One modern advocacy group, Reproductive Freedom for All, states that it fights for “reproductive freedom for everybody.”
But who do we mean by “everybody”? Does freedom for some come at the cost of injustice for others who have no voice?
After giving birth to her fourth child, my great-grandmother, Gertrud Paula Meyer, began to suffer from schizophrenia. Because of her mental illness, she became one of the countless victims of the Nazi regime’s so-called “euthanasia” program.
At first, physically and mentally disabled children were the primary targets; later, adults like my great-grandmother were also condemned. Initially, Paula underwent forced treatment, sending a letter to her husband, my great-grandfather, stating that she had to be sterilized under the “Law for the Prevention of Hereditarily Diseased Offspring” to prevent her from having more children.
Great-grandmother was later sent to Hadamar, one of the Nazi death camps established to exterminate those who did not fit the regime’s vision of a “superior” Aryan race. There, she was placed in a gas chamber and killed — not for anything she had done, but simply because her society, poisoned by Nazi ideology, decided that her life was not worth living.
My great-grandmother’s death certificate stated that her existence “defiled the purity of German blood.”
As a German, I have long felt a responsibility to confront this dark part of my nation’s history with both honesty and humility. Remembering my great-grandmother fills me with sorrow, but also with determination, to ensure that such dehumanization never happens again.
Paula’s story forces each of us to wrestle with profound questions: Who has the authority to decide which lives are valuable? Who gets to define what it means to be human?
More than simply a tragedy of the past, this story is a warning for the present — illustrating how societies can lose sight of the inherent worth of every person.
While Nazi ideology may seem like a distant horror, its underlying logic is that some lives are less human or less valuable than others.
Ongoing debates about abortion, euthanasia, disability rights, and even assisted suicide often echo these questions: Who decides what a “meaningful” life is? Are human beings defined by their usefulness, their capabilities or their perfection?
Or are they defined by something deeper and unchangeable?
In October 2025, the New York legislature joined 16 other states considering legalizing assisted suicide by passing the Medical Aid in Dying Act. If made law, this bill makes it legal for physicians to prescribe life-ending medication to terminally ill patients. Gov. Kathy Hochul is yet to sign the bill and has until December 2025 to do so.
A recent public policy poll showed that, compared to the younger generation, older New Yorkers were far less likely to support the “dignity in dying” legislation.
For those arguing that assisted suicide is the compassionate and merciful thing to do, it can be insightful to look to countries such as Canada, where assisted suicide has been legal since 2016.
Eva Terry reported in the Deseret News that “of 13,241 assisted suicides in Canada in 2022, more than 2,000 decided to end their lives because of loneliness, more than 300 because they couldn’t get palliative care and about 200 because they couldn’t find adequate disability services.” Notice that none of these reasons were due to a terminal illness.
Supporters of this kind of legislation frame it as an expansion of “compassion” and “personal choice,” much like with abortion. Yet beneath the language of mercy and freedom lies a deeper moral tension: when suffering, discomfort or dependency become criteria for ending life, we risk redefining human worth by subjective measures of convenience and circumstance.
The topic of abortion is deeply sensitive, and we should hold sincere compassion for anyone facing such a painful decision. There are circumstances (e.g., rape or incest) that understandably evoke complex emotions and difficult moral debates.
Yet again, more fundamental questions confront us: What is a human life? And what makes us human?
Is it simply our genetic code, or a certain level of physical development? Or is it something more, such as our inner life, our capacity to think, feel and connect with others?
The true worth of humanity cannot be measured by external traits or one’s social contribution. It is something sacred and intrinsic, and belongs equally to every person simply because they are human.
Rather than assuming that life or consciousness begins only when science can detect it, perhaps we should err on the side of recognizing life’s inherent dignity and profound potential. To do otherwise risks denying humanity where it already exists, simply because we lack the instruments to see it.
As a society, we share responsibility for all who belong to our human family. We cannot claim to pursue justice for all while denying justice to those who cannot speak for themselves. To dismiss the experience or worth of a group of human beings simply because we or they have declared that they “don’t count” is to repeat the tragic mistakes of history.
Real freedom and justice are only possible when they protect every body, especially the most defenseless and vulnerable.
My great-grandmother, Paula, along with thousands of mentally and physically disabled people, was murdered by the Nazi regime because her society decided she was not “fully human” and was a burden to others.
Her life, though cut short, carries a moral message stronger than any ideology: when we define the dignity and worth of even one person as something less than a valued human being, we endanger the dignity and worth of us all.
BYU-Idaho professor Tim Rarick contributed to this commentary.