I remember my naive optimism and my trust that my country would support me. I remember the calm, quiet hours of the night before, the marble palace shrouded in darkness, its motto made invisible. I remember standing in the bathroom the morning of the decision, seeing myself in the mirror, refusing to accept the fragments of news broadcasts I could hear through the door. 

It was June 24, 2022, and I had gone on what was supposed to be a calm summer vacation in Washington, DC. For the few days we had been there, murmurs and mentions of the Supreme Court had passed through most conversations, and speculations over what day the decision would drop frequently appeared in discussion, with all comments passing through a bipartisan filter in efforts to protect oneself from any harsh judgments associated with being on either side of the argument. Despite pessimistic tones coming from my allies after the draft opinion was leaked to the press, I still had faith in a miracle: the justices would change their mind, and women’s rights would remain protected. 

When I eventually stepped out of our hotel room bathroom on the morning of the 24th, I immediately saw the dark red news banner stretching out across the bottom of the TV screen spelling out the news that I and many others in our country had been dreading: Roe v. Wade had been overturned. An electric shock shot through me. The realization hit me that America was no longer moving forward but was dragging its citizens back to the past. 

After sitting in silence watching broadcast commentary and live footage of women standing in front of the gate to the supreme court with tape labeled “second-class citizens” over their mouths, my parents and I decided to make our way to the court.

It was loud and divisive; pro-choice protesters had aptly formed on the left side of the street, while pro-life celebrators were on the right. Cameras and reporters cramped themselves at the back of the protests; police officers surrounded the area. I watched an emotional woman lead a chant, screaming “My body, my choice.” I watched the other side shout “Baby’s choice” in response. I saw an array of signs raised high in the air contrasting one another, from “The Future is Anti-Abortion” to a depiction of a bloody coat hanger on a piece of cardboard, with “SHAME” written out in red. I noticed a lone woman at the back of the protests, isolated from the action, standing silently with a simple sign reading “Under His Eye,” the message I instantly recognized from Margaret Atwood’s novel as the customary greeting between handmaids, the women that were reduced to objects used for reproduction, all rights to their own bodies ripped away. 

The atmosphere of Washington had changed: there was an unspoken presence you could feel echoing throughout the city, magnified through audible snippets of the opinions of pedestrians around you and the plethora of green stickers worn to signal condemnation of the decision made by five justices who were not chosen by the people. 

But despite my memories of the widespread tears and screams of anger and frustration, what has stuck with me the most is the sight of the woman with her “Under His Eye” sign. She had no shouts or aggressive arguments to be heard, just a silent display of forced surrender to the country that had been forever changed.