I was an evangelical pro-life hypocrite. Then I had three daughters

When Alabama, Georgia, and Louisiana started passing anti-abortion legislation I remained silent.

As a writer it’s rare that I keep my opinions private, especially when I have something important to say. But while my social media feeds filled with earnest and opposing opinions, I froze. I had so many thoughts about the new legislation, but I was unable to communicate a word about them.

The truth is, I was afraid to reveal a secret that I had been harbouring for years: I’m a former evangelical pro-life hypocrite.

I was born in the late 1980’s, and was raised in the era of Christian purity culture. Kids like me wore pink pro-life shirts that said “I love babies”, and had dog-eared copies of I Kissed Dating Goodbye under their beds. I accepted Jesus into my heart at 11, and spent the summer riding my bike to church, while my single mother worked long weekends to put food on the table. At the time I was a staunch pro-lifer; it was one of the biggest topics on my impressionable preteen mind. I supported pro-life organizations, signed petitions, and wrote impassioned pleas to end abortion.

Then, at 14, I started dating a much older guy. I was the first of my friends to lose my virginity—much to my own personal shame and embarrassment. Despite my strict beliefs, I found it difficult to uphold my values in my own daily life. No matter how many times I prayed, or vowed to do better, my Christian morals were no match for my adolescent desires.

At the time I wasn’t on birth control, because that would be admitting defeat. I didn’t buy condoms, and neither did my Christian boyfriend, because that would mean we weren’t even going to try to resist. Every single time I engaged in premarital sex, I was also engaging in unprotected sex too. I knew that my chances of getting pregnant were high, which is why I kept (what I thought was) a dark and shameful secret.

Without consulting my mom, or anyone else, I frequently visited my local walk-in clinic and was prescribed emergency contraception. This was not a backup or emergency plan, but my only form of birth control. I was 16, popping plan B pills like Tic Tacs, fully aware that my choices were antithetical to my morals and my anti-abortion stance. I was constantly filled with shame—my inability to uphold my values in my daily life condemned me.

I eventually broke up with my boyfriend, but the risky sexual behaviour continued, and so did the guilt. It wasn't until I was married, and had kids of my own, that I began to think more critically. I wasn't able to uphold my values because my values were impossible to uphold. To be pro-life is to view the world as black and white, but there is nothing black and white about the decision to have an abortion. After having three daughters, I felt like the universe was trying to send me a message. I needed to raise my own girls differently, and I didn’t want a life of shame and impossible ideals for them. I started to actively listen to the stories of women who had chosen to have an abortion, and I stopped living in the denial that I was any different when I made my choices as a teen.

It took many years to finally decide that I could no longer call myself pro-life, conservative, or even evangelical. I walked away because I knew that I was a hypocrite not to. I was placing an expectation on women that even I couldn't live up to. I realized that to be anti-abortion was to be anti-woman, because only someone that is anti-woman would place such a heavy and impossible expectation on our bodies and our lives.

Surprisingly, and perhaps ironically, I’ve been married to a pastor for nearly a decade. Together we were able to disengage from a religious culture that didn’t represent who we believe God is. We both still believe in Jesus, because we know that the shame we both felt as teens was the result of a manipulative culture, not a God who operates in the grey area of life.

It’s freeing to finally admit that I chose to take plan B, many times, and I don't regret that choice. That last shroud of shame falls away with the admission and my acknowledgement that it was a good choice, that I was a strong girl for doing what was right.

Today, I support the right of all women to choose whatever they need to choose, because I believe in a world where women have full autonomy over their own bodies. Our world contains countless stories of women, and they all matter. The more I listen to these stories, the more my heart breaks for the impossible situation we’re in. I may live free from the shame that ate away at me as a teen, but I know that we’re far from true freedom for all women—and that’s why my story matters.