Written by Neha Srivastava, Manager – Program Operations & Communications
I grew up knowing about abortion in the way many of us do—vaguely, indirectly, and always wrapped in silence. It wasn’t presented to me as something “wrong,” at least not in a clear, explicit way. And yet, it was a topic that never quite made it to the dinner table. It sat firmly in the category of things that were known, but never discussed. Sensitive. Taboo. Best avoided. That silence does something. It shapes how you feel about a subject without ever openly telling you what to think. My real encounter with the reality of abortion didn’t come from textbooks or campaigns. It came in college, through a whisper. Someone told me—quietly, in hushed tones—that a girl in my hostel had had an abortion. It was framed as gossip, laced with judgment. I don’t remember reacting outwardly. But I remember very clearly what I felt. Not judgment. Not curiosity. Just a deep, sinking awareness of how alone she must have been. I remember thinking about what it must have taken for her to get there—the fear, the confusion, the logistics of it all. Where did she go? Who did she tell? Did she tell anyone at all? Was she scared? We weren’t friends. We barely knew each other. And at that point in my life, I didn’t yet have the emotional clarity or courage to reach out. I stayed where I was—on the outside, observing, feeling, but not acting.
I think about that moment sometimes. And I wish I had done something as simple as checking in. Just to let her know she wasn’t alone in what she was going through.
Because that’s the part we don’t talk about enough—the emotional terrain of abortion.
Abortion is most often discussed in binaries—legal or illegal, safe or unsafe, right or wrong. Policies are debated, laws are amended, and statistics are cited. In advocacy spaces, rightly so, abortion is framed as essential healthcare and a fundamental right. But somewhere between these frameworks, a crucial dimension is often flattened or overlooked: the emotional reality of the person making the decision.
Because beyond the politics and the medicine, abortion is a deeply personal experience. And rarely, if ever, is it emotionally simple.
For many, the journey begins with uncertainty. Even for those who are clear about not wanting to continue the pregnancy, clarity does not cancel out emotion. Fear and confusion can coexist with certainty.
Fear is often the loudest voice at this stage. Fear of judgment. Fear of being found out. Fear of navigating healthcare systems that may not always feel safe or supportive. In contexts where stigma is deeply entrenched, this fear is not abstract—it shapes decisions, delays care, and isolates individuals at a time when support is most needed.Confusion is common—not always about the decision, but about how one is supposed to feel. There’s no single emotional script, yet society often pushes one: either regret or indifference. Reality is far more layered. Relief and sadness can coexist.
Then comes guilt and regret—sometimes internal, often shaped by cultural norms, family expectations, or ideas of what is “acceptable.” Even when someone knows they’re making the right choice, guilt can persist—not because the decision is wrong, but because the environment makes it hard to feel otherwise. Regret is often treated as inevitable, but it isn’t universal or predictable. Some feel it; many don’t.
Then comes guilt and regret—sometimes internal, often shaped by cultural norms, family expectations, or ideas of what is “acceptable.” Even when someone knows they’re making the right choice, guilt can persist—not because the decision is wrong, but because the environment makes it hard to feel otherwise. Regret is often treated as inevitable, but it isn’t universal or predictable. Some feel it; many don’t.
And isolation is perhaps the most defining thread running through this journey. Because even today, abortion is rarely something people feel they can speak about freely. Support systems shrink in the face of stigma. Conversations don’t happen, or happen in whispers. And so, people carry the emotional weight of the decision largely on their own.
As advocates, there is a tendency to normalize abortion—and this is necessary. It is healthcare. It is a right. But normalization should not come at the cost of erasing the emotional depth of the experience. To say that abortion is common is not to say that it is casual.
Holding both truths is essential. It is important to acknowledge this: choosing abortion does not mean the absence of emotion. It means navigating a deeply personal decision within a broader social context that often makes that navigation harder than it needs to be.
And it is why, even as we continue to fight for abortion as a right—and we must make space for more honest, human conversations about what it feels like. Abortion is not just a medical procedure or a legal provision. It is an experience. And like all human experiences, it deserves to be acknowledged in its full complexity.
Because access to abortion is critical. But so is access to empathy. And sometimes, what makes the hardest moments a little more bearable is simply knowing that you are not alone.
