Whenever I’d read about abortion in the past, I had naively imagined young women in vulnerable positions who were unable to support a child either emotionally or financially. By this logic, the reasons not to have an abortion in my case had decreased with every passing year: I had a good job, I owned a flat, I was happy in life with a good support network and, at 30 years old, was the exact age I’d imagined myself being when I started a family. And yet, I couldn’t shake the feeling in my gut that this wasn’t the right time to have a baby. So, contradicting my natural instinct to nurture and protect the raspberry-sized cluster of cells swelling in my uterus, I booked an appointment at an abortion clinic; first for a medical procedure and then – when that didn’t work – a surgical one. I did this because, despite my desire to have the baby, it didn’t feel fair to bring a child into the world when I couldn’t say with absolute confidence that it was the right thing to do.