Say “my body, my choice,” and somebody is almost guaranteed to start arguing about abortion. But bodily autonomy did not begin at the doors of an abortion clinic, and it does not end there. Why is a woman’s assertion of ownership over her own body so often treated like an act of rebellion?
I have heard men repeat this slogan begrudgingly. As if it tastes like vinegar coming out of their mouths. More often than not, it is followed by some variation of how “my body, my choice” is a way for women to shirk accountability. Then comes the disgust some men seem to have with women being sexually liberated—although that disgust tends to disappear when a woman’s sexual liberation benefits them. Clock that.
That resentment became even more obvious when “your body, my choice” started circulating as a way to mock women. After the 2024 election, Nick Fuentes posted “Your body, my choice. Forever,” and the phrase spread heavily online. The Institute for Strategic Dialogue reported a 4,600% increase in mentions of “your body, my choice” and “get back in the kitchen” on X within 24 hours, along with reports of the language moving into harassment on college and high school campuses. Institute for Strategic Dialogue
And that is what I find interesting. “My body, my choice” was treated as women demanding too much control, but “your body, my choice” was supposed to be funny. Even if some people repeating it only intended to mock abortion rights, the implications of that statement extend far beyond pregnancy.
Because what exactly does “your body, my choice” mean when abortion is removed from the conversation?
Your body, but I decide what happens to it. Your body, but I determine when your no matters. Your body, but I have the final say.
Suddenly, it does not sound quite as funny.
But abortion is only one part of the conversation.
Once we broaden “my body, my choice” beyond pregnancy and start talking about what it actually means for a woman to have authority over her body as a whole, that is when the conversation implodes.
Bodily autonomy means deciding whether you want to have sex, who you want to have sex with, whether you want children, and what you allow someone else to do to your body. And, just as importantly, what you do not.
The problem is not always the choice a woman makes. Sometimes, the problem is that she believes the choice belongs to her in the first place.
A woman does not want children, and she is “selfish.” A woman wants an abortion, and she “should have kept her legs closed.” A woman enjoys casual sex, and she “has no self-respect.” A woman refuses sex, and she is “playing games.” She dresses provocatively, and people ask, “What did she expect?” She initially says yes and later says no, and suddenly “she already agreed,” as if she does not have the right to change her mind.
Even polyamory is judged differently depending on who appears to have the power. A man with multiple women may be praised, while a woman choosing to have multiple male partners is met with questions about what must be wrong with her, the men, or the relationship. The judgment changes depending on who appears to be exercising the choice.
And this is where judgment stops being merely judgment and becomes something far more dangerous.
We do not just criticize women for exercising autonomy. We have created circumstances in which people behave as though a woman can somehow lose it.
Bodily autonomy is not conditional, and it cannot be contingent upon respectability. Treating it as though it is contributes to rape culture because conversations surrounding sexual assault quickly shift from the actions of the person accused to the behavior of the person who reported it.
What was she wearing? How much did she drink? Why did she go upstairs? Hadn’t she slept with him before? Why didn’t she leave?
All these questions attempt to determine whether she behaved in a way people believe makes her less deserving of protection.
The question should be much simpler:
Did she consent?
The connection between reproductive autonomy and rape culture is not that disagreement over abortion causes sexual violence. It is that both conversations can expose the same troubling belief: that under the right circumstances, someone else’s wants, morality, expectations, or judgment can outweigh a woman’s authority over her own body.
I bought you dinner. You came back to my house. We’ve had sex before. You’re my girlfriend. You’re my wife.
None of those things equal consent. Access to a woman’s body is not something another person earns through money, persistence, relationship status, or previous access.
And men are not the only people who participate in this. Women do it too. We hear, “I would never put myself in that situation,” as though making different choices somehow makes one woman more deserving of protection than another.
But protection should not be something women have to earn through respectability. You do not become less deserving of bodily autonomy because someone else would have made a different choice.
And maybe that is what makes “my body, my choice” so uncomfortable for some people. Bodily autonomy does not require agreement. It is easy to respect someone’s choice when it is the same choice you would have made. The real test is whether you can respect it when it is not.
You do not have to agree with her abortion. You do not have to understand why she does not want children. You do not have to approve of her sex life, her kink, her polyamorous relationship, or the way she chooses to dress. None of those things require your approval.
“My body, my choice” is not asking you to approve of every choice a woman makes. It is reminding you that the choice was never yours to make in the first place.
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