Un Verano Sin Ti Ornament Decoration

nger be a taboo,” says a woman who takes the microphone, holding her daughter in her arms. “Often many of us have neither the economic stability nor the mental health to take care of a baby.” The young girl tries to take the microphone while her mother speaks. “When I had my daughter,” says the woman, “there were 14- and 13-year-old girls giving birth.” Crystal points out that assistance and information now often flow from Mexico to the US. Migration usually “has criminal connotations,” Crystals says. “I like to think that what we are migrating now is an abortion process and a strategy that shows there are ways to get access.” Just days earlier, she crossed to the US and sent the abortion pill to an American woman who had contacted the Bloodys for assistance. In most parts of Mexico, misoprostol and mifepristone—the medicines used for at-home medical abortions—are easily accessible in pharmacies without a prescription. In the US, restrictions on the prescribing and use of misoprostol and mifepristone are commonplace. The Bloodys have offered this kind of assistance for several years, and they have seen requests increase: from six instances in which they assisted with abortion pills in 2019 to more than 30 between 2021 and 2022.
The acompañantas’ intention is “not sharing a recipe for how things should be done,” Crystal says, “because there should be respect for the US contexts.” The acompañantas’ goal is, at some point, to refer the cases to the US networks. Other groups are also working toward that goal, building deeper alliances with US abortion-rights groups. Natalia Espinosa, a member of Las Confidentas (another Tijuana-based group), states that she will soon attend a workshop where one of the main topics will be binational collaboration. The collaboration is still in its early stages, and all the women know that they have a long road ahead of them.
When my son Shaan said his first words, I was in a meeting. When he first crawled across our carpet, I was at a work event. When he took his first steps, I had to watch him via WhatsApp, because a business trip had taken me hours away. All my life, I wanted desperately to be a mother—struggling with IVF treatments, multiple miscarriages, and a terrifying ectopic pregnancy. But I hadn’t wanted to give up my career for it. Instead, I tortured myself for falling short in both roles: Each missed opportunity at work was a failure, and each missed milestone in Shaan’s life was a gut punch—especially as he’s gotten older, and better able to articulate his sadness and at times, real frustration, that mommy isn’t always home.
Prior to the pandemic, I figured this overwhelming anxiety and guilt was the price I had to pay for my ambition. Of course, it’s a price only women have to pay. But, during COVID, while taking care of my newborn Sai, I realized that it wasn’t such a zero sum game: It was actually possible to advance my career and experience the joys of raising my kids. I could settle Sai for a nap, and be in a meeting five minutes later—travel time eliminated, no need to put on an outfit that looked professional from head to toe.
This isn’t to deny the d