The Silent Fight

By Martha Aguilar

September 1st, 2023

Mea stared at the ceiling, the familiar ache creeping through her muscles, tensing with each passing second. The headaches had become a constant, pulsing reminder of her body’s struggle. The nights were the worst—sleep eluded her as the spasms twisted her legs, each jolt a reminder of the battle she faced every day. She hadn’t always felt this way. There was a time when her body worked with her instead of against her.

It wasn’t until she was diagnosed with polycystic ovarian syndrome (PCOS) that the severity of her symptoms made sense. The irregular cycles, the chronic pain, the anemia. It all became a pattern of survival, managed only by one thing: birth control. A simple pill that regulated the chaos inside her.

The pill had changed her life. With it, she could work, she could focus in school, and the once-crippling cramps eased into something bearable. Life wasn’t perfect, but it was manageable. Until the news came.

Her phone buzzed with notifications one morning. The pill might be banned. The words seemed impossible. “They can’t do this,” Mea muttered. “They wouldn’t.”

But the government could. The country was shifting in ways she couldn’t have imagined. News reports flooded her screen—certain states moving to limit birth control access, claiming it was unnecessary, claiming it was a luxury women could do without. Mea knew better. For her, it wasn’t about preventing pregnancy. It was about surviving the day-to-day. Without birth control, her body would betray her again.

The days following the news felt like a blur. She missed work, her muscles and nerves too tangled in pain to do anything productive. She couldn’t afford to lose the job—her health insurance was tied to it. Without the insurance, she’d have no access to the medication she needed to stay functional. Mea wasn’t the only one either. She’d read the stats: 90% of women from ages 18 to 64 had used or were currently using birth control for a range of reasons, from managing conditions like hers to relieving symptoms of depression and anemia. It wasn’t a luxury—it was a necessity.

The panic didn’t settle in fully until one night when she couldn’t refill her prescription. The ban had come quicker than anyone expected. Only a handful of states, including Arizona, had made progress allowing birth control to be obtained directly from a pharmacist, but not without jumping through hoops—questionnaires and health checks. In the surrounding states, access was crumbling. Arkansas, Mississippi, Missouri, Texas—their governments had clamped down hard. They called it control, but to Mea, it felt like they were taking away her freedom to live a normal life.

She sat at her kitchen table, phone in hand, trying to reach her state legislator. If they don’t hear us, we’ll lose more than just a pill, she thought. We’ll lose control over our own bodies.

The cramps hit again, sharp and unforgiving, but Mea pressed on, dialing the number. She wasn’t going to be silent. Not now, not when the stakes were this high. She wasn’t fighting just for herself but for every woman who had to endure the quiet pain of living in a body that refused to cooperate. For every woman who needed more than a policy.

Her voice may have started as a whisper, but it would become something louder. Mea had learned long ago that survival wasn’t just about medication—it was about fighting for your right to exist in your own skin.