The Reality of Being a Woman in America

(My wife sent this to me this morning and asked me to publish it here.)

It’s sobering to realize that at 57 years old, I have fewer fights left in me than I did for the first 55. Life is never black and white. Some moments are so deeply personal and nuanced that they can’t be argued or legislated—and yet, here in America, those moments are now under a microscope, politicized, and weaponized.

Let me tell you my story. My husband and I were blessed with two beautiful boys—now grown men—born in 1996 and 1999. They are my heart. In between their births, though, life handed us something far harder. Like so many couples, we experienced two other pregnancies that ended in miscarriage. Spontaneous abortion, as it’s called in medical terms, that required medical attention and intervention.

The first one, in 1997, was especially hard physically. It happened at the three month mark and I had no doubt that something was wrong. A morning doctor visit which confirmed that the pregnancy was not viable and by the afternoon I started hemorrhaging. I needed to get to the hospital. It was a Catholic hospital, just ten miles from our home. I didn’t know what to expect, but I had no doubt at all that I would get the help I needed.

My doctor didn’t hesitate. No one asked for permission. No one judged or delayed treatment because of religious beliefs or fear of legal consequences. They recognized that I was in crisis, that my life was in danger, and they acted swiftly. I had a D&C that night—a procedure to stop the bleeding and ensure I didn’t develop an infection. Because of their care, I survived. I went home to heal, both physically and emotionally, and two years later, I was able to hold my second son in my arms.

But as I sit here today, thinking about that night, it chills me to the bone: If that same scenario had happened now, in 2024, the outcome might have been very different. With the abortion bans sweeping across the country, I wonder if the doctors at that hospital—any hospital—would have been able to help me without hesitation. Would they have been forced to wait, to consult with lawyers instead of treating me? Would my husband and I have had the time or means to drive across state lines, searching for care? No. Not with how fast I was bleeding.

The truth is, I might not have survived. The odds of developing sepsis—an infection that kills quickly—would have been dangerously high. And for what? Because the people in power today care more about controlling women than saving our lives. This is not hypothetical. It’s already happening.

More than one million pregnancies in America end in miscarriage every year. One million women will experience what I did—the sudden bleeding, the heartache, the desperate need for medical care. And now, thanks to these laws, many of those women will have to fight not just to be seen, but to survive. They’ll be turned away, forced to wait until their lives are at risk, told they must suffer a little longer just to meet someone else’s idea of morality.

Where is the “right to life” in this?

These bans aren’t about protecting life—they’re about power. Power over our bodies, our choices, and our futures. And the price is far too high. Women like me—ordinary mothers, wives, daughters—are now at risk of dying simply because they didn’t have the luxury of quick access to care. The idea that any woman should have to bleed out, develop sepsis, or die because of politics is horrifying. And yet, that’s exactly the world we are living in today.

I am here today, alive and well, because I was given care when I needed it. But now, every day, I think about the women who won’t be as lucky. I think about the one million pregnancies that will end in miscarriage this year—and the one million women who will be thrown into a system that doesn’t value their lives.

This fight isn’t about abstract ideals. It’s about real people. It’s about women like me—and women like your mother, your sister, your best friend—who need care, not judgment. We deserve to live.

We cannot let this stand.