𝗜 𝗞𝗻𝗼𝘄 𝗧𝗵𝗲𝘆 𝗪𝗼𝘂𝗹𝗱 𝗞𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝗠𝗲

 

by Michaela Emanuele Pastoriza

𝘏𝘰𝘴𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘢; 𝘉𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘓𝘰𝘳𝘥: 𝘏𝘰𝘴𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘢 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘵.

𝘍𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳, 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘨𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘮𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘐 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘯𝘦𝘥.


The Father made His Son a sacrificial lamb, whose blood would cleanse the world's filthy sins. His Son, the cleanest, purest, most perfect divine being, lowered Himself and descended from heaven, only to face the wooden cross that would seal His fate: tortured, beaten, mocked, and crucified—an agonizing symbol of love that shatters the heart.


𝘎𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘴 9:7 “𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘣𝘦 𝘺𝘦 𝘧𝘳𝘶𝘪𝘵𝘧𝘶𝘭, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘶𝘭𝘵𝘪𝘱𝘭𝘺; 𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘩 𝘢𝘣𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘭𝘺 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘩, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘶𝘭𝘵𝘪𝘱𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘪𝘯.”


Father, like me, did you also kill yourself after offering your begotten Son as the world’s anointed hero? Would you have blessed Abraham if he had not acquiesced to your order, sealing his son’s fate with trembling hands, with tears that turned to ash?


I have known it. Ever since I was a child, I was fed the knowledge of being humane, of being holy; the crushing weight of belief that our sole purpose is to multiply, to bear, not to sin, not to kill. At first, I accepted that we must cherish life, for how could you kill an unborn—still a fetus—innocent child? Own up to your actions. Bear the child. Bear all things, even if your heart shatters under the weight of expectation.


Not until it all happened to me. Was I unlucky? Was I careless? Is this heaven's punishment because I did not heed the words of purity? Each echo of my own choices becomes a haunting reminder of what I’ve failed to uphold, reverberating like a relentless storm inside me.


𝘐 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘬𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘮𝘦.


They would kill me for killing the child in my womb. I can feel it closing in, a noose of judgment tightening around my throat. Without safe options, I am forced into shadows, where desperation morphs into a death sentence. 𝙄 𝙖𝙢 𝙝𝙖𝙪𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙙 𝙗𝙮 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝𝙩 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙞𝙧 𝙬𝙧𝙖𝙩𝙝, 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙞𝙧 𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙢𝙣𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙖 𝙘𝙝𝙤𝙞𝙘𝙚 𝙄 𝙣𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙬𝙖𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙙 𝙗𝙪𝙩 𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙧𝙪𝙨𝙩 𝙪𝙥𝙤𝙣 𝙢𝙚. I know the Lord will curse me, just as He cursed the fig tree for not bearing fruit despite its lush appearance. 𝙄𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙞𝙧 𝙚𝙮𝙚𝙨, 𝙄 𝙖𝙢 𝙖𝙡𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙮 𝙙𝙚𝙖𝙙, 𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙠𝙚𝙙 𝙗𝙮 𝙨𝙝𝙖𝙢𝙚 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙨𝙞𝙡𝙚𝙣𝙘𝙚𝙙 𝙗𝙮 𝙛𝙚𝙖𝙧, 𝙡𝙚𝙛𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙨𝙪𝙛𝙛𝙚𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙨𝙚𝙦𝙪𝙚𝙣𝙘𝙚𝙨 𝙤𝙛 𝙖 𝙨𝙤𝙘𝙞𝙚𝙩𝙮 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙩𝙪𝙧𝙣𝙨 𝙞𝙩𝙨 𝙗𝙖𝙘𝙠.


𝘍𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳, 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘨𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘮𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘐 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘮𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘢 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘴𝘪𝘯.


How could I ever bear a child when I was a child myself? Here I am, unresting in this lake of fire, not killed by hands but by a system that denies me safety, and brands my desperation as immorality. Killing a child is a sin, yet my life, my autonomy, is stripped away. 𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘪𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯 𝘢 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘰𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘯𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘧𝘶𝘨𝘦, 𝘯𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘯𝘰 𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘪𝘤𝘦? 𝘌𝘢𝘤𝘩 𝘥𝘢𝘺 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘴 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘢 𝘧𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘶𝘳𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘵, 𝘥𝘳𝘢𝘨𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘦𝘱𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘳.


𝙁𝙖𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧, 𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙜𝙞𝙫𝙚 𝙢𝙚. 𝙃𝙚𝙖𝙧 𝙢𝙮 𝙥𝙡𝙚𝙖; 𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙘𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙨 𝙤𝙛 𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙩𝙡𝙚𝙨𝙨 𝙬𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙣 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙢𝙚, 𝙘𝙧𝙪𝙨𝙝𝙚𝙙 𝙗𝙮 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙬𝙚𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩 𝙤𝙛 𝙙𝙚𝙨𝙥𝙖𝙞𝙧 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙝𝙤𝙥𝙚𝙡𝙚𝙨𝙨𝙣𝙚𝙨𝙨. I beg for mercy, not just for myself but for all who suffer in silence, their voices smothered by the weight of stigma. May Thou forgive me for I will not conceive a child, not in this world where love and desperation intertwine in a dance of despair, where every whisper of hope is drowned in the silence of indifference, leaving me to fight a battle I cannot win.𝙇𝙚𝙩 𝙢𝙮 𝙥𝙖𝙞𝙣 𝙚𝙘𝙝𝙤 𝙩𝙝𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙫𝙚𝙣𝙨, 𝙖 𝙙𝙚𝙨𝙥𝙚𝙧𝙖𝙩𝙚 𝙘𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙪𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙧𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙣𝙙𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙚.


For the right to choose, for the sanctity of life in all its forms. Let it be a call for those who walk in shadows, seeking light, seeking safety, and the right to decide their fate. I cry out for a world that embraces compassion over condemnation, that offers understanding instead of shame. May we rise together in our shared humanity, demanding a future where every life– born and unborn– can be nurtured, cherished, and respected. In this plea, let us find strength, let us find hope, and let us find the courage to change the narrative that binds us.


𝘍𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳, 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘨𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘮𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘐 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘢 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘥.


𝘏𝘰𝘴𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘢 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘵.


𝘍𝘰𝘳𝘨𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘶𝘴 𝘢𝘭𝘭.