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.

I wanted to learn about abortion access because I thought that pilots like me might be able to fly people to places where they could access care. For several months I did my homework, volunteering at an abortion access organization, talking to experts in volunteer flying, and trying to figure out how it could work.

Another pilot had reached out to some of those same experts. That other pilot and I pooled our money to get the initial legal expenses covered. We published our website, and then things started to go viral in May 2022 after the Dobbs decision leaked.

That September, with so much momentum in partners, volunteers, and donations, I made the switch to full-time. We’ve flown over 1.4 million miles to support more than 2,500 people needing abortion and gender-affirming health care.

Pilots have minimum fly-time requirements to stay proficient. It’s always more fun and engaging to have a reason to fly, as opposed to, “I gotta go out and practice.” If I can take somebody on a trip to get healthcare, that’s an even better reason.

There was an uptick in volunteer sign-ups after the election. About 500 pilots have been through our vetting process. Around 150 or 200 have done at least one flight for someone.

The aviation community is known for being made up of conservative, older, white men. Our volunteer roster skews towards white men, too, but we have much higher percentages of women and people of color than most other pilot organizations. Sometimes people sign up because they’ve had an abortion themselves and want to help people facing barriers. We even get some conservative pilots who feel that the government shouldn’t be telling people what to do with their bodies.

When we connect pilots and passengers, all they exchange is a first name and a phone number. The passenger can use an alias. We can help people who don’t have a driver’s license so they can’t go through airport security. Or maybe someone is in a domestic violence situation, can’t tell anyone they were pregnant, and can’t be away from home very long. We’ve also been figuring out what we can do to support people who need perinatal care. A lot of people are losing access to obstetric care and other forms of pregnancy support.

The vast majority who fly with us have never been on an airplane before. On one of our very first flights, a [patient’s] daughter jumped out of the plane and told the pilot, “That was freaking awesome!”

—Mike Bonanza, executive director, Elevated Access

[em]Read more [/em]Abortion Diaries[em]here.[/em]

This post has been syndicated from Mother Jones, where it was published under this address.

Funder, pilot, survivor, physician: Inside the network assisting abortion journeys

And some women who took them.

^{Mother Jones}

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.

After finishing medical school, an OB-GYN residency, and a family planning fellowship in 2014, I was basically a cog in the wheel of hospital care in New Mexico. Helping people is much more difficult because you can’t just do what you were taught in medical training. If the hospital administration doesn’t want you to perform abortion care because they don’t want protesters outside, then you are not permitted to provide abortion care.

I was in that system for about six years. Then I was approached by Robin Marty, an abortion-rights advocate and communications expert working at a nonprofit called the Yellowhammer Fund that had purchased a clinic in Alabama. They were looking for a new medical director and they wanted someone who was a feminist and who was progressive. Robin Marty threw out my name as an option. I said, “Absolutely. Yes.”

I was pretty much consumed with abortion care: counseling folks, doing dilation and curettage procedures in the mornings and then medication abortions in the afternoons. We had a 48-hour waiting period as well during those times. So, while the state wanted people not to be far along in their pregnancy when they had an abortion, they also wanted people to wait 48 hours just in case they weren’t sure about their decision. That’s all awash now because no one’s allowed to make that decision for themselves—the state has done it for them.

When folks can get the health care that they need in a state like Alabama—in an environment that is structurally racist and misogynist—it’s a relief. The same way you might feel after a car accident, when you wake up in the hospital and the EMTs and surgeons are saving your life. To stick with the same analogy, now the state says, “Well, sorry you were in a car accident. I hope you can put yourself together because it’s illegal for healthcare providers to help you.”

Around every corner, my job became more and more illegal. When the Dobbs decision was announced, Robin Marty texted the staff, “Stop.” We followed her directions so we wouldn’t get shut down and wouldn’t get arrested. We had just lost the ability to help people. We closed for a week to mourn and to regroup and be able to pick ourselves back up and say, “Abortion care is not the only care people need, so let’s keep helping people.” And that’s how we proceeded.

We expanded our reputation and said, “Hey, we don’t do abortions, but we do all these other things now.”

In Alabama, Medicaid will not insure a pregnant person without a doctor’s letter verifying the pregnancy, and doctors’ offices won’t see patients unless they have insurance. If there’s a catch-22 about how to ensure that people do not get prenatal care, Alabama has really figured it out. So, after Dobbs, we prioritized providing what’s called “pregnancy verification” so people could get on Medicaid and have health care early in their pregnancies, when ectopic pregnancies and miscarriages are common.

While I was busy at West Alabama Women’s Center, now known as WAWC Healthcare, I came across an email requesting a traveling abortion provider. “Why couldn’t I be that person?” I thought. I wanted to help people, but I didn’t want to go to prison, which could have happened in Alabama.

I had to obtain a Colorado medical license, which takes months. Thankfully, I did and was able to travel there, where a large portion of the patients were also from out-of-state.

I then went to Colorado once a month, and provided abortion care to patients there, while also maintaining my non-abortion patients in Alabama.

Some folks drive 12 hours, arrive, and find out the bleeding they had last week was a miscarriage, and they aren’t even pregnant anymore. They are scared about their situations, but they are also scared to obtain care where they live. They don’t even want to go get a pregnancy test at their doctor’s office if they are in a state that would arrest them for miscarriage.

The Dobbs decision itself didn’t surprise us; the people in the reproductive justice movement have been telling politicians and voters that it’s been coming down the pike for years. Those people told us we were crazy, that the Supreme Court wouldn’t overturn Roe, because people would die if they did. So, I hate to say I told you so, but we actually, really, literally did tell folks. And now people are dying.

—Dr. Leah Torres, MD MS

Read more Abortion Diarieshere.

This post has been syndicated from Mother Jones, where it was published under this address.

Funder, pilot, survivor, physician: Inside the network assisting abortion journeys

And some women who took them.

^{Mother Jones}

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.

I have three daughters, and I say to them, “Pregnancy is always a risk, so you need to choose when you’re ready for that risk and if you are going to do it.”

Many years ago, I studied in Philadelphia and saw how well they were treating patients—including by providing safe abortions. I felt that care should be available in Mexico, but it was still very restricted at the time. I never expected those dynamics were going to flip. For a while now, MSI Reproductive Choices [an international reproductive health organization formerly known as Marie Stopes International] has been providing abortion training to new doctors in Mexico. Last year, MSI treated about 60 abortion patients coming to Mexico from the US.

Most people here call the procedure an “interruption” because the word “abortion” is still so stigmatized; some patients think they’re going to become sterile or get infected. That is not true. Abortion is safe here. Whether you get an abortion in the US or an MSI clinic in Mexico, you’re going to get the highest standards of care.

For around 2500 pesos [about $125], patients get a physical exam, pregnancy test, ultrasound, bloodwork, and the abortion itself. We can also offer contraception options.

In addition to health care being affordable in Mexico, it’s also accessible from the US. We opened our clinic in Cancun as its location allows us to serve women from many neighboring cities in Mexico. Most cities in the US have direct flights. We are here for anyone who needs us.

We provide a lot of information, so patients know what to expect. But most are very sure about their decision. They know that they don’t want to have a child—or cannot be due to medical or home circumstances.

After the procedure, we provide a survey.

“You saved my life,” they write.

—Dr. Alfonso Carrera, medical director, Fundación MSI (part of MSI Reproductive Choices)

Read more Abortion Diarieshere.

This post has been syndicated from Mother Jones, where it was published under this address.

Funder, pilot, survivor, physician: Inside the network assisting abortion journeys

And some women who took them.

^{Mother Jones}

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.

I am in my 70s and I had an abortion before Roe v. Wade. I was living in Massachusetts. You had to go to the doctor to take a pregnancy test then. When it was positive, and the receptionist asked if I wanted to schedule prenatal care, I said, “No, I’ll go to New York,” because New York was one of the few places that had legalized abortion. The receptionist told me I didn’t have to, I could get an abortion in Massachusetts if I talked to a psychiatrist first, and they made getting an appointment easy. I was in my early 20s, about to start grad school, had just broken up with my boyfriend, and my father was dying. I never really considered carrying the pregnancy to term. These people at my medical practice did not judge me, but instead supported my decision and helped me implement it.

Later, after I married, my husband and I struggled with fertility. We adopted a baby, and then I found out I was pregnant. At 24 weeks, we learned that the baby I was carrying had a condition “incompatible with life.” In great sorrow, we chose termination, mostly because I had a 14-month-old and I couldn’t imagine going through the next three months pregnant and then losing a child. But again, I had so much support from my medical team.

Now I volunteer to provide housing, transportation, and emotional support to people who need abortions in the DC area.

One young girl stayed with me. She was 16, and her mother and younger sister came with her. But more often, I help people who are traveling alone—some don’t want their partners to know, and they feel really isolated.

One young woman told me she was overpowered by her boss at a work party. She felt like she couldn’t let her husband know that it wasn’t his baby. Another young woman was more like me: She discovered her baby would have had a severe birth defect.

A few people have kept in touch. One sends me holiday greetings every year. She has another baby now. Like me, she was able to finish school and choose her own path in life.

Because of my abortion, I finished law school and had a rewarding career. People have asked me why I do this, and whether I get paid. I tell them, “I do this because I’ve been where you are.”

—Anny, volunteer at an abortion Practical Support Network

Read more Abortion Diaries here.

This post has been syndicated from Mother Jones, where it was published under this address.

Find Your Local Practical Support Organization — Apiary for Practical Support

In 2023, there are over 60 organizations working across the country providing practical support to people seeking abortions. The majority of these groups work in specific areas providing local support. A handful work regionally and/or nationally.

^{Apiary for Practical Support}

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.

So much of the barrier to care is an information gap. We have funds, and there are three all-trimester abortion clinics in our region. If more people knew that, I think it would make navigating care easier.

Once they have an abortion scheduled, we can provide financial help for the procedure. If their gap in funding is less than $500, we can generally say, “We’ve got you!” If it’s a much larger gap, we may have to start a “solidarity thread,” which is when we start fundraising with other abortion funds to try to close that gap. Solidarity threads tend to be for cases that are 20 weeks and up because they’re more expensive.

From 20 to 28 weeks, you’re looking at gaps of $5,000 to $6,000. After 28 weeks, you’re looking at $10,000 and up. We have six or seven foundations that give us in the $10,000 to $80,000 range, but most of the rest comes from individuals. In 2023, their contributions allowed us to help almost 4,000 abortion seekers.

On a good week, we can fund 75 to 80 people. If we run out, we try to refer them elsewhere or suggest they call us back next week when our budget resets. Telling someone they might have to reschedule their appointment is not easy. But there’s just such limited funding, and so many people who need it.

After Florida’s six-week abortion ban took effect in May 2024, we saw a big uptick—about 225 percent. [Floridians] now make up the fourth-highest volume of people we fund.

Some people are confused about why they’re having to travel for an abortion when their pregnancy isn’t even viable. Someone told them, “You could die if you continue this pregnancy.” Those are some of the more emotionally complex cases. They’re people who had a wanted pregnancy, and they’ve been told they must travel to a place they’ve possibly never been before to have a potentially multiday procedure.

It should be as easy for everyone as it is in DC, where you can get on the metro system, go a couple of stops, and get to a clinic. Access should not be defined by your zip code.

—Alisha Dingus, executive director, DC Abortion Fund

Read more Abortion Diaries here.

This post has been syndicated from Mother Jones, where it was published under this address.

Funder, pilot, survivor, physician: Inside the network assisting abortion journeys

And some women who took them.

^{Mother Jones}