Tracy Marie Taylor

I take a breath so deep it trembles on the way out. 

The fertility app I downloaded keeps sending me notifications about events. One catches my eye: Breaking the Silence: Black Women and Reproductive Justice happening at a community center in Bronzeville. I've seen the notification three times before I finally let myself consider it. Marcus isn't sure—I can feel his hesitation even when he says he supports whatever I decide. 

Still, I go. 

The community center buzzes with quiet conversation. My palms are sweating. I scan the room too fast, terrified I'll see someone who'll ask too many questions about why we really left Alabama. But instead of judgment, I see women who look like me—tired eyes, nervous smiles, but open. Waiting. And slowly, the tight coil in my chest starts to loosen. 

When the panel begins, I'm not prepared for how much it breaks me open. 

Tanya, one of the first speakers, shares her IVF story like she's reading pages from my journal. "I felt so alone," she says, and her voice doesn't break, but mine almost does. "Like I was the only Black woman sitting in those waiting rooms. But that's why I'm here—to say we exist. We're not invisible." 

You've heard this before, haven't you? The isolation. The erasure. Black women disappearing into medical systems that weren't designed for us, becoming statistics in studies that don't name us. 

Then Dr. Lisa Jenkins, calm and authoritative, talks about systemic pressure. "We're taught to be strong, to carry impossible loads without complaint. But silence isn't strength. Sometimes the bravest thing we can do is ask for help." 

I nod before I even realize I'm doing it. Something unravels in me. I feel seen in a way I didn't know I needed. Like someone just handed me a map to a country I've been wandering through blind. 

When the Q&A opens, I almost don't stand. But I think about our depleted savings, about the life we left behind, about all the women still trapped in Alabama. About the networks we need to survive what's coming for all of us. So I stand. 

"How did you manage the financial part?" I ask, voice thinner than I'd like. "Especially if you had to relocate for treatment?" 

A woman named Kendra leans into her mic. "Girl, that's real. And relocating makes it ten times harder." She pauses, looks directly at me. "You came from Alabama?" 

I nod, feeling the room's energy shift. Other women lean forward. We recognize each other now—the reproductive refugees, the fertility diaspora. 

"Thought so. We've seen more families like yours lately." Her voice carries both sadness and solidarity. "I work with this company, Capex. They do loans specifically for fertility care—no judgment, just support. It's not perfect, but for a lot of us, it's one of the only options. Especially for families who've had to start over." 

After the panel, I linger. Women approach me, share their own stories of displacement—not just from Alabama, but Texas, Louisiana, Mississippi. We exchange numbers like we're forming an underground network. Because that's exactly what we're doing. 

Tanya hugs me like she already knows my story. 

"We're in this together," she whispers, and I swallow the lump rising in my throat. "What they did to y'all in Alabama—it's happening everywhere. But so is resistance." 

That's when she tells me about Womb Service. 

What started as a student-run birth control delivery service at DePaul University had morphed into a full reproductive justice network. They were connecting women in fertility deserts to resources, unused medication donations, unlicensed doulas working in the shadows. A digital whisper network disguised as sisterhood. 

"It's not just about the medical stuff," Tanya explains as we walk to our cars. "It's about making sure nobody has to choose between their home and their family. About fighting back against laws that treat our bodies like crime scenes." 

This is bigger than individual treatment, I realize. This is infrastructure. This is how communities adapt when governments fail them. This is how the future builds itself from the ground up. 

Later that night, I'm curled up on our couch, laptop open to both the Capex site and the Womb Service forum. Marcus sits beside me, reading over my shoulder. 

"It's like we're crowdfunding our future," I murmur. "Is this what it takes for Black folks to have families now?" 

His arm slips around my shoulders. "It's not fair," he says. "But maybe... maybe it's a door we need to walk through. And I'll say this—you came back from that panel different. Stronger." 

"I felt connected," I say, resting my head on his shoulder. "To something bigger than just our struggle. Like our pain has purpose. Like it's building something." 

Over the next few days, I dive deeper into Womb Service. At first, I just receive—someone in Denver overnights me unopened progesterone vials that would have expired unused. A nurse in Atlanta sends her leftover Follistim pens. It feels illegal and holy at the same time. Like communion, but with hormones. 

Then I start giving back. Quietly. I boost calls for hormone donations. I link families in banned states to doctors still practicing under the radar. I answer DMs from strangers just starting this same dizzying journey of medical exile. 

One message stops me cold. A woman named Mai from Texas: "Saw your post about Alabama. We're about to make the same choice. Did you know there are lawyers trying to change these laws? Fighting for reproductive refugees like us?" 

I stare at the message for a long time. Reproductive refugees. That's exactly what we are. And we're not alone. We're becoming something new—a diaspora with a purpose. 

I show Marcus the message. "Look at this," I say. "We're not the only ones. And some people are fighting back legally." 

He reads over my shoulder, jaw tightening. "Maybe our story isn't just about getting pregnant. Maybe it's about making sure other families don't have to run like we did." 

I close the laptop and turn to face him fully. "I'm tired," I admit. "But I'm not done. That panel reminded me why we're still fighting. Not just for us, but for everyone still trapped. For the ones who'll come after us." 

He watches me closely, then reaches for my hand. "Whatever you decide—about treatment, about advocacy, about how we use our voice—I'll back you. No questions." 

I close my eyes. This choice could change everything—our bank account, our timeline, our relationship to hope. But I know myself now. I know what I need. And I know what's needed. 

"The loan gives us a real chance at IVF," I say slowly. "And the work with Womb Service... it gives our pain meaning. It builds the infrastructure other families will need. I want both." 

Marcus nods. "Then let's do both." 

You think this is just about one couple's fertility journey? Look closer. This is how movements begin—in community centers and online forums, in shared medications and whispered phone numbers. This is how the future rescues itself when the present fails.