This Is What An Abortion Actually Costs—Not In Dollars, But In Generations.

Every abortion is a tragedy, a story of hopelessness and helplessness. It is a cry of defeat as a woman gives up hope, for fear that she couldn't provide a beautiful life for a child. It is a response to the fear of tomorrow, as a woman falls down under the weight of a burden that she was never meant to carry alone. It is the conclusion to a chapter in a woman's life when, instead of a shout of victory, she releases a cry of defeat. She whispers, "No, I can't," instead of standing up boldly with the words "Yes, I can!" on her lips. It is the end result of the failure of a family, community, and society that, instead of seeing the great value of a treasure, only saw the weight of a burden more precious than gold. It is the echo of a lie that tempts us to cast away our own child, calling pure gold worthless because it is too heavy to carry in the moment. It is the echo of a lie that tempts us to cast away our own child, calling pure gold worthless because it is too heavy to carry in the moment. It is the story of a woman who was entrusted with a priceless treasure that would have required her to empty her hands of everything of lesser value. It is a story of a family and relationship lacking strength, wisdom, fortitude, and vision. It is driven by the fear instilled in the hearts and minds of those who view true wealth as rubble. It is a tragedy where the villain convinces the heroine to trade her inheritance, her treasure, and even her own child for empty promises, defeat, and death. The birth of every child is a declaration of hope and victory. It is the answer to fear with courage. It is the moment when a woman rises under a weight she was never meant to carry alone and discovers she is not alone after all. It is a shout of triumph where there might once have been a whisper of doubt. It is the sound of, "Yes, I can," breaking through the night. It is a family choosing to stand together. It is a community seeing treasure where others might have seen burden. It is society remembering that what feels heavy in the moment may be more precious than gold. It is hands that once felt empty now filled with purpose. It is the courage to release lesser things in order to receive what is priceless. It is the courage to release lesser things in order to receive what is priceless. It is strength growing where weakness once trembled. It is the refuting of a lie, saying, "No! This life matters." It is light exposing the emptiness of false promises and replacing them with breath, heartbeat, and first cries. It is a woman discovering depths of fortitude she did not know she possessed. It is a father stepping forward into responsibility and strength. It is grandparents, siblings, and friends widening their circle to make room for one more soul. It is wealth redefined not in comfort or convenience, but in love, sacrifice, and legacy. It is vision stretching beyond the present moment into generations yet unborn. It is the heroine refusing to trade her inheritance. It is her choosing life, even when the road is steep. It is the turning of a chapter not with defeat, but with glory. The birth of every child is a sunrise after a long night. It is a promise that tomorrow is still worth believing in. It is heaven's quiet reminder that hope is never wasted. It is a tiny hand wrapped around a mother's finger, and a future unfolding in her arms. It is a promise that tomorrow is still worth believing in. When I wrote that poem, I was not writing theory. I was writing from memory, from family stories, from moments that shaped how I understand life, loss, and the extraordinary weight of saying yes when fear says no. I have come to believe that every child represents more than a single life. Every child is a branch that continues a story we cannot yet see. When we speak about choosing life, we are speaking not only about the present moment, but about generations that will either exist or disappear based on one decision made in a moment of hardship. That understanding has grown slowly in me over many years, through both joy and sorrow. I have always seen children as a gift, even when their arrival comes surrounded by difficulty. Some children came to me through birth. Others entered our family through adoption. Each one expanded my understanding of what it means to be a life giver. Adoption, especially, taught me that love is not limited to biology. Family is built through commitment, sacrifice, and the willingness to say yes to someone's future when their beginning has been uncertain. One of the most personal examples of this happened soon after we adopted one of our daughters. Not long after joining our family, she experienced a teen pregnancy. The timing was overwhelming, and suddenly she was facing a situation that many people around her saw only as a problem to be solved. The voices around her were strong. People encouraged her to end the pregnancy. They framed it as the easier option, the practical solution, the way to regain control of her future. But we stood beside her. And she chose life. When we speak about choosing life, we are speaking not only about the present moment, but about generations that will either exist or disappear based on one decision made in a moment of hardship. Watching her make that choice transformed all of us. The child who came from that difficult moment did not destroy her future. That child brought depth, purpose, and love that no one could have predicted in the beginning. After suffering so much trauma and childhood loss, my daughter's own child brought unexpected healing, hope, and a reason to fight that she didn't know she had in her. My understanding of this courage comes partly from my own experience with loss. Years ago, I was pregnant with twins. During that pregnancy, I experienced severe bleeding and was rushed to the emergency room. It was frightening and disorienting. The doctors were focused on stopping the bleeding quickly and urged me to take abortion pills to end the pregnancy immediately, believing it would protect my life. But they could not show me that my babies were already gone. I remember that moment vividly. I felt weak, scared, and pressured to make a decision quickly. But something deep within me resisted taking their lives into my own hands without certainty. I refused the medication. The outcome was physically devastating. I lost a dangerous amount of blood and eventually required two blood transfusions. My babies passed naturally. I carry the grief of losing them, but I also carry a profound peace. I know their lives ended in their own time, not by my decision. That peace matters deeply to me. I also came to understand the intense pressure and feeling that there is no other choice, when a pregnant woman faces a choice like the one I had to make. I had to believe that the doctor had what it takes to save me, without asking me to end the lives of my babies. But the doctor didn't offer me that perspective. He walked out of the hospital room angry and frustrated, and I had to request a different doctor. Those experiences shaped how I view every unplanned pregnancy. What looks impossible in the moment is not the end of the story. With support, what feels like the heaviest burden can become something priceless. This understanding reaches even farther back in my family history. My great grandparents immigrated from Bohemia many years ago. Like so many immigrants, they began with very little. They worked in the meat packing district in Greenwich Village, New York, plucking chickens and doing whatever they could to survive. Eventually, they decided they wanted something better for their children. They left the city and pioneered a new life in Nebraska. They built a sod house on open land and began raising their family there. Life was hard, but they believed in the future. They had five children, and then tragedy struck. My great grandfather died suddenly in an accident at work, leaving my great grandmother a widow. She was also pregnant. She faced the future alone, with five children already depending on her and another baby on the way. I think often about what that moment must have felt like. Fear. Exhaustion. Uncertainty. The pressure to survive. If she had been living in the modern world, the voices of choice might have told her that ending the pregnancy would be practical. They might have told her it would make life easier. They might have explained it as a way to lighten her burden. But she saw that child as a gift. Because she said yes, an entire future existed that otherwise never would have. She chose to carry that pregnancy, and she raised those children in a sod house, supporting them by taking in laundry and baking sweet potato pies to sell. She did whatever it took. The baby she carried during her widowhood became my grandfather. And because she said yes, an entire future existed that otherwise never would have. My grandfather grew into a remarkable man. He became a well known oil painter, a shipwright, a master gardener, and an inventor. He lived with courage and curiosity. After suffering a heart attack later in life, he underwent what our family remembers as a groundbreaking quadruple bypass surgery. According to the stories passed down, his doctors told him it would only be possible if he stayed awake and cooperated with the movements needed during the procedure. It was considered a significant moment in medical history at the time. He endured it with extraordinary bravery. He lived a life of creativity, intelligence, and resilience, and his descendants today include dozens of uniquely talented people excelling in the arts and sciences. All of that existed because one widow living in hardship chose life. When I think about this, I realize that decisions made in moments of fear do not end with one person. They reach forward into the future. When someone chooses to end a life because of present hardship, it is not only one child that disappears. Entire generations disappear with them. Gifts the world might have received simply never arrive. This is why I see children as treasure. An unplanned pregnancy may feel like the worst case scenario in the moment. Fear narrows our vision. It convinces us there is no way forward. But with family, community, and support, that same situation can become something entirely different. It can be an inheritance more valuable than anything we could have planned for ourselves. Many people who have changed the world began their stories unplanned or unwanted. Somewhere along the way, a woman of courage said yes. The poem speaks about this when it describes the heroine refusing to trade her inheritance. That inheritance is not only the child she carries, but the generations that will follow. It is love multiplying in ways we cannot measure yet. Decisions made in moments of fear do not end with one person. The longer I live, the more convinced I am that life giving is one of the most courageous acts a person can choose. It is not easy. It asks us to sacrifice comfort and sometimes certainty. But it also fills our hands with purpose. I have watched young mothers tremble with fear and then grow into strength they never knew they possessed. I have seen families widen their circles and discover that love expands when we make room for one more. Every child is a sunrise after a long night. Every birth is a declaration that hope is still alive. And every time someone says yes to life, the future opens in ways no one can fully predict. Children are not interruptions to our story. They are the continuation of it.