What To Tell Our Daughters

They should be afraid, but never hopeless

My daughter knows that I’ve had two abortions. It’s not something I’ve ever hidden or shied away from, because abortion is nothing to be ashamed of. 

In the same way my husband and I told her about the day we met, or how babies are made, conversations in our house about abortion have always been normalized.

She knows that I ended a pregnancy right before I met her father, and that it was because I wasn’t ready to be a parent. She knows that I had an abortion when she was 3 years-old, even though I desperately wanted another child, because of the risk to my health and life. She knows that she is glad about both of those abortions because without them, she wouldn’t have the life she has now. Without them, she might not exist—or she might not have a mom. 

Even now that Layla is 11 years-old, people find this upsetting—ignoring the horrific irony of believing she’s too young to know about ending a pregnancy but old enough to be forced to carry one.

So when my daughter saw me sobbing yesterday over Roe, she knew why. After offering me a hug and words wiser than most kids her age could muster, she asked a question that broke my heart: “But I’ll be okay, right?” 

She knows that she lives in a state where, for now, abortion rights are protected; she knows that we have the resources to get her the care she needs, a privilege many others don’t have. She knows we have to fight for the people who live in states where abortion has become illegal. 

But that doesn’t mean that she’ll always be okay, and I don’t have it in me to lie to her.

Layla now lives in a country where she will grow up with less rights than her mother and grandmother. In a place where her second-class citizenship has been enshrined by the highest court—her life deemed less important than her potential to carry a pregnancy. 

And while it’s undeniable that the most marginalized among us will be the most impacted by abortion bans—exponentially so, in fact—that does not mean that everyone else is safe. No one is.  

The idea that certain women will always be able to get abortions—something that’s become a common, well-meaning refrain on the left—isn’t just incorrect, but dangerous. It lulls blue state women into a false sense of security, ignores the very real possibility of a national ban, and lends credence to the Republican lie that women will mostly be fine in a post-Roe world. 

We can focus our activist energy on those who need it most without claiming that some women won’t feel the effects of all this. Privilege will make things easier, but it won’t make anyone immune. 

I won’t mislead my daughter about what’s ahead. She was already growing up surrounded by misogyny, in a place where people treat women as less than fully human. Yesterday, her country told her that those people are right. How can our daughters ever feel or be okay when the hatred against them has been codified?

I will tell Layla the truth about abortion today, in the same way I’ve always told her the truth about abortion. And while she may not feel comforted by how at risk we all are and how backwards this country has gone, I will also remind her of this: It is my absolute primal imperative to protect her, and there are few people more tenacious than mothers. 

I will tell her that the people who think they can control her body may have won for now, but that we have determination and the moral high ground. I will tell her that young people know more and fight just as hard as my generation and her grandmother’s did. I will tell her that she has more power than she realizes. 

Most of all, I will tell her to never feel alone. Because she’s not. Our daughters deserve the truth: That they should be scared, but never hopeless. 

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