A very, very long time ago I made a hugely big-girl decision and put myself on birth control.
I did it even though I was married and he didn’t like it.
I did it even though I was a “natural family planner.”
I did it even though (according to religious doctrine) it was a no no to prevent conception, even though it supposed to be a mutual decision, even though I was supposed to be submissive to my husband’s direction, even though I had more or less committed to having four kids and not just three.
I did it without anyone else’s permission, without anyone else’s input, and without anyone else’s blessing.
Even though I never thought I’d be on birth control again after I stopped to have my first baby, even though I knew for sure I wanted more kids, I did it anyways.
I remember the day I made the decision. I was nervous, excited, kind of sad. I remember the rush of adrenaline that came with putting my foot down, and how much stronger I felt to take responsibility for my sexual identity and reproductive system.
I remember feeling sad, a little, that my body had to be “taken back” from the role of wife-mother-child-bearer, like the name tag I had worn on my chest for so long needed to be changed from all those other things to “Just Erin,” but I ALSO remember how right it felt to have a grain of control over my life and my body.
For the first time ever, on that day I took OWNERSHIP of myself, my destiny, and the trajectory of my life.
For the first time ever, I did something just for me.
My body, my rules, my life.
Sounds selfish, right?