Christina Applegate read aloud from her 1991 diary entries in the audio version of her memoir You with the Sad Eyes, and the words she chose were not the sanitized language of modern abortion advocacy. They were her own, written in real time, by a young woman who knew exactly what she was doing and said so plainly.
She called it murder. She called it killing her child. And before the procedure, she wrote a poem to the baby she believed was a girl, asking for forgiveness.
According to Breitbart, the memoir, reported as a New York Times Bestseller, contains diary entries from a woman who was among the biggest television stars of the early 1990s, known for the hit show Married… with Children. What those entries reveal is a conscience that the pro-choice movement spends enormous energy pretending doesn't exist.
Applegate says she fell pregnant in April of 1991. One diary entry, read aloud in the audio memoir, captures the moment she learned the news:
"Well, yesterday I found out I was 6 1/2 weeks pregnant… I love this being… I always felt that if I ever got pregnant when I knew it was the wrong time, I wouldn't have any problem having an abortion. 'Oh, whatever. It isn't even a baby yet.' That's bullsh*t. This creature's incredible- makes me feel whole, safe."
Read that again. Before any political pressure, before any activist framing, before any Supreme Court ruling reshaped the national conversation, a 19-year-old woman confronted the central lie of the abortion-on-demand movement and rejected it in her own private diary. "It isn't even a baby yet" was, in her own assessment, nonsense.
But the next entry is where the weight lands. Applegate wrote about the decision she had already made:
"I'm fcking pregnant, and I'm killing my child on Thursday. I'm thinking, 'Where the fck can I go to recuperate from murder?' His family will hate me when they find out that I killed their family member because they don't believe in it. But I can't have this baby because I have work to do to entertain this f*cking world. Besides, I can't now."
Not "terminating a pregnancy." Not "exercising reproductive rights." Not "accessing healthcare." Killing my child. Recuperating from murder. Those were the words a woman used when she was writing only for herself.
On June 9, Applegate wrote a poem addressed to her baby. She said she was convinced the child was a girl, adding, "I have no actual proof, but that doesn't matter. To this day, I know."
The poem reads, in part:
"Hello, little thing. I feel you every moment of my day. Such a tiny existence. Such an immense effect you have. You are a miracle. A tiny handed miracle. I love you, but you know your fate. It's not your time. I know you didn't make that decision, but it can't be your time."
She continued:
"I hope you will forgive me, but I want you to know how you've changed me. You've opened my eyes. You're letting me know something is more important than myself. But mommy can't be with you right now. But know she loves you- more than any other miracle."
A miracle. That's what she called the life inside her. Not a clump of cells. Not a medical abstraction. A tiny-handed miracle with a fate its mother chose.
Applegate, who has described suffering sexual abuse as a child and who now faces a debilitating struggle with MS, reflected on these diary entries with a clarity that decades of distance sometimes provides. She described reading the journal pages as heartbreaking and wrote that she sensed, even then, the toll these events would take:
"Maybe it's just the long hours I have been spending on my bed thinking about my illness, but in reading these words from more than three decades ago, I find that I suffer a kind of concussive awareness of the future impact of all these dark events from my early life."
She wrote that she foresaw a future where "the bill for all the guilt and unhappiness and trauma would be paid by my body."
In a later journal passage dated September 14, 1991, she wrestled with what guilt had become:
"That word 'sorry' sucks… I can't be sorry. I can't feel guilty. Guilt is not an emotion, it's a disease- a pathetic life altering and, in the long run, fatal disease. It begins in the brain, then spreads the illness throughout the entire body until not only does the mind shut off, but the body, as well."
She added that she "did know that something very dangerous was happening inside my soul. Something that might one day shut off my body."
The modern abortion movement has built an entire vocabulary designed to prevent exactly the kind of honesty Christina Applegate committed to paper in 1991. Every euphemism, every clinical abstraction, every "shout your abortion" campaign exists to keep women from saying what she said: this is a baby, I love it, and I am choosing to end its life.
The activist class doesn't want regret. Regret is inconvenient. Regret suggests that something real was lost, that the decision carried moral weight, that the "clump of cells" framework is a lie women tell themselves because the truth is too heavy to carry into a clinic.
Applegate's diary entries are not a policy argument. They are something more dangerous to the abortion industry's messaging: an unguarded, contemporaneous account from a woman who used the word "murder" before anyone told her she was supposed to say "choice."
The pro-life movement has long argued that abortion harms women. That it leaves scars the culture refuses to acknowledge. The pressure to frame the act as empowerment creates a second wound on top of the first, because women who grieve are told they have no reason to.
Applegate's own words, written more than three decades ago and read aloud now for the world to hear, are the most powerful version of that argument. Not because a conservative made it. Because a young woman in Hollywood, alone with a diary, made it for herself.
She called her child a miracle. She asked for forgiveness. And the culture that told her it was no big deal left her carrying the weight for the rest of her life.