Hi, hello, friends.
It is quite a time. There is so much to take in — volume-wise and also intensity — from the world right now. Gaza. The abysmal US presidential election that is shaping up. Alabama’s alarming Fetal Personhood ruling. A lot of it is so heavy and dark that it can feel suffocating. Overwhelming. Then, of course, the guilt of feeling like we’re not taking in enough. We’re not keeping our eyes open enough. There is a need for breaks, and space, and joy, and forgetting bad things; but we know that doing so is a deep privilege.
Why do some losses or bad news hit us harder than others? Is it the particular makeup of soft and raw that we are at the time? Is it the other, latent losses, that it stirs up? It can surprise you what stings.
I’m still processing the news I read a few weeks ago, that Cecile Richards, the former President and CEO of Planned Parenthood Federation of America, has brain cancer — glioblastoma — and probably about a year to live.
It’s always sad to hear that someone has cancer, and maybe you wonder if you’re next. But this news hit me differently. Cecile is for me, like many of my fellow aging millennials who grew up in the reproductive rights movement, a towering figure. Someone who seemed unbreakable so that we believed we might be too.
As we age, the scaffolding around us — in the form of people, places, and things —begins to weaken and eventually, steadily, inevitably falls away. Sometimes it’s a slow decay that is imperceptible until a bottom falls through. But other times, the collapse is dramatic. A great timber! with a booming shudder and you are left blinking into the bright exposure of mortality where a wall once was.
My first job out of school was at Planned Parenthood Federation of America, the mothership in New York City. I graduated with my Master in Theological Studies from Harvard Divinity School, then moved to NYC to start as a paid intern in the international division, making $15 a hour. I deferred my student loans and crashed at my boyfriend’s apartment, paying him and his roommates (I think) $100 a month, staying with him on a twin mattress in a nook off his roommate’s bedroom which we close off each night with a piece of found plywood.
Cecile was / is fabulous. Elegant. A total powerhouse. From a bloodline of organizers and odds-beaters. She seemed so… unbreakable. To join the reproductive rights movement in 2006/2007 was to step into the goal during a sudden-death penalty shootout. Though it probably still feels like that today. We were “under attack,” fighting back against the “war on reproductive rights,” on the back foot forever and always, it felt. It was a cortisol-fueled, (often too white) feminist-ranting, fuck-the-patriarchy kind of mindset and bitch face that never rested. It was an entire persona, a way of living. It was my entire persona and way of living.
A towering figure isn’t perfect, nor a hero. And I’m not suggesting Cecile was, nor Planned Parenthood. But both occupy unmistakable space in my memory, and in my personal history. And in this case, our collective history as well. Cecile modeled for me what it was to take up space. She took up space, she held space, and she stepped forward in front of the firing range again and again, so many of us didn’t need to. She was known to take the subway to work, despite near-constant threats to her safety and ours.
In 2009, Dr. Tiller, a late-term abortion provider, was shot to death at pointblank range by an anti-abortion activist as he attended church on a Sunday. We gathered in our building’s penthouse to hear and process the devastating news. Cecile stood steady and tearful. I think she had already spoken to George’s widow. We felt protected at that moment, if heartbroken. That was also the year of the financial collapse that meant scores of layoffs and, in part, set off a continuous chain of mergers and acquisitions among Planned Parenthood clinics across the country. The hits seemed to keep coming but we were gritty and angry and fuck you come at us.
In 2011, Planned Parenthood was besieged by a sting of undercover videos in their clinics across the country, suggesting underage coercion. It was a total nightmare, but Cecile captained us through. In 2015, she faced a blistering GOP review suggesting sordid activities and criminal financial dealings. The hits kept and keep on coming. And if you stopped to you let yourself think too closely about it — that an entire highly-funded system of power was out to get YOU and your agency and your body — then you just might not leave your bed the next day. Brutal is an understatement. And Cecile stood strong.
I have to wonder about the impact on her brain, her heart, her nervous system. I have often wondered about the impact on my own. Almost everyone I know from the reproductive rights movement has been burned out to a crisp, or betrayed, or bitterly disappointed, or become just so fucking exhausted.
In the office, I was a nobody. Sitting in an empty cubicle on the 11th floor, organizing our team’s shared drive on my clunky desktop, I felt a thrill when she’d glide by. She often made the rounds. Soft, platinum pixie, soft, smooth skin, lovely, crisp skirt suit, elegant gait and drawl. Just dreamy.
I studied her mannerisms, tone, and words during all her speeches and interviews, dreaming some day to be so articulate. I felt wholly inspired to unleash every aspect of my advocacy. For me, this lay primarily in my words. I began to flex my voice during this time.
I penned posts for Planned Parenthood’s blog, which were often returned to me almost entirely redlined, and cut my teeth as a young ghost writer for my several bosses. I covered reproductive rights in my free time at a small feminist blog, writing hours and hours for free, researching, consuming, forming more and more powerful frames to express the heartbreaking outrage of our movement.
I had never been pregnant, thus never had an abortion. Yet the injustice of its restriction felt personal, reaching deep into my marrow. I was entirely consumed with passion for this issue. I was a fervent adherent to the fundamentalist cult of bodily agency.
My first foray into space holding was for myself, as a tortured and emotional middle child of three girls. The second was when I became an abortion counselor in 2007.
That’s how much I loved the movement. That’s how deep my loyalty was to Cecile. I got a second job at a Planned Parenthood clinic on the weekends, when I wasn’t at my Planned Parenthood day job.
My job as an abortion counselor was to take basic medical history — including past pregnancies or abortions — and screen for signs of coercion or abuse that would require a client to meet with a social worker. In thoughtful, simple language, I would explain their particular procedure to them. I would inquire whether they were on birth control or wanted to be, and explain to them their options.
Although I never asked and did not deserve any such information, most clients would offer apologetic explanations about why they were there. The implication was always, “don’t think this is who I am” or “I know I did a bad thing and I’m sorry”. This is, of course, exactly what our social systems wanted us to believe. This is, of course, bullshit. The explicit reality was that we live in a society where undue guilt weighs disproportionately leaden on women for virtually everything, from sexual assault and harassment to parenting challenges to unintended pregnancy.
Sometimes, I couldn’t help myself but counteract such self-castigating talk, but mostly I also strived to stay steady. Loving neutrality. I didn’t want to justify such misogynistic garbage with a rebuttal. Instead, I wanted to transcend it. Offer affirmations that enveloped the woman in front of me with love, support, and a confirmation that she is totally good, valuable, and more than enough.
“This happens in life sometimes. We will take good care of you, and you’ll be on your way soon. You are doing exactly what you need and want to do, and we support you.”
I was the very last person a client would see before stepping into the procedure room. I treasured this mythical responsibility. My role was as guide and gatekeeper to the liminal or terrifying or inconvenient or forgettable or relieving, or all of these things at once— whatever their abortion might mean for them that day.
I held space for folks in a wild range of states: terror, anxiety, apathy, relief, ambivalence, and much more. I felt a sense of purpose offering steadiness warm and wide enough to hold it all. I wanted them to feel as whole, as supported, and loved for that journey as anyone could feel.
An abortion doula might be in the room with you for your procedure, holding your hand and supporting your breath. I took people all the way but there, and I rarely saw them after. Just in the pregnant before.
An abortion, like any other event in our lives, creates a before and an after. Before, there is a pregnancy; After, there is not. Before, you do not have this abortion story; After, you do. It is yours to tell, or not, as you wish.
Speaking about her cancer diagnosis, Cecile refers to her life as before tumor (BT) and after tumor (AT). Some events change our lives forever, and others are just sweet little beauty marks.
Glioblastoma is one of the most aggressive, complex, and treatment-resistant cancers. Its causes are unknown, there is no way to prevent it, and even if removed, it always returns. It is relentless and fatal, much like the anti-abortion movement. While it can be managed in various ways, Glioblastoma is not something to fight, per se, because a win is not possible.
During my coming of age in the reproductive rights movement, Roe v. Wade stood as a heavy scaffold. You’d hear “Roe” thrown around so casually and constantly, you might mistake it for a reference to a dear friend in town for a visit, or a hot brunch spot. There were horror stories from the time “before Roe,” when desperation drove women to commit unthinkable acts of violence against their own bodies, just for the chance to choose. “After Roe” was supposed to be a bright and gleaming modern time from which we’d never go back and where our bodies guaranteed our choices. Except it was never quite the case.
Nearly two years ago, Roe was overturned. We had a before-Roe, an after-Roe, and then a post-Roe. In a predictable culmination of a decades-long effort by the anti-abortion movement, Roe toppled to the ground in a great heap. Like a grand old barn that had withstood too many brutal winter frosts and thaws, whose shattered windows had enabled generations of rodents to nibble and nest, whose wood was now rotted and whose paint chipped, it only took one final heave to raze the structure.
How do you live well once the scaffolding of your life begins to list and fall? And what about once you become aware of what the scaffolding falling means?
That current and future generations will not have the abortion access we did.
That no one is unbreakable, even mythical figures in lovely power suits.
That we are frail and random beings here for just a time.
That we live in a world thrust with violence against women in every possible form, at every possible turn.
That we are just trying to get off the back foot.
That cancers may be growing (or not), and we may not know.
That we can give everything to a movement, knowing to our core that it’s our fundamental right, still it’s not enough.
As the scaffolding falls, there is sadness and there is also space. There is gratitude for what once stood and new possibilities — terrifying and exhilarating — and what might come next. Thank you, Cecile. Thank you, Roe.
There is light let in. New vistas and clarity. You’re in a before, certainly, and you’re simultaneously in an after. Love, breath, presence, the remembrance that we are whole and good no matter what… these are some of the things I can think of which can sustain us through these falls.
To stay in the loop on abortion rights, I highly recommend ’s Abortion, Everyday and ’s excellent writing.
Our next monthly Meditate with Plants is Sat. March 30th at 9am at Merrihew’s Sunset Gardens in Santa Monica. $15 advance or $20 at the door. Space is limited and we’ve been filling up! It’s such a lovely time, please join us.
I have a few spots open for 1:1 narrative coaching + voice cultivation. I spent decades doing this with leaders across the global health space. I adore supporting folks in this crucial self-efficacy work. More here.
I offer 1:1 coaching + support for folks navigating any aspect of fertility. This is mindful, spacious, trauma-informed support in the face of complexity + overwhelm. More here.
Bespoke placenta paintings. More here.