Throughout my childhood, my mom drove me thousands of miles through North Carolina, South Carolina, Georgia, Alabama and Florida—giving up weeknights and long weekends to eat Panera Bread, sleep in hotels, and watch girls’ youth soccer.
It was in that passenger seat I knew so well where I sat nervously at 15, asking my mom about birth control. I felt comfortable enough to ask for contraceptives, confident that I could obtain them, and blissfully ignorant of the thought that an unwanted pregnancy could one day kill me. As I turned down the radio with sweaty palms, I was concerned with being late to practice and how my mom would react—not my right to exist in the world free of sex discrimination, or my rights to privacy and equal protection.
I am concerned with those things now.