In 2022, just a few months after Roe v. Wade was overturned, I had a miscarriage. But my story didn’t begin with politics. It began with confusion, pain—and ultimately, gratitude.
Earlier that year, I had been told I was in perimenopause. At 42, I accepted that phase of life with a quiet understanding. Pregnancy felt like a closed chapter. So when I suddenly found myself in excruciating pain and bleeding heavily, I assumed it was just part of getting older—something hormonal, maybe even expected.
But it wasn’t. I was in the early second trimester and miscarrying a pregnancy I didn’t even know existed.
The bleeding became so severe that the hospital staff had to ask for my blood type. I was rushed into an emergency D&C. In that moment, there was no time for debate—only quick, compassionate action. I survived because of a doctor and his dedicated team in rural South Georgia who did exactly what they were trained to do.
In the weeks that followed, the care didn’t stop. The aftercare was just as compassionate and thoughtful. My doctor didn’t make assumptions—he gave me options. I was given space to decide what came next: let nature take its course with age, consider an ablation, or even a hysterectomy. The choice was mine, and that mattered deeply.
I share this not to push a political narrative, but to shine light on the space that so many of us live in—the quiet middle ground. In a time when fear and extremes dominate the conversation, my story was one of nuance, respect, and humanity.
Yes, I’ve heard the fears that echo through communities like mine. That doctors might hesitate. That women might be denied care. And while I know some of those fears are rooted in truth, I also know what happened to me.
There were no delays, no judgment, just a team of professionals who saw me, cared for me, and trusted me with my own decisions.
There’s so much noise right now. But sometimes, the most important thing we can do is share the truth of our own experience, not to argue, but to remind others that grace, compassion, and patient-centered care still exist, even in the most rural corners of our country.
This happened. I’m still here. And I’m endlessly grateful.