As a former user of natural family planning (NFP) with my wife, I’ve never given National NFP Awareness Week serious attention. But with the Dobbs decision regarding abortion and the ongoing debate about contraception in the church, I’ve been waiting for a time to share our NFP fertility journey—and this year’s presidential campaign feels like the right time.
When I began the Rite of Christian Initiation for Adults (RCIA) in February of 2017, I had every intention of adopting the Catholic view of sex and procreation to avoid what the church viewed as the “grave sin” of intentional contraception. When I presented the case for NFP to my wife, she was also receptive to the idea. As part of the process, we connected with a parish-based NFP practitioner, and we eventually sought out a Catholic gynecologist.
This NFP practitioner, though clearly knowledgeable in her area of expertise, didn’t have much culturally relevant or informed advice specifically for my wife. Though the practitioner’s suggestions gave us a basic knowledge of how fertility works, we would have loved to understand the complexities of other things, such as polycystic ovary syndrome (PCOS) and the common underlying struggles my wife would encounter as a Black woman using NFP. Similarly, the physician, though friendly and helpful with her treatment, also missed an opportunity to dive deeper into the experiences Black women face regarding their reproductive health.
At this point in our marriage, my wife and I were using NFP to get pregnant (rather than as a form of birth control). After plenty of trial, error, money, and patience, we finally welcomed a positive pregnancy test. Now, with my wife’s delivery needs at the forefront of our minds, we decided to leave the Catholic doctor and opt for a geographically closer, non-faith-based physician.
The new physician, a Black female gynecologist, informed us that the threat of preeclampsia could interfere with my wife’s pregnancy. Throughout the remaining four months of gestation, the doctor gave us culturally sensitive and affirming care that put my wife’s health and total history at the center of the pregnancy.
When our child’s delivery day arrived, we did experience a dire and life-threatening health emergency. Thankfully, the medical staff acted promptly to save my wife and our son. If they hadn’t, things would have turned out far differently.
We went back to using NFP, now for birth control. Then, in March 2021, we took a pregnancy test, just for curiosity’s sake, and it revealed a positive result. My wife cried. The thought of her bearing another high-risk pregnancy with potentially fatal results was a terrible weight on our shoulders. Though there was potential for risks before and during delivery, we were able to welcome a healthy baby boy.
After conducting my own medical research on the safest family-planning options, I suggested to my wife that I have a no-scalpel, no-needle vasectomy. The procedure was cost-friendly, yielded near-perfect effectiveness, and had low surgical risks, so it was appealing to both of us. With this surgery in mind, however, I also had to consider the church’s teachings regarding the Sixth Commandment, the central role of Humanae Vitae, and the moral condemnation of all contraception.
Given the major health complications that contribute to the appalling maternal mortality rate for Black women, the lack of culturally competent informed NFP care and counseling, and the burdensome medical costs associated with pregnancy, my wife and I made the best-informed decision we could: We opted for a vasectomy. I believed (then and now) that the best life-affirming decision I could make was to give up my reproductive ability so that my wife could live and avoid any situations that would put two lives in peril.
I didn’t have any internal turmoil about abandoning the church’s teachings on contraception. I had examined all the evidence, had a urologist consultation, and weighed the potentially fatal preeclampsia and health risks for Black women—and ultimately, my wife and I made a well-informed decision for responsible parenthood.
My wife’s well-being was the primary reason for my decision. I believe that choice demonstrated a sacrificial, Christ-like answer that protected my wife from any potential pregnancy complications. Three years have gone by since my vasectomy, and I don’t have any regrets about the decision we made.
Catholic teaching says that NFP and the openness to pregnancy make sexual intercourse a freeing and unitive act between a male and female. Our experience was totally opposite. Sure, at first, it felt like we were more virtuous, but over time, we experienced more paranoia and confusion than bliss. Meanwhile, the idea that God’s law is intended to oppress us and endanger us doesn’t fit the ministry and life of Jesus Christ. In the gospels, Jesus repeatedly demonstrates that the law’s intent was rooted in mercy and love—and that mercy and love outweigh strict observance of the law. He came to give life and offer it abundantly, both in the present realm and the eternal, so following God’s law shouldn’t lead to harm or violence.
The church’s interpretation of healthy sexuality within the framework of scripture and tradition made me feel less close to my wife. Always cautious of her mental and physical well-being and eager to avoid another high-risk pregnancy, every act felt like playing catch with a ticking time bomb. It was no longer an expression of marital love. Adhering to the church’s impossible standards made me almost distrust and resent my wife’s God-given gifts as a woman. This heavy yoke of rules and standards made it impossible to embrace the full sacrament of matrimony.
NFP fell short for my family because the expert we consulted had little to no knowledge of Black women’s health. I would guess her clientele consisted mainly of white couples. Not once did we ever feel like she understood the longstanding historical and societal elements of Black women’s health, which profoundly affected our individual needs.
The church’s one-size, one-flavor approach to medicine and reproduction health is counterproductive; it fails to address the human dignity of certain segments of the church. If the church continues to neglect and ignore the pressing concerns of Black Catholics, it will be yet another example of longstanding apathy to the church’s most faithful demographic. The Catholic Church in America would be better positioned as a voice for marginalized and historically neglected people if it embraced inclusive and equitable access to health care.
Given this abysmal failure, if the Catholic Church hopes to successfully advocate for NFP, Catholic medical practitioners will have to grow in cultural competence; they need to understand the complex medical backgrounds of all Catholic parishioners, specifically Black women. If the practitioners my wife and I consulted had performed their research, they would have known that Black women have a disproportionate rate of PCOS; they would also have been able to help us navigate difficult conversations about NFP’s interaction with potentially larger underlying reproductive health issues.
The church is called to be the hands and feet of Jesus; the looming threat of preeclampsia in Black women challenges the church to commit to more culturally competent and racially sensitive medical and reproductive care. The core of our NFP dilemma reveals the church’s lack of education, its failure to understand the scope of racial inequities.
To address this failure, the church must be willing to dialogue with agencies, health care experts, and organizations dedicated to serving underrepresented groups. This mandate extends not only to Catholic health care professionals but also to all “pro-life” clergy who are quick to champion the dignity of Black lives in the womb, while abandoning Black moms to a health care system that endangers them. Every time the church waves the pro-life banner but fails to advocate, champion, and articulate the holistic well-being of Black women and Black couples, its advocacy is an affront to the collective identity of African Americans. The Catholic Church has to grow and become a better light-bearer for people who are powerless in a health care system that continues to undermine the legitimacy of their human dignity and the sacredness of life.
When we married, my wife and I always envisioned that our family would be small. However, in many Catholic circles, including among Church media personalities, family size is seen as a form of status and prestige, signaling a couple’s openness to life. My wife and I see those images—and we respectfully decline to embrace that model. We don’t want the Christian privilege associated with family size that many Catholics idolize.
Instead, I feel compelled to share our experience so that other Catholics might know that following their conscience and making informed decisions—based on all the relevant medical research, as well as Scripture and Catholic tradition—is possible. If you’re protecting the lives of the people you love, there’s no need to hide in the shadows of guilt.
Image: Pexels/Klaus Nielsen
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