort to establish a certain tone, to spark a particular feeling.

Here, I choose words like marvel, curiosity, and possibility to make room for hope and comfort. Because in a world where there is so much frustration, harm, and hatred, we need words that elicit hope for a better tomorrow. Words that won't make us shrink in anxiety that our world is going to hell in a handbasket. Because it isn't. Our world is beautiful, if only we allow ourselves to look at the bits and pieces of it that truly are.

I firmly believe it is important to look the bad in the eye. It is important to stand up when we see someone being harmed by another. We need to name it for what it is. Hate. It is important to stand up to hate in all of its forms. Admittedly, I have found myself in the internal cross-hairs of my advocacy for the marginalized. I have asked the question of Christians, "Didn't Jesus say, 'Judge not, lest ye be judged?'" and in turn placed definitive judgment on those same people with words I attached to their existence rather than their actions. If there is anything I struggle with more than anything, it is the way we love and care for only a fraction of the world--those who think like we do politically, religiously, socially, etc.

Words carry power. They can be a force for love and hope or a weapon for hate and despair. As my wild thoughts took root early this morning, I pondered what my life--what the world--would be like if we could see the potential for good in each person, hold them accountable when necessary, and help them along in this journey for which our destination is unknown.

The only thing we know for certain is that you and I are here, living and breathing in the same moment. Our spirits naturally yearn for human connection. Somewhere along the way, that tie has been tangled, the connection not lost, but limited. I hope one day we can again find our way back to each other and open our minds and hearts to the one thing that brings us all together:

Our humanity.

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Not This Fruit

 My mind has been whirling with thoughts about my faith journey that I haven't been able to form them into cohesive sentences about one subject in particular. But today, I watched a video of a woman who extended her heart to those watching about how it pains her to see horrible comments made by church members about marginalized people who are just trying to find room at the table. The very people for whom Jesus would have been fighting to save a seat.

The video sent me back to last year when BYU changed its honor code policy surrounding gay and lesbian relationships, sparking joy and celebration from the LGBTQ+ community on campus. I scrolled through Facebook that day stopping on an article from Deseret News. The report itself wasn't hateful, but I'd made the mistake of letting my eyes linger on the comment section. I couldn't believe what I was reading. It was as if the keyboard warriors forgot that people exist behind the label. Worse than that, they utterly disregarded the gospel of Jesus Christ, the very name they took upon themselves when they were baptized, a name they weaponized to justify their bigotry. After all, didn't Jesus tell the sinners to go and sin no more? Only, that was Jesus, the lone man who claimed to be even remotely capable of keeping hypocrisy at bay because he was supposedly, divinely perfect.

I remember sifting through the hate wondering how I could reconcile staying in a church I wasn't even sure held the absolute truth when this rhetoric was literally hurting people through violence and even suicide. I could continue to put a band-aid over my doubts about Deity and continue to foster community within the church, but knowing the people who sat next to me in the Relief Society room felt this way about other human beings made me feel physically ill. Community wasn't worth it for the fruit that came of it: hypocrisy and hate.

Anyone who tells their family that they can't stomach being active in a church that makes members feel comfortable reciting words of a document to people who live differently will likely be met with the sentiment: "The church is perfect. The people are not."

If only that were true.

When someone says this, they treat the subject as if there's this chasm between gospel and culture. But the two are undoubtedly connected. The culture is the fruit of the church. There is a reason members believe and say certain things because they were taught it from the pulpit. The bigotry we see on social media from devout members who faithfully attend the temple every month, pay a full tithe, sign up to feed the missionaries religiously is the fruit of a church that says evil is running rampant throughout the world and it's up to the righteous to shine their light, only it's far from pure. There are particles of judgment floating aimlessly in their path. Judgment wholly justified by what leaders have taught them.

I know what it's like. I was there. I would shine my light against bigotry and then turn around and sneer at the person who just got a new tattoo or posed with a cup of coffee in their hand while showing their shoulders on Instagram when I knew they were endowed and were meant to be wearing garments. But they were apostatizing. I was within my right as a righteous member of God's chosen church to be worried for their salvation. Fruit of the church.

I considered leaving, but I wasn't sure if I should. I was still holding on to that sense of self. This was my whole life. I toyed with the idea of maybe paying my tithes not to the church but to other charities since the church would get involved in things I wholeheartedly denounce. I thought about never going to church and only doing Come, Follow Me. Only, that solidified in me what I didn't believe for myself.

It got to be unbearable, the hypocrisy within myself and which other members exuded. I realized it wasn't worth it to continue faking my belief in deity to be this person: one who fights for one group who just wants to live their truth while sentencing another to a cage when all they want to do is live their truth. It just didn't make sense, and it wasn't healthy for me to continue living that way. It certainly wasn't fair for the people I was judging (and secretly jealous of if we're being honest). It was time to find a new path, a rockier, harder one. But the one worth the heartache.

It was time to leave The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. So I did.

I don't wish ill will on the church. I really don't. In fact, I hope it changes. I hope that one day, there will be leaders high in the ranks that will shift the culture of the church to be one of true, unconditional love, one that will welcome every single person and family with open arms, lacking in checklist items to be met in order to find full fellowship and charity within their walls. While I do not believe in the divine foundation of the church, I do believe in love, and I hope one day the church will find it to extend to others.

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God is Love & Love is God

My identity has taken a huge shift in recent months. I vocalized my standing with the church and made a very conscious decision to disassociate myself and my family from it. For being taught that leaving is the easy way out, I sure have been having a different experience. It has been anything but. I am wandering as I reconstruct and redefine my spirituality. That's okay. Some beautiful things can be found when we take a moment to look around us, discover the new, and revel in the grandeur life has to offer. I am looking for the right place to land.

I was on Instagram the other day when I came across an IGTV video by Morgan Harper Nichols. The post invited me to screenshot the video at any time to claim my word for the year. I stumbled upon the perfect word for myself.

Within (noun): an inner place

As I have grappled with the idea of Deity as I have known it throughout my life, this word could not have come at a more perfect time of reflection. I have been waist-deep in considering what makes a person spiritual. Is there an all-knowing God? Do I subscribe to the notion that Jesus saves?

Well, yes. 

...and no.

I think it's complicated, and I have yet to learn more about the origin of religion as I have known it. I'm leaning more towards the idea that I have the Divine within me. I am Divine.

This may sound weird (and frankly big-headed), but hear me out.

We are made of the stuff of eternity, the universe, of matter that can neither be created nor destroyed. Yes, one day we will be given back to the earth, and that gives rise to the idea that we are worth nothing, and because we are worth nothing, we must cater our lives to something Greater.

What is that Something? My answer is Love, and the capacity to give it freely and feel it deeply lives within all of us. For me, I don't need a personified mediator to extend compassion and empathy to others. I don't need a list of rules set in literal stone or plates of gold to know what is right, wrong, good, bad, beautiful, or ugly in the world because I can feel it all within me.

So that's where I am with God, Deity, the Greater Than I. Where do I stand with Jesus? Where can I turn for peace? Where is my solace?

I turn to love, to kindness. The two things Jesus himself advocated for during his ministry. I absolutely subscribe to the notion that love always wins, and that Jesus was a beautiful teacher who taught that I should learn to reconcile my experiences with my inner self. Of course, he always talked about God rather than the self, so naturally, I have some thoughts.

My absolute favorite scripture in all of the New Testament is Romans 8: 38-39.

"For I am persuaded, that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor things present, nor things to come, Nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature, shall be able to separate us from the love of God."

This scripture has ruminated in my mind for several weeks as I have contemplated where my beliefs lay in the grand scheme of things. As I expressed previously, I believe that the idea of God is, in essence, Love.

But if nothing can separate me from Love, then that must mean that Love lives within me. There's that word again: within. Love goes everywhere I go. Love sees everything I see. Just as with the idea of a literal, physical God, anyone can choose whether to invite Them into their everyday conversations and experiences. Same with Love.

I am not perfect. Boy, do I know I am not perfect. But if there is anything I have learned about myself through this journey of healing, self-discovery, and transitioning my faith it's that I have this innate need to love people. That desire comes from within because it's from within that an immense power to change the world resides.

Victor Hugo famously said, "To love another person is to see the face of God." I get chills every single time I hear it because it is a universal truth that Love is greater than all of us. It transcends time and space. It is a power we all possess to see the good, to be the good.

We are not helpless creatures walking this earth in a vain attempt to walk golden hallways in Some Faraway Palace in the clouds. If we are individual powerhouses of Love, imagine what a world full of people who recognize they have the same power within them would be like.

Hate would be gone. Wars would end. Compassion would reign.

Maybe it's wishful thinking that any of these things could happen, but as I see more and more people advocate on their social media platforms, sounding a call for more understanding, listening, and learning, maybe we really could change the world just as hoped for through a second coming of a savior.

We have the capacity within us to save humanity if only we allow ourselves to fall into our humanness and love simply, with no conditions, readily willing to sacrifice our comfort for the pains of another to vanish. We can be one. We can be whole.

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We Were Made to Speak

The few of you who follow my blog know writing is a big coping mechanism for me. It allows me to unleash the fire that burns within me when something is on my mind. A lot of the time, I feel the need to share, to be validated, to generate heartfelt discussion, to offer a different perspective.

Don't get me wrong, that doesn't always happen. Sometimes my posts are misinterpreted. Sometimes they just don't resonate with people. I'm a writer, sure. I'm not a perfect one though. Some thoughts are well-received while others get buried in the sand. That's totally fine. Even though I know not every post will be a winner or the popular opinion, I still write because I need to give freedom to my thoughts. So I put pen to paper or....fingers to keys?

I publicly announced my departure from the LDS church a couple weeks ago. That was so hard, and as much as some people believe I was seeking attention, I didn't want to do it. I told the people who needed to be told and went on with my life chock full of pull-ups and messes. I knew people would talk about me behind my back, and honestly, I didn't really pay any mind to it because it wasn't directly affecting me.

Until it did.

See, gossip fuels certain feelings within us, so we feel the need to address that with the person at the heart of the gossip. This time it was me. I started getting some unsolicited messages that meant well, but deep down I had this pit in my stomach, this crippling anxiety just eating away at the very core of who I am: a thinker, a feeler. I was hurting that somebody felt they could simply remind me of something I had never forgotten, sending messages like "Happy General Conference Day!" when they knew I was disaffected from the church at the time.

I had let that go. I tried to just live my life the best I saw fit without the intention of ever coming out of the spiritual closet. I thought the gossip would stick to a small circle, but just as a wildfire does when left unaddressed, it spread.

That hurt too. Spirituality is such a personal thing; it's an experience that doesn't need to be shared with everyone. When someone divulged something I feel is so deeply personal in my own life to others, it pained me. It was painful to get more messages from people under the guise of following the spirit when I know there was talk. It was even more painful to have assumptions made about why I had left.

It had to be politics. It had to be the desire to do things contrary to church rules. It had to be that someone said something offensive. It had to be this, this, this.

Nobody asked. They just threw assumption after assumption in my face.

"Where do you get your information?" when I had said nothing about history. "Politics hardly ever bring the spirit" when I had said nothing about my political views regarding my faith.

What's sadder? I knew it was coming. I knew because I did this to others. I sent texts telling people not to jump ship, to think about what they are doing and what they are giving up, to consider the eternities. I might even go so far as to say I deserved all this.

But it still hurt. It caused me more anguish thinking of all the people who believe I am now someone to be fixed, saved, changed, altered. I am different to them. My identity has shattered not only as it pertains to the church but also people.

The consideration one makes to leave the church is not taken lightly. It rips them right open. It is disruptive and destructive, not because the person still believes what they were taught is true, but because who they are has so often been associated with being a Latter-day Saint. When that is ripped away, so is their identity.

There is this false idea in the culture of church that leaving is more convenient, that staying is harder, but it simply isn't true. For me, leaving was harder. Acknowledging my doubts was harder. Knowing that I once believed and decided to walk away was harder. Telling my family was harder. Hearing them cry was harder. Getting text message after text message was harder. Feeling like a project was harder, and it still remains that way.

Leaving is not easy, and I would never romanticize it as such.

The pain I already feel in addition to countless others who have chosen this road is exacerbated when someone says we should just go quietly. No need to announce it.

Sure, there isn't a guideline that I needed to post on social media, but it wasn't for them. It was for me. I felt I needed to share so I could put all the conversations about me behind me and make room for another chapter.

It isn't fair to expect a person to harbor any secret as it pertains to church or any other facet of life. When someone tells you to just keep it to yourself, more problems arise than are spared.

We weren't built to keep things in. We were made to speak.

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A Cry for Compassion

Note: This post is about suicide loss, suicidal ideation while pregnant, postpartum depression, and my views on abortion. If you are experiencing suicidal thoughts, please call the Suicide Hotline. 1-800-273-8255.

Had someone asked me five years ago whether terminating a pregnancy was murder, I probably would have nodded vigorously, casting no doubt that abortion was wrong. There was no gray area. God had a plan, and abortion wasn't part of it.

But my life has changed drastically since then. I lost my brother to suicide. I fell into the pits of grief, despair ruling my world, darkness overcoming my body, my life, my marriage.

Of course, it wasn't always bad.

Even in grief, I could find little pockets of joy. I even became pregnant just two months after Christian died. I was elated thinking this was a gift from God, maybe even a little blessing from my brother telling me how sorry he was for leaving. I treated my pregnancy like any other overjoyed mother-to-be would. I raced to make my first obstetrician appointment. I immediately told my parents, my friends without a second thought. I smiled. I cried. I expected everything to be perfect, even in the midst of grief from putting my little brother in the ground at the age of fifteen.

I wasn't okay.

Something they don't tell you is that pregnancy and grief don't mix well. With hormones raging and anger looming, a woman's thoughts turn sinister. I felt immense guilt about my brother dying. It was bad enough that I couldn't do anything to save him. Why should I be able to experience the gift of life? How could I be a good mother if I couldn't even pay attention enough to recognize the signs that he was hurting?

The intrusive thoughts came violently. I wanted to die. I should die. But then I would be labeled a murderer for killing my baby. No one would pay attention to me if I died. They would merely label me a baby killer, giving no thought to my mental state, that maybe I shouldn't have been pregnant at all. Of course, the shame set in, and that only made matters worse. I didn't deserve to live, to be a mom. How could I when this is how I thought?

Only...it wasn't me.

But how could I tell these things to my obstetrician when I had read horror story after horror story of women who had been arrested for opening up and asking for help. There was no way I would risk having my baby ripped away from me. I just had to survive.

Miraculously, I did.

I had a beautiful baby girl, a beautiful birth. I was going to be okay. Gone were the days of suicidal ideation while pregnant, of being scared that I might actually hurt myself. I forgot all about it as I stared into my darling little girl's eyes.

Until I fell pregnant again just four months later.

At first, I found it amusing. It was going to be an interesting ride. But ultimately, we would be okay. Right?

Wrong.

I had a hard pregnancy. It was painful just like the first one. My grief from losing Christian wasn't as fresh, but it still lingered in the background ready to pounce at any given moment. It did. Many times. Top that with pregnancy pains, a husband with a brand new job that kept him from home longer than expected, and the frustrations of being a new mother, and you've got yourself a recipe for prenatal depression.

Despite the intrusive thoughts and suicidal ideation returning and the shame nestling into the core of my soul, I made it. Again.

On the day before my scheduled induction, I tripped and fell while walking to my car. Right on my stomach. I froze. I couldn't answer the EMTs when they got to me.

They took me to the hospital--but not the one my OBGYN had scheduled me to have my son.

Because I was only 38 weeks despite having excess amniotic fluid which was the reason for my induction, the doctor on call for L&D refused to induce me right there. It was fine. She waited to see if I would dilate to a four and would then admit me to have the baby. She said she would break my water once I reached six centimeters to help me along, but per the hospital rules, she couldn't help me until that point.

She lied. She never came to see me until the very end. The point where I had been writhing in agony for upwards of five hours from a failed epidural, and intense pressure that told me I needed to push. Five. Hours. I was screaming. The nurse told me to be quiet, that I just needed to breathe. I tried to no avail. I asked for the OB. She said she was busy. I needed to push. She wouldn't let me. She said my body wasn't ready. But I knew it was.

I tried to advocate for myself. I pressed and pressed to have her break my water. It still hadn't broken, even at nine centimeters.

I don't remember what choice words I used in my delirium from the pain when the OB finally graced us with her presence, but I finally convinced the woman to break my water. Isaac came twenty minutes later. With a bump on his head from sitting in the birth canal for too long. I knew my body. I had known all along.

The birth experience alone gave me PTSD that lasts till this day, but my postpartum period was far scarier than anything I had experienced while pregnant mental health wise.

I won't go into detail for the safety of myself and my readers, but my experiences through pregnancy, birth, and beyond are the reasons why I and my husband have decided I will not be going through another pregnancy.

For the sake of my children and marriage, more babies are not in the cards for me or my family. The quality of life I want to provide for my kids supersedes any societal pressure to have more mouths to feed and bodies to clothe.

As soon as I was able, I met with my gynecologist and started on the pill. I was good for almost two years, but my mom brain took control, causing me to forget the pill more often. This obviously wasn't acceptable due to our family plan, so I recently switched to an IUD for more security.

But the PTSD and anxiety over the potential to get pregnant is still there. I am still traumatized by the grueling pregnancies I suffered despite the beautiful humans that emerged on the other side. I am still terrified, even two years later, of getting pregnant again. So much in fact that I rarely ever want to be touched. After all, birth control isn't one-hundred percent effective. But I'm a married woman who deserves to have a beautiful sex life, who shouldn't be subjected to the idea of celibacy in my monogamous partnership.

Why don't I just get a hysterectomy? Get my tubes tied? Or even removed?

Women's bodies are regulated every which way in America from birth control to tubal ligation to abortion. As a twenty-six-year-old woman who has only had two pregnancies and two children, it would be borderline impossible to find a doctor to perform any lasting surgeries on me. Most doctors and insurances require a woman to either be 35 or have had three or more pregnancies before they would even consider putting a woman under to give them permanent birth control.

Should my IUD fail and I fall pregnant, I would likely get an abortion.

Why?

Because at the end of the day, my children deserve a mother who is mentally fit, alive even, to be there for them. To hold them. To comfort them. To love them.

How would it be fair for my children to lose their mother because some random person who has never spoken to her thought she shouldn't be allowed to get an abortion? That somehow putting her own  mental health and her children's quality of life above a pregnancy is grounds to be labeled a baby killer?

Words hurt. They cut like knives.

These faceless women being cast aside for terminating their pregnancies were handed an impossible choice. More often than not, a woman doesn't want to get an abortion. It's the last resort. But many have only allowed ignorant judgment to reign.

Choice isn't about loving or promoting abortion. It's simply allowing a woman full autonomy over her body, knowing what is right for her and the circumstances in which she finds herself.

I have never had an abortion, nor do I ever hope to be faced with a decision to have one performed. But I do hope that my story can shed some light on the matter, and maybe open up someone's heart to be filled with compassion for the impossible, painful lived experiences of women who have ever considered or had an abortion.

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