Before the 1973 Roe v. Wade U.S. Supreme Court decision that legalized abortion in all states, I was pregnant at almost 17. I had a serious boyfriend—my first real love—but I was a mess: I was addicted to drugs and emotionally unstable. Because of my economic privilege, I was able to travel with my mother to New York for a legal abortion. I broke up with my boyfriend and thought I would never have sex again. But I did recover, move on with my life and relationships, and later had another abortion.

That pregnancy was ectopic, meaning it was in my fallopian tube. Without treatment, the tube could rupture and put my life in danger. At that time, the care I needed was readily available in North Carolina.

I am now a mother, grandmother, and retired social scientist. I spent a long career focused on addiction and on sexual health and gender in the context of HIV, including women’s reproductive health in economically disadvantaged communities.

Here in the United States, many of us thought we had made strides since the 1970s in supporting young women’s sexual and reproductive health choices. We had advanced better contraceptive options and decreased unintended pregnancies. In North Carolina, teen pregnancy rates declined significantly.

But now we have lost ground: abortion access in NC is generally prohibited after the first 12 weeks of pregnancy, with limited exceptions later in pregnancy, and doctors who perform abortions are stigmatized, with their lives and livelihoods threatened. Unemancipated minors seeking abortion care generally must obtain consent from a parent or another adult authorized under state law, or seek a judicial waiver.

We are at a watershed moment in NC. Our sexual and reproductive rights, particularly for young women, are at risk. Politicians here and across the country jump at the opportunity to take away the right to choose birth control, fertility care, or any reproductive control over our own bodies. Imagine being faced with an ectopic pregnancy that could rupture your fallopian tube and kill you, or being forced to carry a non-viable pregnancy to term. These situations have already happened in NC and around the country—an unacceptable but predictable consequence of mostly male politicians inserting themselves into our exam rooms and personal lives.

Decisions about unintended pregnancies are never easy, no matter the age or circumstance. The vast majority of North Carolinians understand and agree that this is a private matter. It is also an issue of rights and justice for the women who will be disproportionately affected, including Black, Brown, and poor women. History has taught us that in the South, health disparities in maternal mortality and morbidity are severe and ongoing, especially among Black women. Health disparities and personal empowerment are directly shaped by the state of gender equality and by whether women have rights over their own bodies.

We should all be alarmed by the lack of choice in sexual and reproductive healthcare access, which will mean more unintended pregnancies, more preventable deaths from pregnancy complications, and more unsafe abortions. Who will be most affected? As is often the case, those with the least political power—adolescents, women of color, and women raising families in poverty.

We must ask ourselves: are we a conscious and caring community? I know you are, because you are reading this. But we need others to understand what we stand to lose, and we need to hold elected officials accountable for the policies they enact.

As we mark International Safe Abortion Day, I hope we remember that abortion access is not an abstract debate. It shapes real lives, real families, and real futures. My story is one of them.

Wendee M. Wechsberg, Ph.D., M.S.
Board Member, Pro-Choice North Carolina Foundation