A few weeks ago, I attended my first Senate hearing, hosted by the HELP Committee. The hearing was titled “Protecting Women: Exposing the Dangers of Chemical Abortion Drugs.” That name isn’t exactly subtle. I didn’t walk in expecting it to be productive, respectful, or even remotely neutral. I knew what it would be: lawmakers debating abortion and medicine, science bent to fit political agendas, and men speaking confidently about women’s bodies. None of that surprised me.
What surprised me was how much it still hurt to sit there and listen.
I am a 19 year old girl from North Carolina and I came to D.C. to learn and be in the middle of everything. I study politics. I understand how our government works, how deeply divided it is, and I know I’m not without biases. But no amount of political literacy or knowledge could have prepared me for how it felt to sit in that room. To hear my body and rights discussed like abstract talking points rather than lived realities.
Another thing I was unprepared for was how unfocused the hearing felt. This wasn’t simply a discussion on the efficacy of the pills—which have been FDA-approved for over 25 years. Instead it jumped between arguments about access, coercion, telehealth regulations, and partisan grievances, rarely settling on evidence for more than a moment.
As senators debated abortion pills, I couldn’t help notice how similar it felt to arguments I used to have with my sister growing up: constant interruptions, passive-aggressive remarks, and an absolute refusal to compromise. Everyone arrived with their own claims and sources.
How is anyone supposed to know who to trust?
To me, it seems simple. You look at the facts. During the hearing, 10 studies were cited to suggest abortion pills were unsafe. Two of those had been redacted and one was a self-published policy paper whose CEO admitted mislabeled adverse events. Meanwhile, over 100 peer-reviewed studies were cited affirming the safety of the pill. How was this even an argument?
As the hearing continued it began to feel increasingly detached from reality. Women were discussed, but rarely centered. The idea of “coercion” was framed as a crisis, with concerns of women being pressured into taking abortion pills by partners or family members. Yet as one senator brought up, if coercion is the problem, why oppose choice?
Many of the same lawmakers debating my future are the ones who have cut Medicaid, defunded clinics, and closed facilities that provide not only abortions, but prenatal care and cancer screenings. After seeing how all of their previous decisions have limited women’s healthcare, I just couldn’t understand how anyone could trust that this one would finally be made in our best interest.
That distrust deepened as I looked around the room. Only eight of the 23 committee members were women, and only two were women of color. Of the 12 members in the Republican majority, just three were women. How are decisions about reproductive healthcare supposed to reflect the needs of those most affected when they are barely represented at the table?
As a woman sitting there, listening to my bodily autonomy being debated, I felt invisible.