Abstract
Reading S. E. S. McCormick's We are pregnant with freedom: Black feminist storytelling for reproductive justice felt less like reading a traditional academic text and more like sitting in a room full of women speaking their truths, one after another. The stories in this book do not politely ask for attention—they demand to be heard. From the beginning, I found myself leaning into the pages, drawn to voices that are too often ignored, dismissed, or spoken over in national conversations about reproductive rights. McCormick doesn’t just spotlight these voices—she stands beside them, and in many ways, within them.
The emotional grounding of this book is one of its greatest strengths. McCormick writes not as a distant scholar but as someone shaped by her own reproductive experiences, including traumatic ones. She shares her story with a vulnerability that sets the tone for the entire work. Rather than separating herself from the narratives of other Black women, she writes with a sense of shared struggle and shared survival. This personal positioning made me feel more connected to the material, and it reminded me that reproductive justice is not an abstract concept—it is lived, breathed, and felt.
A central theme running through the book is the power of storytelling. For McCormick, storytelling is more than a method; it is a form of resistance. The women whose voices fill these chapters talk about miscarriage, medical neglect, fear, resilience, joy, and community. Their words carry a kind of emotional authority that no statistic can replicate. As a reader, I felt the weight of their stories—especially those that describe the violence of the medical system and the disproportionate risks Black women face in reproductive care. It felt personal to read, even as someone outside of those specific experiences, because McCormick makes it clear that reproductive justice relies on all of us to listen differently and more intentionally.
What also struck me was how McCormick expands our understanding of reproductive justice. She does not limit the discussion to abortion access or childbirth. Instead, she widens the lens to include economic well-being, stress, neighborhood conditions, maternal mortality, relationship support, and exposure to state surveillance. As I read, I kept thinking about how much reproductive life happens outside of clinics and hospitals—how it is shaped by the environment a person moves through every day. This broader framing made the book feel deeply aligned with social work's commitment to understanding people within their wider social contexts.
McCormick's interdisciplinary approach also adds depth to the narrative. She brings in poetry, film, art, and performances that center Black women's reproductive lives. These cultural references made the book feel textured and dynamic, as if the stories were echoing across different media. I appreciated how she blended scholarship, art, and lived experience without letting one overshadow the other. It made the storytelling feel fuller, more alive.
The chapters that connect reproductive injustice to carceral systems were some of the most powerful for me. McCormick makes clear that Black women's reproductive lives are not only shaped by medical discrimination but also by policing, incarceration, and surveillance. Her analysis pushed me to think about reproductive justice in a more intersectional way. It reminded me that the same systems that criminalize Black communities also restrict their reproductive choices and safety. This perspective feels especially urgent for social workers who interact with families navigating these very systems.
Texas plays a large role in the book, not just as a setting but as a living context that shapes the stories told. McCormick is honest about the severity of reproductive restrictions in the state, yet she also highlights moments of community care, connection, and resistance. This balance stood out to me. Even in the face of oppressive laws and dangerous medical conditions, Black women in Texas continue to find ways to support one another. The book honors that resilience without romanticizing the pain behind it.
The epilogue, “You Won’t Break My Soul,” felt like the emotional heart of the entire project. McCormick writes not only about the past and present but also about a future where reproductive freedom is possible. What touched me most was the sense of hope—quiet, persistent, and communal. It made me pause and think about what reproductive justice should feel like, not just look like, in policy documents.
Overall, We are pregnant with freedom is a transformative read. It illuminates the stakes of reproductive justice through voices we all need to be listening to more closely. McCormick succeeds not because she tells the reader what to think, but because she allows the women in these pages to speak for themselves. Their stories stay with you. They stayed with me. This book will resonate deeply with feminists, social workers, and anyone committed to equity and liberation. It is both education and invitation—an invitation to bear witness, to rethink our assumptions, and to imagine reproductive justice as something rooted in community, memory, and the unwavering strength of Black women.
