July 10, 2025
Yvette Castillo is the kind of woman who leaves an impression—not because she’s loud, or imposing, but because beneath her petite frame and love for all things Minnie Mouse lies the unwavering heart of a warrior. As a single mother of three, she has spent years walking through fire to protect, nurture, and provide for her children. No matter how high the odds stacked against her, Yvette has met life’s battles with quiet resilience and the kind of courage that doesn’t shout—it simply endures.
What she never expected was to find herself working inside an abortion clinic.
A close family friend, someone she trusted, managed a clinic near her home. When Yvette needed a job in the medical field to build her resumé, it seemed like an opportunity worth taking. Familiarity gave her a false sense of comfort.
“When I started, I was told that I was going to be working in the front as a receptionist,” she said. “I needed this job to show some medical experience on my resumé. It was immediately apparent that neither the supervisor nor the owner showed compassion for the patients or the workers.”
Yvette had been raised Catholic by a devoted mother. “I made my first communion, but I was never confirmed,” she said. “My bio dad was not in the picture, but I was raised by my stepdad. He was the best. I consider him my dad.”
Abortion wasn’t something that was discussed in their home—not out of fear, but simply because it wasn’t part of their world. So, when she stepped into the clinic on her first day, she was unprepared for the emotional toll that would follow.
That day changed everything.
“There was an 8-month case that first day,” she said. “The baby had Down syndrome. The procedure took two days. I thought I was going to pass out. I was there for the whole thing. The couple went to a hotel the first night. I had to work the next day, and I saw the baby. It was born intact. I hated it. I asked myself if I could do this again.”
The environment was far from professional. The clinic’s owner, who inherited the business from her late husband, used the profits to bolster her lackluster country music career. She frequently stepped into medical procedures with no training, wearing flip-flops, and barked orders at staff with a mix of verbal abuse and manipulation.
Right away, Yvette felt the disconnect between what she’d been promised and the grim reality she faced. When she tried to stay in the front as planned, she was directed to assist in the back instead. The trauma of that first day lingered. But every time she expressed a desire to leave, she was guilted into staying.
“It won’t look good on your resumé if you don’t stay at least a year,” she was told.
Meanwhile, just outside the clinic’s doors, a small group of pro-life advocates stood quietly. They didn’t yell or shame her. Instead, they offered her hope.
“They were never mean or disrespectful,” Yvette said. “They would always wish me a good morning and let me know they would be happy to help me find another job. One time, I went outside to talk to them. When I returned to the clinic, my supervisor yelled at me. I was taken aback. I told her that I was a grown woman, and she was not my mother.”
The emotional toll deepened after Yvette suffered a heartbreaking loss: her mother passed away. The grief was raw. Her mom had been her rock through the hardest seasons of single motherhood. The clinic’s response? Cold and transactional.
“After my mom died, there were no condolences,” she said. “They actually asked me for proof that she had died. My mom wanted to be buried in New York where we are from. I had to grab a paper from the service to show them. They kept texting me and complaining. I told them where to go and how to get there.”
Still, Yvette stayed—because she had to. As the sole provider for her children, walking away without another job lined up wasn’t an option. But every morning was a battle. Each shift deepened her despair.
“I could clearly see that it was all about the money,” she said. “We were pressured to do as many procedures as possible. It didn’t matter if the girls were shaking and crying. No one cared if the client was clearly underage with a pimp. It was not a clinic. It was a butcher shop.”
Her stress at work spilled into her personal life. At home, the pain kept multiplying.
“Every day I would leave work frustrated and tired,” she said. “My nephew needed a heart transplant and ended up passing away. I felt so guilty seeing what my sister went through to try to preserve his life. I was doing the opposite every day. I knew it wasn’t right.”
The things she witnessed at the clinic crept into every corner of her life. She became emotionally distant. Her relationship crumbled. Her spirit felt fractured.
“My relationship broke down. I failed to communicate and was unable to focus.”
There wasn’t one single moment that triggered her decision to leave. It was more like the slow, steady weight of pain finally becoming too much to carry. One day, looking out the clinic window at the peaceful crowd praying on the sidewalk, she knew her moment had come.
“One day I looked out at the people praying outside the clinic,” she said. “I just decided, you know what, I am doing it today.”
And so, with quiet strength, she walked away.
Outside those clinic walls, Yvette was met not with judgment—but with open arms. The people she had seen praying all those days were now lifting her up, guiding her toward help. Among the first things they gave her was the hotline number for And Then There Were None (ATTWN), a nonprofit that solely exists to help abortion workers leave the industry and heal from their experiences.
“I just called,” she said. “I received all the help I needed and was assigned to the person who is still my advocate and friend, Karen. That was in 2014. I stayed at that clinic for nine months. Long enough to have a baby.”
In the months that followed, ATTWN helped her get back on her feet. With their support, she found another job in under two months, received financial assistance to keep her bills paid and her children fed, and—eventually—began the process of healing.
“I was grateful for the counseling,” she said. “I should have done it sooner.”
Today, Yvette works for a dermatologist. The shift from her old job to her current one feels like night and day.
“I love it there,” she said. “Unlike the clinic, it is so relaxing. I get to help people feel beautiful.”
She no longer walks alongside women experiencing unspeakable trauma; now she walks beside people experiencing confidence, joy, and renewal. At the clinic, she witnessed despair. In her new job, she helps restore dignity.
Over time, even the friend who had helped her get the job at the clinic found her way out—with help from ATTWN. Together, nine workers left the bright purple abortion facility in Tampa, Florida. Even one of the abortion providers eventually resigned. The clinic remains open for now, but those who left remain hopeful that the doors will close for good.
As for Yvette, she continues to move forward. Life hasn’t magically become easy—but she’s no longer carrying the weight alone. She knows she has a tribe of women who understand, who walk with her, and who love her with no strings attached.
“I almost never ask for help,” she admitted. “Things were tough, and I finally reached out. ATTWN has always helped and included me. If you are on the fence about contacting ATTWN, I say be like Nike. Just do it.”