The Abortion That Almost Killed Me—And God's Grace That Healed Me
I remember the suffocating air inside the cramped waiting room. It was overflowing with women like me, faces etched with worry, eyes avoiding contact. Partners, some supportive, others visibly shaken, had no choice but to sit on the floor. My heart raced, already burdened with shame, guilt, and uncertainty. Outside, protestors screamed words that pierced my soul, telling us we were condemned to hell. It took every ounce of courage just to cross that threshold.
In Kentucky, abortion was legal up to 11 weeks at that time. I was 10 weeks and 6 days along, right on the brink. Every moment felt rushed, frantic, final. A two-minute conversation with a therapist confirmed that this decision was mine alone, and then I was moved quickly to an ultrasound room. My heart shattered as the technician turned the screen. There were my baby's legs, arms, and a flickering heartbeat—fragile, vulnerable, alive. My eyes filled with tears as I swallowed the first pill, sealing our fate.
They slipped me out the back door like a shameful secret. The drive home with my then-husband was painfully silent, both of us lost in thoughts that neither could bear to voice. Hours later, at home, I inserted the second pill, praying it would all be over soon. But the pain that followed was excruciating, gut-wrenching—unlike anything I'd ever known. I bled and cramped, my body convulsing in agony. I thought that was the end of my ordeal, but life had more pain in store.
Two weeks later, I woke to a sharp, debilitating pain that left me breathless. My best friend rushed me to the nearest hospital, ironically across state lines in Indiana. The diagnosis was terrifying: retained fetal tissue had triggered sepsis. My organs were shutting down, my body turning against itself.
But what should have been immediate medical care became a nightmare. Abortion was illegal there, and doctors refused to perform the lifesaving DNC. One nurse, compassion heavy in her voice, whispered she'd pray for me before sending me home. Those words echoed hollowly, offering little comfort as I faced weeks of unbearable physical and emotional torment. For two months, I survived on antibiotics, barely holding onto life, fighting through pain I didn't know a human could endure.
Eventually, my body healed—but my soul was left scarred. The weight of grief pressed heavily upon me, drowning me in shame, regret, and sorrow. My decisions haunted every waking moment. I was trapped in a relentless cycle of self-loathing, believing forgiveness was impossible.
But God had different plans.
In the depths of my darkest moment, His grace found me. Slowly, painfully, I began a journey toward sobriety, clarity, and redemption. Recovery taught me that healing isn't linear; it’s messy, challenging, and raw. Each day I leaned deeper into faith, God whispered truths that I desperately needed to hear: that I was loved, worthy, and forgiven. His grace wrapped around my brokenness, mending me piece by painstaking piece.
Through the haze of addiction recovery and mental anguish, I discovered a God who never left my side. He saw every hidden tear, heard every unspoken regret. And instead of judgment, He met me with compassion, strength, and relentless mercy. My mistakes, no matter how painful or permanent, could never separate me from His love.
Today, though the grief remains, it no longer consumes me. I've learned that healing doesn’t erase the past—it transforms it. My story, though dark and difficult, now shines a light for others trapped in silence, shame, and regret. Through sobriety and faith, I've reclaimed my life, standing firmly in the promise that God's grace is sufficient—even for me.
I share my experience not because it's easy, but because truth has the power to set us free. If you're lost in guilt, pain, or regret, know you're not alone. Healing is possible. Grace is abundant. Your story isn't over yet; let God's love rewrite your ending.
