Almost ten years ago, I was 19 years old, a freshman at Georgetown University. I was doing the last thing any woman with a bright future in front of her wants to do: sitting in a bathroom stall in the basement of a dorm, staring down, blankly, at a test. Positive.
I’d be lying if I said I felt a rush of anything. There wasn’t an immediate slew of thoughts of what I’d lose, nor some surge of maternal happiness you see portrayed in pregnancy test commercials. Just stillness. The beginning of a four-week journey of introspection.