While most of And Then There Were None’s Quitter Tribe are women who form a tight-knit sisterhood, ATTWN is blessed to have brothers in its ranks as well. Smaller in number but mighty in resilience, these men shoulder the same emotional burdens, workplace toxicity, and trauma as their female counterparts. Alfonso is one of those precious Quitters who came to ATTWN in 2023. God had a clear plan for his life, though the enemy worked hard to derail it.
Nichola, Alfonso’s ATTWN client advocate, calls him resilient, competent, and disciplined—qualities that would help him escape both the clinic where he worked for more than five years and the darkness that consumed him there.
Alfonso grew up Catholic, was baptized, and given his first communion. Yet, because English was not his first language and his father had left when he was young, faith never took root. “I just wasn’t into it,” he said. “It could have been the language barrier, but also the fact that my father left when I was young. It was hard to have no father figure, although I do remember wanting to have the presence of the Lord.”
When Alfonso was thirteen, his mother remarried. “After my mom married my stepdad, he had us baptized into the LDS faith,” he said. “I wasn’t into that either. At that time, I was lost. I felt all the trauma I had gone through as a child.”
It wasn’t until he joined the Army as an infantryman that God’s faithfulness began to take shape. Overseas, he survived a near-fatal incident. “I was in a situation overseas that was dangerous. We were told to fall back,” Alfonso said. “For me, it was too late. I was told later I had suffered a concussion. Eventually, I woke up, picked up my rifle, and walked back. Everyone was amazed. They were sure that I should be dead.”
The experience convinced him that something larger was at work. “I felt like someone was looking out for me,” he said. “I think I thought I knew who Jesus was, but I was still confused. I started praying. As I did, my eyes were opening. I just knew someone was watching over me.”
After being medically discharged, Alfonso was baptized into a Christian church. Still, he wrestled with PTSD and what he called “brain fog.” Wanting to help people as he once had in combat, he pursued the medical field. He began as a medical biller and coder, then accepted a job at Planned Parenthood.
“At the time, my mindset was that I wasn’t doing anything wrong,” he said. “In the military, we are trained to kill the enemy. It was drilled into us that this was for the good of the woman. I felt like I was doing this woman a service.”
But his Christian faith was at odds with his work. “As much as everyone was telling me that I was doing something good, inside, part of me knew it wasn’t,” he said. “My brain fog was so strong at the time I worked at the clinic. I just kept getting pulled back in.”
Even amid doubt, Alfonso wore his faith openly. “I would always wear my cross and would read my Bible on my lunch break,” he said. “I was told that I needed to stop this because it was offensive.” He often sparred with sidewalk counselors, defending the women and accusing protestors of being judgmental.
Although uncertified medically, Alfonso’s military training made him useful in various clinic roles, including the front desk, recovery room, and most disturbingly, the products-of-conception (POC) lab. “I will never forget the first time I had to walk into the POC,” he said. “I had this heaviness and darkness fall over me when I walked in. The doctor saw my face and asked if I was okay. I said no. This was a seventeen-week-old baby. I pointed out to the doctor that I could see the ribs; the baby was looking at me. He tried to bombard me with all this medical terminology. I told him that I had been on the battlefield. I had seen death. I knew what it looked like.”
Overwhelmed, Alfonso took a Xanax in his car and passed out. “I woke up to my coworkers banging on my window,” he said. “They told me that I needed to get back to work. I felt like I was back in combat again and seeing dead bodies.”
At home, he turned to alcohol. “I started to use alcohol to cope,” he said. “When I got home, I would refuse to even speak to my kids or my wife until I was drunk. I didn’t want my wife to ask me what I did that day.”
He was also troubled by women returning for repeated abortions and declining preventive measures and contraception. It was always post-abortion protocol to offer patients free birth control. “One girl, who was there for her third abortion, just looked at me and refused,” he said. “She replied that she would just come back and abort again. So many girls would come in for multiple abortions. It felt hopeless. I didn’t feel like I was helping anyone. It felt like a never-ending cycle.”
When abortions stopped in Idaho, managers admitted numbers would drop. “At that meeting to go over the financials, I began to see that Planned Parenthood really was all about the money.” Many staff, including Alfonso, were sent to Oregon. “This clinic allowed abortions up to 30 weeks. Women came there from all over,” he said.
Alfonso wanted out but felt trapped. “I went out one day to talk to one of the protestors,” he said. “We had a decent conversation, but I was written up that day just for talking to him. It wasn’t only the money. Any time I expressed a negative feeling about what we were doing, it was like I was being brainwashed to believe that we were doing so much good and helping people.”
Alcohol and substance use worsened. His marriage collapsed. “After we broke up, I started praying, reading my Bible more, asking God for a way out,” he said. “I really didn’t want to quit. Idaho is such a conservative state. I was fearful that after working for an abortion clinic, I would never find a job.”
The decision came for him when he was fired for a charting mistake. “I was confused and angry,” he said. “I was actually arguing with them that they should keep me. I wanted them to give me a chance.”
What felt like rejection became deliverance. Alfonso walked across the street to a pregnancy resource center. A coworker texted him to stop, calling them the enemy. He ignored her. “I walked in, stood there, and told them that I was just fired from the clinic. I needed help and counseling.”
He was connected with ATTWN. “The same people I had always been told were the enemy, that would never understand, they helped me,” he said. “I don’t know where I would be without you guys (ATTWN). I would be homeless. To have financial, spiritual, and resume-writing help when you have nothing. I pray to God every day to thank Him for your help.”
Just days later, Alfonso stood outside his old clinic with a pro-life sign. Former coworkers screamed at him. “They would come out and yell at me,” he said. “They would call me a hypocrite. I thought they were my friends and family, and they turned their backs on me. Instead, ATTWN has become my family. If you quit a job, it is not normal to be ostracized by your former coworkers. That is not friendship or family.”
To others still inside the industry, Alfonso urges clarity. “Those people are not your family,” he warns. “Do not stay for them.”
Today, Alfonso has been sober for five years. He dedicates himself to God, his family, and his fiancée. He is now a registered medical assistant working with immigrants who have survived war. “It means so much to me that I can serve people who have been through the devastation of war,” he said.
His final encouragement to others echoes the humility that saved him: “You have to swallow your pride,” he said. “They (ATTWN) are there to help you. This was hard, especially for a military man. Put a knee down, put your head down, take the help. ATTWN is there for people like me. It motivated me so much to know that I was not alone. These people will care for you with all their hearts, even if they haven’t met you.”