A crisis close to home
Six years ago, I could have lost my daughter.
Her first pregnancy ended in heartbreak: a miscarriage early in her second trimester. But it wasn’t only heartbreak she faced—it was a medical emergency. She experienced what doctors described as an incomplete abortion—a miscarriage in which her body had not expelled the pregnancy tissue on its own. Without swift medical care, she was at serious risk for infection, hemorrhage, or worse.
Her doctors moved quickly to complete the miscarriage. Still, in the weeks that followed, she was in and out of the emergency room, her body reeling from severe complications caused by the same underlying factors that likely led to the loss. Her pain was constant—her condition, unstable. And the consequences of delayed or denied care could have been catastrophic.
The procedures that helped complete the miscarriage, the care that stabilized her, the follow-up treatment that helped her heal, and the medical support that made future pregnancies even possible—that entire spectrum of care is now under threat across the South.
While many abortion bans claim to include exceptions for miscarriage care, the legal language is vague, and the fear of prosecution is very real. Doctors in some states are forced to wait until a patient is critically ill before intervening—if they intervene at all.
The care that protected my daughter’s life and her ability to become pregnant again is the same care that patients across this region are now struggling to access—not because it’s medically risky, but because it’s legally risky.
A second chance, against the odds
I remember the helplessness of those weeks—watching her fight to recover, wondering what the future held for her. Eighteen months later, when she told me she was pregnant again, I cried—partly from joy and partly from fear.
After everything she’d been through—because of her age, her medical history, and her body’s warning signals—her second pregnancy was considered high risk from day one. And as a Black woman in the United States, the risks were even greater.
Luckily, she had access to everything she needed: close monitoring, specialized prenatal care, and a care team that treated her like the whole, complex person she is—not a liability, not a legal risk, not a political symbol.
That level of care made all the difference.
Because of it, my adventurous, bouncy, curious, and raucous three-year-old granddaughter—my “Lovebug”—now lights up our days with her joy ... and her mischief.
Living my values out loud
Though I never thought of myself as an activist, I’ve never wavered in believing that control over our own bodies is fundamental. Long before I called it “bodily autonomy,” I knew how deeply wrong it felt for anyone to make decisions about someone else's body, their dreams, or their future.
I joined Pro-Choice North Carolina in early 2017, shortly after the 2016 presidential election results prompted me to reassess how my values were being reflected in the world—and decide where my time, energy, and voice could make the greatest impact.
What started as a professional calling has since become deeply personal. Especially after the birth of my granddaughter, the work I do every day has taken on a sharper, more intimate urgency. I’m committed to helping create a world for her that’s freer, more just, and more compassionate than the one she was born into.
Abortion bans hurt everyone
We can’t talk about abortion bans without talking about the ripple effects they create across the entire healthcare system. These laws don’t just target abortion—they destabilize care for everyone who can become pregnant.
That includes people like my daughter, whose life and future fertility depended on timely, compassionate miscarriage care.
Providers are forced to second-guess their decisions. Hospitals delay care due to fear of legal repercussions. Clinics that once offered a full spectrum of services are forced to scale back or shut down entirely. And patients—whether they’re seeking abortion, managing a miscarriage, or navigating a high-risk pregnancy—are left in limbo.
The system is breaking
We’re watching a system that once prioritized patient well-being begin to fracture under the weight of political interference. And the consequences are not evenly distributed. They fall hardest on those already facing barriers to care—Black and Brown communities, rural patients, low-income families, and people with complex medical needs.
My family was fortunate. My daughter had access to a care team that could act quickly and without fear of legal repercussions. But that kind of care is becoming harder to find. And if we allow these restrictions to keep spreading, stories like hers will become the exception—not the rule.
Why I fight
This is why I fight. Not just for the right to abortion, but for the right to safe, timely, and judgment-free care across the entire reproductive spectrum. Because when one part of that system is under attack, all of us are at risk.
Across the South, pregnant people in crisis are being forced to wait until they’re at death’s door to get the very same care my daughter received. Patients are being denied treatment for miscarriages. They're being sent home bleeding, told to come back when their symptoms get worse. Doctors are handcuffed by fear—unable to act until lawyers give the green light. And people who desperately want to build families are left suffering in silence, terror, and grief.
This isn’t theoretical. It’s happening right now. And it’s not just cruel—it’s deadly.
Reproductive health care is health care
Abortion care is health care. Miscarriage care is health care. High-risk pregnancy care is health care. Postnatal care is health care.
These are not separate lanes—they’re part of the same continuum. And when we criminalize one part of that spectrum, we put the entire system at risk.
My daughter’s survival, her recovery, and the safe delivery of her precious baby girl were only possible because she had access to timely, comprehensive reproductive health care. Access to that care should never be determined by one’s zip code or the whims of anti-abortion extremists.
What you can do
Now, with continued and relentless attacks on abortion and reproductive healthcare looming on the horizon, we are seeing too many examples of how banning abortion negatively impacts all maternal and reproductive healthcare.
We need state leaders who will stand up—not sell out or compromise with anti-abortion colleagues who will never stop their efforts to control our bodies. We need courts that will protect our rights, not rubber-stamp extremist agendas. We need organizations, providers, and everyday people raising hell and refusing to back down.
Whatever you’re feeling, you can’t afford to stay silent. None of us can. Together, we have the power to reshape the future of reproductive rights, health, and justice in North Carolina and beyond—but only if we don’t let up.
Support the organizations fighting on the ground—especially here in North Carolina, where the battleground is shifting fast. Show up for local elections. Talk to your friends. And vote like your future, your family, and your freedom depend on it.
Because for many of us, including my Lovebug, it truly does.
By Toni Curry, Development Director at Pro-Choice North Carolina
Grateful grandma. Relentless advocate. Unapologetically loud for reproductive freedom.
Shared with my daughter’s full permission—because her story deserves to be heard.