Why do discussions about bodily autonomy always seem to center around women? At 24, I faced an unexpected pregnancy and chose to have an abortion. I was infatuated with my best friend, who was more captivated by drugs than by our relationship. I convinced myself that I could navigate our friends-with-benefits arrangement, despite knowing deep down that I wanted more.
I became pregnant, despite being on the pill. He didn’t want a child, but due to his strict religious upbringing, he opposed the idea of an abortion as well. I was not in a situation to raise a child, and I realized that being tied to him for life would be a monumental mistake. I didn’t need to explain this to him, as he vanished, leaving me to face the situation alone. I managed to gather the $200 needed for the procedure, and my sister accompanied me to the clinic. I didn’t hear from him again for years; we never spoke of it.
He didn’t experience any of the weight of that decision. He didn’t have to find a clinic, undergo a consultation, or sit in solitude when they confirmed my pregnancy. He didn’t have to support himself with a sedative while I lay on the table, staring at a Monet poster that would haunt my memory forever. He didn’t feel the tears on his face as my sister held my hand through the process.
He didn’t have to endure any of that.
He wasn’t there in the recovery room, surrounded by women of all ages, one of whom looked no older than 13 and was repeatedly vomiting. He didn’t ride home with me, stifling emotions while the Halloween festivities unfolded around us. He didn’t have to grapple with the physical aftermath or ponder whether he would ever be able to conceive again. All he did was create a situation and then vanish.
Being a woman is heavy. The world is heavy, filled with burdens that we carry.
When a woman gets pregnant, the blame often falls on her. She should have used better birth control or ensured her partner wore a condom. But once pregnancy occurs, the narrative flips — suddenly, she has no say in what happens next. Why is that?
In heterosexual relationships, a woman cannot become pregnant without a man’s involvement. He is a crucial participant in the process. Yet, women have historically borne the brunt of contraceptive responsibility, largely due to the pill. We still lack a male equivalent, as trials have shown that men struggle to handle the side effects that women routinely endure. While women face risks like blood clots and mood swings, concerns about diminished libido in men have thwarted the development of male contraceptives.
We protect men while enforcing total accountability on women regarding pregnancy. A viral tweet highlighted this absurdity, pointing out that a woman can only produce one pregnancy, while a man can contribute to multiple. So why is the focus solely on regulating women’s bodies?
In response to restrictive abortion laws, a Georgia lawmaker proposed the “Testicular Bill of Rights,” suggesting bans on vasectomies and mandatory paternity tests when a woman is six weeks pregnant. While this was intended as a critique, it highlighted how men’s reproductive choices are rarely scrutinized. Critics quickly noted that preventing pregnancy and preventing childbirth are not the same, but in reality, they are intricately linked.
Society has normalized the regulation of women’s bodies to the point where it hardly raises an eyebrow. We have states pushing back to a time before Roe v. Wade, when women’s lives were at risk due to lack of access to safe abortions. Yet, any suggestion of regulating male reproductive choices is dismissed as impractical or humorous. Why is that?
I have undergone two cesarean sections, one of which was an emergency. I developed a hernia that still causes me discomfort years later, and I wanted these children. Imagine forcing a man to endure such bodily changes. It’s unthinkable.
For 20 years, I hesitated to share my abortion story, burdened by a culture that equates morality with personal choices. Even after five years of infertility, a voice in my head whispered that I had squandered my chance. This internalized pressure stems from the subtle aggressions women face daily, not from any genuine belief in moral failing. Abortion is not a moral issue; it’s about bodily autonomy.
Men share equal responsibility for pregnancies, and if women’s bodies are to be regulated, so should men’s. If you oppose abortion, consider the thousands of children in foster care or those who go hungry — it’s easy to ignore those issues too.
In summary, the conversation surrounding reproductive rights must shift to include men’s responsibilities as well. For further information about home insemination, visit Intracervical Insemination. For authoritative insights, check out Make a Mom and Facts About Fertility.