Three years ago, in Dobbs v. Jackson Women’s Health Organization, the Supreme Court’s conservative majority enabled states to severely restrict abortion or ban it outright. Since then, 17 states have enacted such limits; infant and maternal mortality have risen in many of them. But the impact of overturning Roe v. Wade extends far beyond medical catastrophes. It also appears in the quieter struggles—a myriad of small, compounding barriers that stand between individuals and their access to health care. Here are some of the stories of people who have stepped up to do what they can to provide care, and some of the women who found themselves trapped in a system increasingly difficult to navigate.
Back in 2022, I was 17 years old. A box of condoms was $15, and I could not easily afford it. I also didn’t have a car, and the closest place to get condoms was 2 miles away. Realistically, is a teenager going to walk 2 miles in the Texas heat to go pick up a $15 pack of condoms? Plus, we have laws around minors accessing birth control without parental consent—that was another barrier, especially because I lived with a single father.
I had also been dealing with a lot of health issues: particularly nausea and something called Premenstrual Dysphoric Disorder. It’s like bipolar disorder or post-partum depression, except that it happens every time you are about to menstruate. It could also be confused for pregnancy-related hormone changes. My cycle also is irregular but averages about 38 days long, so it takes more time for me to realize a missed period. All these factors stopped me from realizing I was pregnant as soon as I could.
When the test came back positive, I knew I wasn’t going to be able to get an abortion in Texas. There was a six-week ban, and I was already past that.
Because of SB 8, a lot of abortion funds weren’t helping patients in Texas. There was that uncertainty about what was going to happen: “Are we going to be criminalized? Are our patients going to be criminalized?” It was a total pause while they were figuring out how to move forward.
I posted a couple of videos on TikTok, talking about having to travel, being pregnant, and what a horrible experience it was, especially as a teenager who was already chronically ill. I got over $400 in donations. Of course, I got hate, but so many people were kind.
My parents took money out of savings, and a few friends and family members contributed to cover the costs of gas, food, and motels. I was feeling a lot of shame, but my mom told me something that helped: “When you are ovulating, when you are fertile, your body is actively trying to get you pregnant. That is the biological purpose of your reproductive system. So, who are you to feel shame for your body working properly?”
Even though it was 700 miles away, my mom and I decided to go with New Mexico, because I have family there.
My mother, my boyfriend, and I left Texas late morning, and we got to New Mexico around 1 a.m. I was constantly nauseous and dealing with awful motion sickness on the 11-hour car ride. My appointment was the next day at 9 a.m.
Our motel was kind of shady—the room smelled weird, and I didn’t feel safe. It was also a quick trip. We left less than 12 hours after the procedure. On the car ride home, the pain and cramping came in waves. But after my procedure, I felt like a weight was lifted off my shoulders.
I want people in similar situations to know there are coalitions out there—people willing to provide legal services or funding. There is nothing wrong with asking for help.
—Dakota B, San Antonio, Texas.
Read more Abortion Diaries.