My body. Or is it?

I have been blessed to grow up in a time frame that allowed me to develop personal autonomy. No longer considered the chattel of my father or my husbands, I was free to make my way in the world. Free to speak my mind, to pursue fulfilling work, and yet there was one last hurdle. Control of my womb.

In the 60s, we girls knew what it meant when one of us disappeared for a year. We knew the dark alley route to dirty coat hangers in Mexico that some of our friends were forced to risk. We knew that no matter the circumstances, pregnancy meant an end to life as we knew it, a cost born only by us, often for an act that was not of our choosing.

Roe vs Wade, made law in 1973, changed the narrative for millions of women. No longer forced to suffer an unwanted union of sperm and egg, we were able to decide for ourselves, when and where to raise a family.

Our bodies. Our choices.

My body. My choice.

The change in the landscape also carried an understanding that we could say no, could mean no, to unwanted male advances, and a court of law would support and acknowledge the definition of that word.

Where are we now? It seems, back in the dark ages, in a world where legislative agencies have decided what? That we women were too uppity? Too vocal? Too powerful? What better way to yoke the wild animal than with a harness and a chain.

The argument of when life begins is interpretive, varies across cultures and religions. There is not a universal standard. The right-to-lifers want us to believe that a woman’s life is not worth more than a fetus that she might carry. Her life subservient, secondary, to a potential life. If I were my friend were to miscarry, would that make her a murderer? The absurdity can extend infinitely outward.

Our first inhale. Our last exhale.

My life. My body. My choice.