I found out I was pregnant in my early 20s. I wasn’t ready to become a parent and knew that I needed an abortion. Ironically, as a young public health student working at a local health clinic, I had no idea how I could navigate the health system or where I could safely seek an abortion. I was unfamiliar with abortion funds, had no health insurance, and almost no money. But I was too afraid to ask for help because of the stigma, judgment, and isolation that I feared would follow. Frankly, I also didn’t know who to ask.
When I needed an abortion, I felt trapped, confused, and alone. Today, as it was for me growing up, it is rare to see South Asians represented among those who have abortions. I didn’t see myself or my community represented in any of the stories I read. I didn’t even see them in the pages of research that I studied for school. How was I supposed to get the abortion that I needed?
As the days ticked by, seven weeks pregnant turned into nine weeks, and nine weeks turned into 11 weeks. I grew more and more scared. I can say from firsthand experience that not obtaining an abortion that you want, when you want, is terrifying.
Finally, in secret and on my own, I safely self-managed my abortion with misoprostol from the clinic where I worked. Having an abortion was the best decision for me; yet, for years, I shrouded my story in silence. I didn’t speak of the stigma that I felt or the barriers that I faced when seeking my abortion. But through conversations and in my work as a researcher, I continued to notice the lack of my group and other Asian groups in the data, discussions, and stories on abortion. It was as though the financial and logistical barriers to abortion that were so well-documented for other groups simply did not exist for Asian Americans. I knew this wasn’t true. Inequities in access to care were only deepening in these communities.
As young women, mothers, and elders, many navigated their abortions as I did: silently and on…
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