My Mom Had a Pre-Roe Abortion. I Interviewed Her About It.

Shortly after the Dobbs decision was handed down in 2022, my mom, now 76, told me her abortion story for the first time. A few months later, she told it publicly at a storytelling and song festival called FemFest in my deeply conservative hometown of Pensacola, FL. Here is my mom Nan Einhart's story, in her words, as told to me.

I grew up in a very small town in Mississippi, in a pretty traditional family with three younger brothers. We were Methodists, but we weren't real religious. Nobody ever talked to me about whether to have sex or not to have sex that I can remember. Once when I was 13, I awkwardly asked my mother some things about sex, and she said "Oh I already told you all that!" Obviously she told me when I was too young and then assumed that was a done deal.

I had sex for the first time when I was 14, and I feel like I was pressured into it by an older boyfriend because I didn't really know what I was doing. When the birth control pill came out in 1960, I wasn't always sexually active, and I didn't always have a boyfriend. But when I did, I was on the birth control pill.

In 1971, I was 23 years old and living in New Orleans with two college friends. I had just finished my master's degree at Tulane, and best of all, my parents were still supporting me. That summer, the travel gods had blessed the US with a $300 roundtrip fare to Europe. So taking a brief pause before setting the world on fire, my roommate Sally and I headed to Italy. I packed my bag with two pairs of jeans, scarves, tees, undies, some paperbacks, my birth control pills, my sanitary supplies, and of course, my copy of Fodor's "Europe on $5 a Day."

After Italy, Germany, Austria, and Switzerland, Sally left, and I continued traveling on my own to realize four important things.

I knew I did not want to be pregnant at this point in my life. There were many reasons, mostly my age and the total stigma attached to such a situation in 1971. I could hide out for the length of the pregnancy and put the baby up for adoption, or I could get married and pretend the 8-pound baby was early. Another thing people did back then is that a woman's mother would pretend it was her child. That was fairly common and kind of an open secret. My grandmother's sister had a baby out of wedlock, and her child was raised as her brother. I also knew people who had had abortions — illegal abortions, because before 1973, it wasn't legal.

For me at that time in my life, I felt like abortion was the only option. My flight back to New Orleans went through New York City, where abortion had been legalized that year — even before Roe — so that was a possibility. But I decided to try to get help in Europe since abortion was so new in New York and besides, I might run into someone I knew. Highly unlikely, but possible.

So I found myself in a foreign country, alone, wanting an abortion. Paris was up next on my planned itinerary, but I knew I could not navigate such a delicate situation in my largely laughable high school French. So I skipped Paris, opting for London. They spoke my language — technically also their language, I guess.

I cannot remember how, but I got the name of a doctor in private practice, and I clutched his address in my hand as I sought his office. Street photographers were a thing in Europe that summer. They would take a photo, and for a small fee, it would be mailed to you. Remarkably, a street photographer captured me as I headed to the doctor's office. My face says it all: I was a woman on a mission.

After an initial caring and thorough visit, the pregnancy was confirmed and a date for the termination was set two days hence. I checked into the homelike and sanitary clinic and had the procedure. I still remember the cup of cocoa they gave me before sending me on my way to my reclaimed life.

At that time, in that place, I felt cared for and safe. There were no protestors, no condemnation, no shame. It was completely unlike what the termination process has become today in the US. But in spite of the relatively smooth experience, it was a secret I kept for 51 years. I never really questioned the decision, but society's judgment has kept me silent.

I never told my roommates or my friends. Eventually, I fell in love and married, and I never told my husband. We had two children together, two children we very much wanted, and I never told them. But now I've told my ex-husband, I've told my children, I've told a roomful of festival attendees in a room so crowded they had to bring in extra chairs, and now I'm telling you.

In October 2022, a friend of mine organized a women's empowerment festival in Pensacola, FL, called FemFest that would feature storytelling and songs. Pensacola, where I have lived for 45 years, is a very conservative town: lots of military and old Southerners and evangelical Christians. But my friend who organized FemFest is very, very liberal, and she's also Christian, and she believes in women's rights — which is possible to do. So I told her that if she needed my abortion story, I would tell it.

I started practicing telling people my story, because I wanted my friends and family to know before the event. The first person I told was a man who, as it turns out, had taken his 15-year-old sister for an abortion because he knew his parents wouldn't. I told one friend who wasn't very supportive, but because she was such a good friend, it felt important to tell her. Then I just kept telling people. I told my children, and they were very supportive. I invited my ex-husband and his wife over for breakfast and I told them.

Perhaps the most gratifying aspect of this secret sharing is that before the event, eight women opened up to me about their abortions. So many people told me that they had had abortions and had never told anybody. It's so common and nobody talks about it.

At FemFest, I ended my performance by saying, "If you want to tell me your story, I'm ready to listen." After the event, I had seven more people reach out to tell me their stories. That was the most heartwarming and rewarding piece of the whole experience. I understood why so many people couldn't tell: it could have been because of their husband's job, or their church, but I think telling me their whole story just helped so many of them. It was a bonding experience. And like my abortion, I know telling my story was the right decision.

Nancy Einhart is the head of content at PS, where she manages the editorial, video, social content, and creative teams. She previously worked at PS from 2006 to 2020, where she served as executive editor and SVP of content, overseeing entertainment and lifestyle creators. Nancy worked from 2020 to 2023 as a content strategy consultant. Before working at PS, Nancy was a senior editor at Time Inc.'s Business 2.0 magazine and a music writer for SF Weekly.