The ability to choose to and then have an abortion has changed the course of three generations of my family. It has been inextricably linked to my immigration story, and foundational to my ability to become a mother. And last year I helped a teenager access an abortion who was living in a state without abortion access. She was part of my chosen family and was the reason friends and strangers in my life came together to confront the many challenges of navigating an abortion in a post-Dobbs United States.
I immigrated to the United States from Colombia when I was 3 years old. I came with my mother, my brother and my father. We arrived in Los Angeles without community or family, but like the generations before me, we had an unwavering grit and determination to build a life full of possibilities as a family of four.
Life was hard. Culture shock, loneliness and poverty almost crushed us. In the face of all these structural and interpersonal barriers, my mother was clear-eyed. For her, our future belonged in the United States. My father was not as strong as she was and about three months after immigrating, he abandoned us. He left my mom with only $200, no family, no connection to the country and a broken heart. We didn’t speak English. We were cut off from everything we knew. But my mother’s resolve and love built our path to survival. She did what millions of immigrants have done before her – she made miracles happen every day.
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Like a seemingly relentless cascade of challenges, after the shock of my father's abandonment wore off, my mother found out that she was pregnant. She was already caring for two young children who had been abandoned by their father. She was distraught about the abandonment, but finding out she was pregnant almost destroyed her.
My mother was raised Catholic. She never imagined she would have an abortion. But looking into the confused eyes of her two young children, she knew that the circumstances were dire. For my mother, keeping me and my brother alive and cared for meant being present for us.
Her abortion was her way to survive and, by extension, ensure that I could, too. It was a pivotal moment in my life and will always be part of me, a piece of my story – of coming to this country, of finding the tools to survive. Learning about my mother’s abortion, and how essential it was for our family, shaped my understanding of reproductive rights and the power of choice.
Thirty years after my mother’s abortion, I was in my own doctor’s office pregnant. My partner and I were there to hear the heartbeat of our first child. I was equal parts excited and apprehensive about being a first-time mom. I remember the warm jelly being rubbed on my belly and the anticipation of this first glimpse of my future child.
That giddy anticipation quickly turned to anxiety. I can recall the concerned look on the doctor’s face, but the rest is a blur. I don’t remember what the doctor said. I don’t even remember if there was a heartbeat. I just know that I was sent home for an excruciating weekend of waiting. Waiting to find out what was wrong with my pregnancy. Waiting to be told that the pregnancy wasn’t viable.
On Monday, the doctor told me I had a choice. There would be no way for me to carry this pregnancy to term. I could let my body miscarry the embryo on its own, which could take up to a few weeks, or I could get an abortion the following day. I knew right away I wanted an abortion. I knew, just like my mother three decades ago, that I could make the choice that was right for me and my family.
The pain of losing a wanted pregnancy was searing, but having the agency to terminate the pregnancy how I wanted allowed me to heal and, ultimately, to try again when I was ready. It took about eight months for me to get pregnant again.
I am forever grateful I was able to have a medication abortion in the comfort of my home, with the love of my community supporting me. I was able to manage the pain of that loss on my own terms.
As a result, I was able to experience the joy of becoming pregnant again without unnecessary trauma. My beautiful baby boy came into this world more than a decade ago. His life and my life, as a mother and as a child, were connected to the agency that I had and that my mother had before me.
For both me and my mother, we had legal and material access to abortion. We chose abortion at a time when it was legal in every state.
Legality doesn’t always coincide with access in a country that so often makes life impossible for poor and marginalized people. But as challenging as it was to access abortion before the Supreme Court’s decision in Dobbs v. Jackson Women's Health Organization in 2022, today it is even worse. According to the Guttmacher Institute, 14 states have total abortion bans, three states ban abortion after six weeks and seven states ban abortion at or before 18 weeks’ gestation.
And it is in this landscape where the third story of abortion in my life happened.
I met Romina (not her real name) when she was 8 years-old. I watched her grow from a timid child into a curious, sweet and somewhat rebellious teenager. Like so many young people who immigrate with their parents, Romina had a tremendous amount of responsibility placed on her shoulders at a young age. She found escape and comfort in a young man and got pregnant. She was younger than 15, and she was terrified.
Romina wanted an abortion. Her mother fully supported her decision. The dreams of immigrant mothers are no different from the dreams of all mothers. All mothers want their children to live a better life than theirs, to give them the opportunity to fulfill their hopes and dreams. But they lived in a state with one of the most extreme abortion bans in the country.
Romina reached out to me for help accessing an abortion, and I was determined to make it happen.
In a post-Roe v. Wade world, I knew I couldn’t help Romina alone. Getting Romina an abortion was going to require a large community. After consulting with many lawyers, we decided the safest legal route was to have Romina leave her home state, along with her mother, so she could have an abortion in another state, many miles away.
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Whereas I was able to access abortion with ease with just my doctor and partner present, it took 21 people to help Romina access the abortion that she wanted and that her mother supported. Some of those people were my best friends and others were total strangers. Together we were lawyers, community organizers, doctors, neighbors, artists, mothers, daughters, caretakers, queer people – these were the people who made up Romina’s community of care.
I can’t help but think about what would have happened if my mother were in Romina’s position. My mother didn’t know even one person, let alone 21.
Stories like Romina's highlight the critical need for accessible and safe abortion care. The landscape of reproductive rights is increasingly under threat, with many states enacting stringent bans, exacerbating disparities in access. Yet, amid these challenges, our collective efforts demonstrate the resilience of communities in supporting individuals' autonomy.
As a storyteller, I often think of the millions of families who can trace a thread of connectedness through their experiences of abortion. So many family histories are linked together by abortion. Some of those stories we pass down; some we never know.
I am who I am because of my mother. I found strength in her resolve and love – things she could give me because she was able to manage her reproductive health and future. I, in turn, was able to manage mine and as a mother, pull together a community of people to protect Romina’s.
Paola Mendoza is a film director, activist and co-author of "Together We Rise," "Sanctuary" and the forthcoming book "SOLIS." A co-founder of the Women’s March, she served as its artistic director. Her writing has appeared in The New York Times, Huffington Post, Glamour, Elle and InStyle. Paola is a co-founder of The Resistance Revival Chorus, The Soze Agency and The Meteor.
