Tell me about a time you decided not to launch something…

On August 9 of this year, my team at Slack announced that they’d be rolling out their biggest redesign yet. I’d been working toward this moment virtually non-stop since my return from parental leave eight months earlier, but that day, I was curled up on the couch far from my laptop with my phone silenced, recovering from surgery.

We had found out a week or so earlier that the baby I was carrying suffered from an unsurvivable genetic condition. Instead of two sets of chromosomes, our little bean had three. At 17 weeks and six days, the day before my big launch announcement, I terminated a very wanted pregnancy.

There are so many things to be said about this experience. That it’s deeply personal, wholly devastating, and physically traumatic. That it’s terrifying to hear that not only will the baby that’s been kicking around inside of you for the past four months not live, but that you have to be the person to take that life away. That not terminating the pregnancy poses a serious health risk to you and that, even if by some rare miracle this baby lived to term, they’d die within a day.

I don’t wish this choice on any mother. But I am so deeply grateful that I live in a place where that choice was available to me.

The day that I found out that my baby wouldn’t live, I told my coworkers and my manager what was happening. Unlike a many other women in this position, I was able to do this without any fear of repercussions. As a VP at Slack, I have comprehensive healthcare coverage, flexibility to set my own schedule, a very generous salary, and unlimited time off. I have bereavement leave of up to four weeks, including leave for the loss of a baby. I have short and long term disability coverage. I have mental health coverage and a therapist I trust. I also have incredibly capable colleagues, who were empathetic, caring, eager and willing to take on everything that needed to happen right up to and through our launch date.

I live in New York, where women still have the right to make decisions about their reproductive health. Had I lived in Texas or Florida or one of the many other places where this potential medical emergency would not have been treatable, my employer would have covered travel and lodging for me to get the care I needed. Most people with uteruses don’t have it so easy.

I’ll carry the grief of my lost baby with me for the rest of my life, but for me, that’s where the suffering will end. Many other women, faced with the exact same news have so many more difficult choices to make: can I find a doctor out of state who will treat me? how will I cover the cost of my flight and hotel? who will watch my children when I’m gone? who will care for me after surgery? how will I cover my shifts at work? what will I tell my employer? do I need to leave my job to take care of my emotional wellbeing?

The economic cost of any pregnancy is disproportionately borne by the parent carrying the baby. The more we restrict abortion and reproductive care, the less support we offer for family time off and unexpected emergencies, the higher those costs become. I’m incredibly proud to work for a company that values the human beings that constitute it, that offers benefits above and beyond the virtually non-existent protections encoded in law. But this should not be exceptional. It shouldn’t be something I have to have pride in.

I went back to work a week after I ended my pregnancy. At first, slowly, and then, all at once. My colleagues had kept the wheels on the launch but were happy to see me back. There were days where I felt like I had not only failed as a mother, but also failed as a leader. There were days where I ducked into a phone booth and sobbed before jumping on a huddle. But I’m getting through it and the launch continues to go on.

I only wish for all of us, to have the same privilege, no, the same right — no matter what particular accidents of life befall us.