When Rebecca Grant went freelance full‑time back in 2014, editors barely gave a nod to reproductive health as serious reporting. Back then, abortion rights rarely made headlines. Fast‑forward to post‑2016, and everything’s changed. Suddenly, readers clamoured for stories on where and how people access care – and that’s where Grant stepped in, grabbing attention on platforms like This American Life, and writes for The Nation, Cosmopolitan and The Guardian.
Now she’s out with her new book Access : Inside the Abortion Underground and the Sixty‑Year Battle for Reproductive Freedom (Simon & Schuster, 480 pages, about £23), which she describes as the “culmination” of ten years tracking this fast‑moving beat. Grant tells us she’s shifted focus, from legal rights to “access-based” frameworks – in other words, not just whether the law says you can, but how you get the care you’re entitled to.
In the wake of Dobbs v Jackson in 2022, the fallout was sudden and severe. Grant chronicles how, within 100 days, at least 66 clinics across 15 states closed or paused abortion services. Panic set in. Providers frantically rerouted appointments and mobilised aid networks. She captures the surge of creativity: pop‑up clinics, volunteer pilots flying people to safe havens, mobile services delivering pills… even talk of offshore boat clinics echoing the spirit of Rebecca Gomperts’s Women on Waves movement. And groups like Just the Pill and Planned Parenthood are doubling down to keep vital access afloat.
Grant’s history stretches back to the Jane Collective of the late ‘60s and early ‘70s, whose secretive network helped people navigate illegal abortions. Fast‑forward through decades of grassroots organising like Shout Your Abortion in 2015, and here we are in 2025, post‑Dobbs, with a resurgence of underground networks – not hiding, but resisting in public with digital pill smuggling and telemedicine routes backed by legal advocates.
There’s an international dimension too: Dutch doctor Rebecca Gomperts’s floating clinic model, which sidesteps restrictive land laws, makes a powerful cameo. Grant’s enthralled by that “bad‑assery and defiance,” and digs into global groups like Women on Web and U.S.‑based Aid Access, the first tele‑abortion service in the States
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Despite tackling activists operating above ground and underground, Grant takes great care to protect sources. She worked with lawyers to shield identities, especially with legal climates shifting unpredictably. At the end of Access, she even lists organisations offering medical, legal and emotional support – and practical protocols for medication abortions. Grant says that kind of tangible guidance matters, especially now that digital platforms actively censor reproductive‑health content.
To celebrate the book’s release (out 24 June in the U.S.), Grant’s hosting a Literary Arts event in Portland on 1 July, chatting live with fellow journalist Zoë Carpenter – and even inviting groups like Planned Parenthood Columbia Willamette and the Northwest Abortion Access Fund along, so there’s hands‑on info for anyone who needs it.
Portland itself plays a key role in the story: Oregon borders Idaho, one of the strictest states for abortion, so people travel from all over to access care at places like OHSU. As Grant puts it, she’s thrilled to be in a region where talking about abortion isn’t taboo. Instead, locals say, “Oh, that’s so cool — that’s what we need”.
Access spans six decades of struggle, ingenuity and bravery – from clandestine providers in the shadows to digital help desks in the mainstream. It’s a rallying cry for future activism, a history lesson, and a practical guide all rolled into one. After a decade of reporting, Grant’s showing how bold journalism can illuminate hidden networks that quietly ensure reproductive freedom survives – and thrives.