Three years ago, I had an abortion at Planned Parenthood. It was obtained legally, supported by those closest to me, and I have never regretted it for a second since, circumstances that unfortunately don’t apply to every woman who elects to terminate a pregnancy.

I understand that telling my story in a public forum might offend some people — that my decision, on its own, might offend them as well. Perhaps if I were your wife, or daughter, or friend, you might find some way to reconcile my agency over my body with your own beliefs, but I’m just some random girl you’ve never met, telling you something you didn’t ask to know, but something I have come to think of as important testimony: I’m one of the many Planned Parenthood clients who had an abortion there, a service that represents only 3 percent of its business.

I didn’t have an abortion because I was raped, or because my life was in danger, or because the fetus was the product of incest. I had an abortion because I had recreational sex, got unintentionally pregnant, and wasn’t ready or willing to be a mother. This is something I haven’t written about before, but there comes a point when staying silent begins to look like shame — and I am not ashamed.

I am, however, scared. I’ve told maybe a dozen people about my abortion, and shared the fact that I was going to write about it with even fewer, because, amazingly, we live in a world where the latter decision represents a greater threat to my health and safety than the former. The fact that writing about an abortion puts me in greater danger than actually having one is unacceptable, and fear is not going to keep me from speaking up anymore. Because I owe Planned Parenthood a debt. Planned Parenthood supported me at a time when I desperately needed it, and I want to support them now.

Back in 2012, when I first discovered I was pregnant, the man I was seeing at the time was so flustered and without resource that he typed “abortion.com” into the search bar of the browser. I don’t blame him, because that was a scary moment for both of us. Fortunately for me, I knew better. I had been going to Planned Parenthood since 16, when a doctor recommended I get on the pill to regulate my menstrual cycle, and I trusted them explicitly with my health because I knew they trusted me explicitly with my body and my future. I didn’t have to tell them I was a 24-year-old working in a restaurant, living in a studio apartment in New York City. I didn’t have to explain that although I think I do want children someday, this man is not the person I wanted them with. I didn’t have to convince them I deserved their respect and kindness; they gave it willingly. And most important, I didn’t have to apologize. I still don’t.

I was five weeks pregnant when I arrived at the facility on the morning of my abortion. A Planned Parenthood representative came to retrieve me from the curb and usher me past the picketers with their signs and photos. Once inside, every single person I interacted with looked me directly in the eye — like a person! — and asked me how I was feeling. Alexis, welcome. Alexis, how are you doing? Alexis, is there anything I can do for you? As I was shuttled from station to station in preparation for the procedure, everyone I encountered was capable, efficient and dedicated to making one of the most difficult days of my life as comfortable for me as possible. They provided me with resources, with support, and with honest, professional assessments offered without judgment so that I never felt pushed or prodded in any direction.