“I Got Pregnant in School and Almost Died Losing It”

It was my very first-time having sex. I had been with my boyfriend for two years, and all that time he never pressured me. He was patient, calm, always saying he would wait until I was ready.

The first night, I finally felt like I was. The first round, he used a condom, but during the second, he didn’t. He said he would pull out, and when it happened, he did, on my stomach.

The next morning, I thought about getting a post pill. My whole body urged me to, but fear held me back. I felt like everyone could see me, like “I just had sex” was written across my forehead.

I kept imagining people whispering, someone recognizing me at the pharmacy, someone calling my parents. The thought alone terrified me. So, I didn’t go. Instead, I followed what people said worked, Sprite mixed with salt. I drank it and prayed it would be enough.

Weeks passed, and everything seemed normal until I missed my period.

At first, I brushed it off. My cycle was never regular anyway, so I told myself it was nothing. But then small changes started creeping in. I got tired all the time, slept longer than usual, and found myself getting upset over the smallest things.

Still, I didn’t take pregnancy seriously, not until my roommate cracked a joke.

“Ada, why are you acting like this? Are you pregnant?”

I froze. My heart sank. That was the first time it truly hit me that I could be pregnant. I burst into tears on the spot. My roommate panicked, quickly shut the door, and hugged me, whispering for me to keep my voice down. She held me close as I cried, assuring me it wasn’t the end of the world.

We got a test, and it confirmed it. For one moment, I thought about telling my parents. But then I imagined it, my father would stand in the living room, his face hard, his voice sharp like a whip. He would shout, say that I had disgraced him. “You have brought shame to this family!”

I saw him pointing at the door, ordering me out, telling me never to return. In that same picture, my mother stood in the corner, crying, not for me, but for herself, embarrassed before the church, before her friends, before the world. And me, standing there with my belly growing, nowhere to go.

In that moment, I knew: if I told them, I was finished.

So, I told my boyfriend instead. I expected him to be afraid, or supportive at least. Instead, he blamed me. He called me careless, mocked me, even said I wasn’t behaving like a “modern babe.” His words cut deeper than my fear.

It was Anita, my roommate, who carried me through. She didn’t judge, didn’t leave. She went to the pharmacy herself and got the drugs. I took them, and the bleeding started. At first, I thought it was working as it should. But then it wouldn’t stop.

I bled and bled until I thought I would die. I shook, cried, begged God not to take me right there. If he let me live through it, I would stay away from men, and all sorts of promises that I nearly promised myself to the church.

Anita cried too, but she stayed with me, wiping my face, praying, refusing to let me go through it alone.

Eventually, the bleeding slowed. My body was so weak I couldn’t stand properly for days. For two full weeks, I was sick, barely eating, barely moving. Anita cared for me like I was her sister. She made sure I ate, helped me bathe, watched over me until I regained my strength.

After three weeks, I returned to school. My boyfriend came back around, suddenly acting sweet, pretending nothing happened. He wanted me back, but I was done. I ended things. He begged and begged, but my heart had hardened. I couldn’t look at him the same way again.

Now, I don’t even want to see any man. I’ve sworn off sex for a while, at least until I know better about my body, about protection, about safety.

I think about how close I came to dying, and all I can do is wish that young people like me had proper sex education. I wish abortion didn’t carry so much stigma, and I even wish it was legal.

Because honestly, what if Anita hadn’t been there? What if I had died in that room, blood on the floor, with no one to explain? My parents would have buried me believing I was the perfect daughter, never knowing the truth.

And maybe that’s what scares me most. Too many girls like me have died in silence, carrying secrets to the grave while everyone else pretends nothing is wrong.

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