When I was in my 20’s, I met my “forever man”. He already had a child, and I figured, as our relationship grew, in time he would want one of our own together. We dated solidly for two years, and I become pregnant.  I was excited but scared. At this time, coming from a Catholic family, I knew it was frowned upon before marriage. I had a great job in real estate, and my boyfriend also worked a good job. I thought we were ready, but he did not. I remember when I anxiously sat in his truck in front of his home he shared with his brothers, As I began to tell him, he looked at me and said, “You’re not having it.”  He walked out of the truck, slammed the door, and walked inside of his house. I sat in the truck crying and felt so lonely. As I tried to compose myself to walk through the front door to gather my things, he did not say one word to me, not even a goodbye. Some days passed by, and he kept making it very apparent that I needed to make the appointment to get it taken care of.  He made sure I made the appointment. 

The day of, I was dropped off and then picked up after the procedure. The procedure was sterile, non-relational, painful, and tragic. I left feeling so empty and ashamed. That day, my boyfriend let me stay at his house for a few hours to rest.  Then, I had to go, and he broke up with me. I now felt worse than I ever could feel. 

I fell into the darkest depression one could have, fueling my hurt and the deep hole with cocaine, alcohol, and marijuana. Eventually, I became violent and fought with any girl that would look at me the wrong way. I was sexually active and had a drive to hurt people, because I was hurting. I was dumb enough to go back to my ex and got pregnant again by him. This time he had told me, “You better take of this, because you and I aren’t even a thing.”  So, I made the appointment and drove myself but asked him to help me pay for it.  He declined, saying I should have taken better care of my birth control. Seriously? “Don’t have sex with me then,” was my argument back. 

After this abortion, I was done for.  I had zero feelings, did not care for anyone or anything.  All I thought about was my two babies, who I selfishly had killed. My whole being was shook. I kept this to myself for years. I hurt every single day, and I would cry in pain of the loss of my two babies. I wondered if they were two boys or two girls or one of each. I didn’t give them a chance, all because someone else’s approval mattered to me at that time. 

Years later, after I met my real FOREVER MAN, my husband, who is an amazing man of God, we got married.  We were having our first baby, I did not tell him about my previous lifestyle and the abortions I had. We had our baby boy and went on to have another child two years later, this time a baby girl. When I was six months pregnant with her, the doctors had told us that she would have Down syndrome, and that we should think about aborting. I cried to myself and asked God, “Why?” 

I still at this point did not tell my husband about my previous past.  But we did not think twice about it; we were going to have our baby girl, no matter what was being said.  We knew that we believed in a Mighty God. Before I met my husband, I wasn’t a believer in God, and I wasn’t into religion. It wasn’t until I met my husband and we began to attending church that learned that it’s not about religion—it’s about relationship.