Wat mengs du? - Whispering in crowded rooms, a testimony

I am not speaking here for everyone. That’s not my intention, not my aim. I speak for myself. Maybe also for you. In any case, for us. For those who whisper in crowded rooms.

At 22, I got pregnant. Despite the pill. Tombée enceinte (falling pregnant). Well said. Because it also felt like falling.

At 22, I had an abortion. An interruption volontaire de grossesse. Not because I had to, but because I could. Well, that’s not entirely true. Because I was allowed to. Not because I could decide about my body, my future, my life — the way I wanted to. But because I was allowed to decide about my body, my future, my life. Someone decided I was allowed to. Someone decided what I was allowed to do and under what conditions. Someone decided what I could and could not do with my body.

That was in Brussels, my second home. Because at 22 – so, in January 2012 – that wasn’t possible in Luxembourg. Only in a case of distress. "I’m sorry, Madame. Then you should have been more careful." Being called Madame was enough, but apparently not enough to know what was best for myself. My ambitions, dreams, and visions – my right to a good life, to my life, the right to a future life for my child. To lose all that, to have it all taken away: ah no, that wasn’t distress enough.

Egoism, you might say now. A punishment, I say. A punishment because I should have done better, known better. Been more responsible. A mistake one must not make. I am supposed to be ashamed. Forever. And to believe that it is the most beautiful gift in this world. You were right, weren’t you?

Now, at 35, I know it saved my life. Not literally – and yet, it did. I continued my studies, worked on the side, and got involved in my free time. I discovered new passions, found my talents. Graduated top of my class and gave the commencement speech for my year. Since then, I’ve worked in some of the coolest places in the world and walked in the footsteps of giants. I’ve filled many big shoes and always gladly held the door open for others. All that, because I was allowed to. I could too, yes – but only because I was allowed to. Back then only in Brussels; a few months later, also in Luxembourg.

Now, at 35, I value that all the more — my privilege. Because it’s not a given, and unfortunately, I have little legal influence over it. Today, and every day since that moment, I know it was the only right decision for me. And for the child. It was the only responsible choice. But just as that day and that moment will accompany me forever, so does the shame. What if someone finds out? That’s why we whisper. Today, I decide not to whisper anymore.

So. In short: 13 years ago, when I wanted to, I wasn’t allowed. A few months later, when I no longer had to, I would have been allowed. And whether I, you, or we can hope to be allowed again tomorrow? Well, no one can guarantee us that today.

Hopefully, this doesn’t lie in God’s hands, because in the Year of Our Lord 2025 it was declared: for the Cardinal, it would be a sad day in our history if the right to abortion were enshrined in the Constitution. To protect my right to my body in our Constitution is a dark moment in the history of His country. He may continue to speak freely – that is his right. But that I may not freely decide about my own body – that goes too far. Before the Lord, we are all equal. Well, except if you’re a woman, apparently. Then I’m only allowed to do what He permits me to.

I don’t want to keep firing at our honorable representative of God here. He is merely a symbol. It’s not about Him. It’s about me – and about you. About her, and about him. It’s about all of us. It's about how we talk about it. He prophesies. He warns. He admonishes. And we? We whisper. In the holy circle. Among ourselves. If at all. "Me too."

I’m being completely honest. We are, after all, among ourselves. I didn't know for a long time if I even wanted to talk about this here. I am allowed to, and yet. Talking about it worries me. That I might get on people’s nerves. Worse: that people don’t care. Again with this topic. You’ve already, surely, you’re already allowed, right? Calm now! But it really scares me. For me. For my body, for my safety. For my job. Not just because I did it, but because I talk about it. Both are supposedly not allowed.

Back then, when they gave me the right to be allowed, it was said straight out: "Nous sommes conscients que chaque avortement est un échec et que tout doit être fait pour l'éviter." I give the honorable representative and rapporteur of the law that – yes, partly – he is right. If I could, I would do anything so that you would never have to know what it means to have an abortion. I wish I could spare everyone that pain. Physically. Emotionally. I wish that on no one. Not even Him.

Calling it a failure, I find… let’s say… unsympathetic. Who are you to tell me that one of the hardest, most important, and most correct decisions of my life is a failure? Then please explain to me: what would my gain have been? And who would have won? My child and I, certainly not. It’s supposed to be about us, apparently. Right? Just checking.

In 2025, we are no longer (or not yet) talking about whether I am allowed or not, but about whether it should count as one of my fundamental rights. So that no one can decide so quickly anymore that I am no longer allowed to decide.

Why is that so important? Because no later than this week, similar tones have sounded from this high institution, saying that my will is a "ruthless ideology" that "polarizes, radicalizes and thereby endangers social cohesion." Deep hatred is spoken of, intolerance on my part. My "opinion" is apparently not noble enough. What irony. Isn’t the idea that I am better off not knowing what is best for me born exactly from this feeling?

In a certain way (and I must admit with great effort), I can still feel some understanding for the Lord. It is a radically different worldview than mine. And yet I recognize his right to be allowed. He is allowed to think that, he is allowed to see it that way. He is allowed to have his opinion, just as I am. And that is why I will always stand up for a society where every person has the same rights.

That’s all I want. All of us want. So, I said it. How radical of me. Sorry, I didn’t mean to step on anyone’s toes. I sometimes tend toward hysteria.

But honestly, something like that doesn’t shock me, it doesn’t even surprise me anymore. It just makes me sad. Because anyone who thinks it’s easy to make such a decision knows nothing. We all think about it often and for a long time. Years and decades afterward.
We whisper about it when no one hears us. "Me too." We are your friends, your sisters, your mothers, your partners. And none of us was ready to have the choice. To have the right to make the choice. For ourselves. Because it was the only right choice, no matter in which case the choice fell. Even for you.

It’s not about convincing you that an abortion is cool. Or that you should have one. Or that you should enjoy this right, which is for everyone.
Not a fan of abortions? Don’t get one. A simple choice. The V in IVG doesn’t stand for nothing — it’s for "volontaire." And it goes both ways.
A right, not a duty. I can, I don’t have to. But only as long as I’m allowed.

And that’s what I want from you – that we – and yes, that includes you – work to make sure that no one must, everyone can, and we all are allowed. No more, no less. Not just today, but also tomorrow.

It’s not about polarising people. One against the other. Quite the opposite. I wish for more empathy, more solidarity.
Because we – this “impitoyable” club as we were called – agree. But being alone among ourselves isn’t enough. "Preaching to the converted."
Too often that’s still the case, unfortunately. That was my motivation for this. I want to be able to speak for myself alone, but not have to speak alone. I want you to know that you’re not alone. Everyone is welcome in our club. And that includes you. How beautiful it was this weekend to read so many strong women. From the strong sex, as we have shown once again. Where were you?

Personally, it – as I said – saved my life. And my then-partner's life too. Just like his current family’s. And my future one. Just like many others. Women and men. And that’s what it’s about for me. It’s my body, and the choice is mine. But the right to have the choice. To be allowed. That concerns all of us. I’m counting on you. Let’s talk about it. Loudly and with a proud voice.