When I was younger I believed abortion was against my religion. Though I did not understand much, I believed that abortion was not a viable option. Even so, I could not condemn anyone else for making that decision. They were entitled to their beliefs.

Growing up, I witnessed the chasm between pro-life and pro-choice, and my place on the spectrum did not sit well with my church or my liberal friends. My post-Roe V. Wade generation had been raised entrenched on either side of the argument.

I eventually found myself firmly on the choice side of the fence, open to abortion in my own life, but hoping to avoid that decision.

Year after year, I witnessed legislators and judges pass and approve laws eroding Roe V. Wade. Many states banned the use of public money, land and buildings for clinics that offered abortions or for doctors who performed the procedure

Simultaneously, protesters stood outside of my high school with pictures of fetuses and signs damning women to hell who had abortions, calling them whores for being irresponsible. These acts only affirmed my belief in a woman’s right to choose. However, they did not prompt me to take action.

It was only a few weeks ago, when my girlfriend and I stared at the two lines that meant she was pregnant, that I fully understood the ramifications of the national debate. My girlfriend had to go through tests, interviews and ultrasounds all while being harassed by protesters outside of one of only seven clinics in the state of Louisiana. Meanwhile, I went out on Royal Street every day of Spring Break, juggling to come up with the $550 it costs to have an abortion. We waited the mandatory 24-hours, and she took the Mifepristone pill on Good Friday. There was no time to cry. We both knew we were making the decision to end a potential life. The way my girlfriend’s body contorted and the screams of agony that escaped her were reminders of the severity of our decision.

It was also a reminder to me that, although this was a conclusion we had come to together, it was about her. Not only did she have to decide if she wanted to be a mother at this time, but she also had to decide if she wanted me to be the father of her child. It was her body squirming in pain, numbed by Vicodin, forcing a life from inside her.

I could have threatened to leave her if she had an abortion. I could have told her I wouldn’t be there if she kept the child. But I wanted to be a good man. I wanted to support her at a time when she needed me most, and be there for whatever decision she needed to make. I will never fully understand her decision. No man could. No man picketing outside of a clinic, no man in a black robe sitting on a bench, no man positioned on an oversight committee reviewing a bill for reproductive rights could ever possibly understand the decision my partner was faced with.

I regret that by writing this I risk being threatened by people who disagree. I regret that people who profess individual liberty think it is okay in a free country to write out scripts that doctors are required by law to read to women seeking abortions, whether the doctor agrees or not. But I do not regret the decision my partner made. Further, we came to the decision together, but it was her right to decide.

Stewart Sinclair can be reached at [email protected]