Every year around this time, I think about my mom. She’s been gone a little more than four years now, but I often reflect on how close I came to losing her, and how close she came to losing me, before my life even began.

When my mother was pregnant with me, doctors had to perform a C-section to ensure I was delivered safely. My family would joke that my head was too big. But in today’s Texas, that same joke lands differently. In our state—especially in places like Lubbock County, where I was born—giving birth is becoming increasingly risky, not because of complications like mine, but because of policy decisions that put ideology over care.

Texas leaders have made headlines for restricting access to abortion, but the issue is broader than that. These laws are creating fear, confusion, and delay in maternal care, even for women and other pregnant people who desperately want to carry their pregnancies to term. And while we don’t talk about it enough, that delay can be deadly.

A tragic example: According to the Texas Tribune, Josseli Barnica, a pregnant woman suffering a miscarriage, died after a hospital said it would be a crime to intervene. She is one of multiple Texas women who lost their lives after emergency care was delayed; doctors caught between their medical judgment and fear of legal consequences.

That fear is only growing. Earlier this year, a Texas midwife was arrested and charged for providing reproductive care; the first known criminal charge against a health care provider under the state’s 2022 abortion ban. Regardless of the facts of the case, the arrest sent a chilling message: medical professionals risk prison for providing care. And when providers are scared, patients suffer.

This culture of fear isn’t just anecdotal, it’s backed by data.

Studies increasingly show that declining maternal health is directly linked to restrictive abortion laws. According to a study published in the National Library of Medicine, restrictions on abortion access—especially in states with a pre-existing Black maternal health crisis, like what we have in Texas—will result in increased mortality and morbidity rates. A Commonwealth Fund report further underscores this connection by finding that states proposing or enforcing abortion restrictions tend to have fewer OB-GYNs, fewer certified nurse midwives, and a higher percentage of counties classified as maternity care deserts. These conditions are directly tied to higher maternal mortality rates. In fact, that same report found that in 2020, maternal death rates were 62 percent higher in abortion-restriction states than in abortion-access states.

Just to show how these policies are negatively impacting Texans, according to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, the rate of maternal deaths in Texas rose 33% between 2019 and 2023, even as the national rate dropped by 7.5%. That’s not just a statistic; it’s a warning sign. To add to this, the rates of sepsis shot up more than 50% for women hospitalized due to complications with pregnancy.

What’s worse, the state’s own Maternal Mortality and Morbidity Review Committee declined to study pregnancy-related deaths from 2022 and 2023, the exact period when Texas’s near-total abortion ban took effect. Without looking at how the law affects pregnant people, how can we honestly say we’re protecting life?

This is a statewide issue. A University of Texas System report shows that areas like Wichita Falls and Abilene, far from the state’s major metropolitan areas, have some of the worst maternal mortality rates in Texas.

We owe Texas families more.

Not every pregnancy ends in joy, but every family deserves a fair chance at it. That means ensuring that people have access to timely, compassionate, and expert maternal care—without fear of prosecution, delay, or politics getting in the way.

If we want more children to grow up with mothers like mine, strong, caring, and willing to fight for their kids; we have to start fighting for them too.