(Anonymous. Because my mum still thinks I’m the sensible one.)
There are two versions of me.
The first one had colour-coded calendars, Google Drive folders for everything, and a five-year plan that included a Master’s degree abroad; a decent apartment with plants I probably wouldn’t water enough, and maybe, just maybe, a golden retriever.
The second version of me sat on the bathroom floor of my student apartment in Ogudu on a Tuesday morning, counting the days since my last period on my fingers. Then I started over. Then I counted again. 35 Days!
It all started with one sentence. “Babe, don’t worry. I’ll pull out.” He always said this like it was a credential. Like there should be a certificate on the wall. Certificate of Pullout Excellence, awarded to this man, who has never once considered that he is not the only variable in this equation.
At the time, though, I believed it. Or maybe I wanted to believe it. It felt easier than having an awkward conversation about contraception. Besides, we’d been together for almost two years. He loved me, and I loved him. Surely love came with good judgment?
Cute. Very cute.
For months, “we’ll be careful” became our strategy. No research. No conversations. No actual plan. Just vibes, confidence and a prayer whispered somewhere between Netflix and goodnight kisses.
Then one Tuesday morning, my period ghosted me.
Day one? Calm.
Day three? Hmm.
Day five? Google became my full-time employer. Every search somehow ended with, “You may be pregnant.”
By day seven, I had convinced myself that every slight headache, every craving and every yawn was a pregnancy symptom.
I couldn’t concentrate on my scholarship application. My statement of purpose sat open on my laptop while I refreshed pregnancy forums every ten minutes.
My friends thought I was stressed about school. If only they knew. The funny thing is that the fear wasn’t even about becoming a mother. I want children someday. Just not before I’ve defended a thesis, travelled a little, annoyed immigration officers with visa applications and learnt how to pronounce “charcuterie” without panicking.
Eventually, I bought a pregnancy test. I’ve never prayed so hard in my life.
The result was negative, thank the big man up there!
I cried anyway. Not because I wasn’t pregnant. Because I realised how much power I’d handed over to chance. That entire week taught me something I should have known long before I became sexually active.
Hoping isn’t a contraceptive method. Neither is “he said he’s careful.”
After that experience, I booked an appointment with a healthcare professional. For the first time, someone actually explained my options instead of giving me horror stories. No judgment. Just facts.
Looking back now, I laugh at how confidently we were “winging it.”
Actually… no. I cringe.
Because one pregnancy scare almost distracted me from an opportunity I’d worked years for. It almost stole weeks of peace from me. It almost made me realise too late that planning your future also means planning how you protect it.
I deserve better than guesswork. You do too.
Learn more about your contraceptive options and get expert-backed information at your-life.com
Your Life. Your Choice.
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