Abortion: When Can I Grieve?
Part IV of IV in the series - Abortion: Refocusing the Conversation with Judgment-Free Compassion
My goal for this four-part series is to encourage us to step away from the political, religious, and legal battles over abortion and consider the impact our discourse and political efforts have had on women who have either had an abortion or found themselves navigating life as a single mother. Thank you to the women who have shared their stories with me over the past four years. I hope my words honor the often wrenchingly painful stories. I am grateful for those who have supported me in healing and writing this series—both men and women. May we always choose to lead with non-judgmental compassion.
If you have not read the first three posts in this series, it will be helpful to do so! You can locate the entire series here!
The question being addressed in this post:
“Will I be encouraged (or allowed) to grieve the loss of my child?”
Women who sit in pews hiding their stories of abortion seldom feel that they have permission to grieve. Every assumption about abortion within church cultures stands in the way of it. In direct and indirect ways, women receive the message that grieving a lost child does not include a child lost through abortion. They are told directly or indirectly:
That her baby was unwanted and they have no right to grieve.
That they chose to abort their baby and they have no right to grieve.
That the only legitimate grief is the grief of repentance.
In all of my years in the church, I have no memory of women who lost a child through abortion being recognized on Mother’s Day. If by chance this does occur in some churches, I wonder if the underlying assumption might be that their grief would be more about their guilt—which requires continuing repentance—than the loss of a child.
In the interviews, two of the women began answering one of the questions by saying, “I know I don’t have any right to grieve, but . . .” When I asked why they felt this was true, they simply stared at me. Both women deeply wanted the baby that—for different reasons—they could not keep. And for decades, they believed they had no right to grieve.
Many organizations that provide help for women as they heal from abortions include practices that encourage women to grieve their lost children. I spent a significant amount of time searching through these organizations’ websites and the programs I found that all—in some way—included the necessity of repentance. It seemed that, without repentance, there was no path to grieve.
As I began to understand the stories of the women I interviewed, there was little reason for repentance—no reason at all in most cases. Their stories were so different from the narratives I had been told about abortion. Even in stories that might have called for repentance in some way, much of the situation and circumstances were beyond their control.
While it may not be true for all women, the women I interviewed all had a backstory of childhood trauma or neglect. Much of the pain in their stories revolved around a distorted view of their younger self— much like survivors who experienced childhood trauma. They were sure they could have made different choices or were somehow responsible for the situation.
It seemed difficult for them to recognize how their difficult childhood experiences may have caused them to be vulnerable and unable to establish boundaries, especially if their story included childhood sexual abuse. Few had connected the dots between their childhood experiences and their behaviors or choices as they entered adulthood.
The condemnation of a younger self can prevent healing. It is almost impossible to grieve a loss for which one feels responsible. Sadly, their judgmental feelings toward themselves were repeatedly affirmed in church settings. In addition, the assumptions placed on the abortion stories of these women often prevented them from making sense of themselves and engaging in the process of healing.
How sad, that in the worthy pursuit of working to save the lives of babies, we have trapped women in silent suffering. As the research I have shared in this series shows, most who break their silence meet shame instead of non-judgmental compassion. It is common for me to hear, “I did share and I wish I had not.”
There is a better way. If we could only pause our assumptions and judgment long enough to understand the stories of women who have been silenced, we would gain a wealth of wisdom about what could make a difference in the lives of young women who face similar decisions. We could be the safe space that allows women to grieve.
My Personal Reflection
(See below for a personal statement and caution concerning sexual abuse content.)
Fifty years after I lost my first child through an abortion, my subconscious finally accepted that the baby was gone. In my silence, I had neither accepted nor grieved the loss. I looked at my therapist and sobbed, “The baby is gone!” At that moment, fifty years of unresolved grief erupted from deep inside of me.
To help myself process the massive load of grief, I joined a poetry class offered by the poet, Susan Frybort (whose Substack and book I highly recommend). Along with the therapist who walked me through the waves of grief that I had held for so long, Susan demonstrated non-judgmental compassion as I expressed my grief through poetry.
My thoughts are included below along with a poem written for the course.
Would I prefer to have a grown child in my life? Yes, just like any other woman who loses a child through miscarriage or stillbirth. An unexpected pregnancy is not the same as an unwanted baby.
Women have been led to believe they have no right to grieve for a child lost through abortion. Grief doesn’t ask permission; it exists whether or not we acknowledge it. It lives in our bodies and ignoring or pushing it aside prevents us from healing. Embracing the grief of our loss brings us hope for healing. And so, almost fifty years later, I finally began to grieve.
I began with a name. Every child deserves a name. I had always felt the baby was a boy. I chose a name that was partly me and partly the ashes of the child I wanted—Ashtyne. The “t” in the center has had many meanings as I processed but it symbolizes grace in the middle of the trauma that separated me from my child.
The author, Anne Lamott describes deep grief by saying “I just had to lie in the mud with my arms wrapped around myself, eyes closed, grieving, until I didn’t have to anymore.” One day, while holding myself in the mud of grief, I felt God walking toward me alongside someone I instantly recognized. I knew it was Ashtyne; he had my smile. We began talking as I wrote. . .
I saw him then, smiling a greeting, he came. He’d always lived but never been, I greeted Ashtyne by name, I carried his ashes, in memories of deep shame. Born in betrayal that crushes, he died without a name. Did he know my sorrow? I longed to keep him as mine! Yes, he did know. "It was a mountain too high to climb.” “I like my name,” Ashtyne said with a smile “From ashes, I came, To sit with you awhile.” I hung my head. "I had much fear but little fight The choice was taken, never had, to be rid of you, to him seemed right.” “Ah, but now you gave me a name, no more daily death and dread. We will one day meet again, there’s no more tears to shed.” “I’ll know your smile, it looks exactly like mine. Until then, I’ll walk the miles, through my words, hope will shine.” I watched my child-man glide away, waving fondly as he went. Heaven grew closer on that day, when grace to me was sent.
Hope came walking in the form of a poetic conversation with the child I lost the day of the abortion. The only way to resolve grief is to sit in it long enough for hope to appear. Without grief, it is impossible to heal. The spiritual bypass of self-loathing condemnation and repentance never reaches our deepest wounds.
As I listened to the women during interviews, some shared similar grieving processes that seemed to be God’s grace fighting through the judgment, guilt, and denial of our right to grieve. The stories were wrenching and beautifully filled with grace. We ended the conversations knowing that we had been honored by sitting together in a healing space of non-judgmental compassion
It is only in deeply understanding, healing, and sharing my story that my life has been transformed. Women’s voices are important because of our stories, not despite them. The church has silenced us and deprived itself of the strength and wisdom of our voices. What a tragic loss.
The comment option is turned off on this post, but if you would like to discuss the content or ask to share your story, you can message me!
Personal Note and Trigger/Dysregulation Caution: This series is informed by my personal story and therapeutic work to un-layer the shame imposed on my traumatized nineteen-year-old self who was groomed, sexually abused, and coerced into having an abortion. Trauma is the ongoing impact of a traumatic event—specifically when support is unavailable. This ongoing impact on my life will be the focus of the personal reflections that are included.