When Roe v. Wade was reversed, we celebrated in Louisiana. We are a state that has chosen life. We have elected leaders who believe children in the womb deserve protection, and our laws reflect that conviction. Abortion centers have closed. Our legislature classified abortion drugs as controlled substances. We have worked to build a culture that serves women and protects their babies.
But while our laws changed, the abortion industry did not retreat. It adapted. And now we are fighting a new and far more chaotic battle: unmarked abortion drugs flooding into our state from places like California and New York.
Every week, women walk into our center holding drugs that come in nondescript envelopes. No Louisiana doctor. No in-person exam. Sometimes no clear instructions. Just a package in the mail and a website. They sit across from us and ask, “Is this safe? What do I do?”
We are no longer just a pregnancy center. In many ways, we have become first responders.
Recently, a young woman came to us after taking abortion drugs from an out-of-state Planned Parenthood. When complications began, she called the center that prescribed them. She was told, essentially, “You took the pills. You’re back home in Louisiana. Good luck.” Parts of her pregnancy were still in her, and she needed immediate medical attention. She came to us because she had nowhere else to turn. We immediately connected her to the medical care she needed. It saved her life.
But the physical crisis was only the beginning. As we followed up with her, she insisted she was “fine.” Yet, she began struggling with depression and alcohol. We see this pattern again and again. Women trying to push the trauma behind them, while it resurfaces in mental health battles.
We also see coercion far more than most people realize.
In South Louisiana, a minor was forced to take abortion drugs. The prescribing doctor was in New York, protected by that state’s shield laws. Louisiana authorities attempted to pursue accountability, but the doctor could not be extradited. That case only came to light because the woman had to go to the E.R. and the situation became serious enough to draw legal attention.
Another woman came to us after her partner pressured her to take the drugs. She did not want to prosecute him. She just wanted help. Our state has strengthened criminal penalties for coercion involving abortion drugs, but many women are too overwhelmed or ashamed to come forward.
On our mobile pregnancy clinic, which serves some of the most rural parts of northeast Louisiana, a woman boarded while in the middle of an abortion after taking the pills. In that community, the nearest hospital was 30 to 45 minutes away in any direction. We are in a maternal healthcare desert. If she had begun hemorrhaging, time would have mattered. She was scared. Most women are once the reality of what is happening sets in.
Our local hospital has told us they see women dealing with the effects of abortion drugs every shift — hemorrhaging, complications, miscarriages linked to chemical abortions. Monroe is not a major metropolitan city. If this is happening here, it is happening everywhere.
We also hear from women who were instructed not to tell emergency room staff what they took. They are told to say they are having a miscarriage. They are told to use alternate search engines. The pills arrive in unmarked envelopes. Fear is built into the process.
Meanwhile, pregnancy centers like ours are left picking up the pieces. We have hired a professional counselor because the mental health fallout is unlike anything we have seen in my 20 years as a director. We do this because women deserve more than an envelope in the mail and a goodbye message from an out-of-state abortion drug peddler.
Louisiana lawmakers are doing what they can. Classifying abortion drugs as controlled substances was an important step. Our Attorney General has taken legal action to challenge the reckless expansion of mail-order abortion. But as long as the FDA allows abortion drugs to be dispensed without in-person safeguards, states like ours are fighting with one hand tied behind our backs.
This is not a theoretical debate for us. It is daily, boots-on-the-ground reality. It is young women sitting in our office with online-acquired drugs they do not understand. It is rural mothers with no transportation wondering if what they are experiencing is normal. It is incomplete abortions. It is coercion. It is trauma.
Post-Roe, our center has been flipped upside down. Before, we felt like a small ministry quietly serving our community. Now it feels like standing at the gates, confronting a Goliath that defies every safeguard our state has tried to put in place.
Louisiana has chosen life. Our laws reflect that choice. But until federal regulators restore commonsense safety standards and end the mass mailing of abortion drugs across state lines, our women and children remain vulnerable to policies dictated by states that do not share our values.
The women and children of Louisiana deserve better than this.
Lyndsey Sikes is a Louisiana-based pregnancy center leader who works on the front lines serving women facing unexpected pregnancies. She is a passionate advocate for life, strengthening families and mobilizing communities to support both mother and child.
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