Like many millennial daughters of second-wave feminists, I grew up with an explicit understanding of Roe v. Wade’s almost sacred importance to women born in the latter half of the 20th century. In my liberal hometown in suburban New Jersey, high school health class taught safe sex education, and the availability of Planned Parenthood was a foregone conclusion. I don’t know when it became clear that the constitutional right to abortion might not be enshrined forever, but by the time “What Would RBG Do?” prayer candles and the balance of the Supreme Court’s delicate centrist 5-4 makeup became a focal point of liberal politics, I understood the frailty of the hallowed ruling.
When the Dobbs v. Jackson decision overturned Roe v. Wade in June 2022, I did what so many did – marched in the streets chanting, “my body, my choice,” rage-posted on social media, donated to abortion clinics and funds across the country, and urged others to do the same. In red states, trigger bans – laws passed by anti-abortion lawmakers designed to take hold in the case that Roe fell – went into effect and immediately turned back abortion access decades, wreaking havoc on people’s lives and sending panic through reproductive health nonprofits, clinics and medical practices.
In the months after the Dobbs decision, I learned about Holler Health Justice (HHJ) from a friend who grew up in West Virginia. She connected me with Caitlin Gaffin, a childhood friend who had started the abortion fund in 2018. That year, the West Virginia legislature removed the ability for Medicaid recipients to use state-provided health care for abortion, in a state where over 30% of people have Medicaid for health care.
When I met with Caitlin, fellow Holler Health Justice co-founder and director Chela Barajas, and former director Peshka Calloway in January 2023, they quickly crystallized something I’d understood only in the abstract – Roe was never enough. The protection of Roe didn’t make abortion affordable or accessible in West Virginia. It didn’t increase the number of safe clinics in remote hollers or expand the availability of sex education resources. After Roe fell, Holler Health Justice adjusted to the new harrowing reality, but its core mission remained the same.
In the film, we see the networked anti-abortion Christian right capitalize on Roe’s destruction. While abortion clinics disappear, Crisis Pregnancy Centers (CPCs) are multiplying. They are designed to convince pregnant people not to get abortions through coercion, misinformation, and deception. While real clinics and health centers close due to budget cuts, CPCs intercept funding meant to flow to low-income families, and receive state and federal funding to create abstinence-only curriculum for public schools.
Holler Health Justice and abortion funds, by contrast, are funded by the communities they serve. People who were once clients themselves often become volunteers. The group’s staff and co-founders put West Virginia and Appalachia at the core of HHJ’s work: in how they disseminate information and education; talk to their communities; run their hotline; and navigate clients through the winding one-way roads and hairpin turns that span the state’s hills and hollers.
The mission of Holler Health Justice is not to prove that mutual aid is a replacement for the health and safety services provided by state and federal governments. Rather, its work is borne from a tradition of everyday people filling in the gaps when their homes and lives are seen as sources to extract and divest from, not invest in.
The history of monied interests extracting wealth from West Virginia dates back to its coal mines and its timber. The state’s infrastructure has always been tied to industry, and some towns carry the names of corporations that made their fortunes on land and people that received little in return. Today, it is a target for data center developers and bitcoin miners. Their allies in the second Trump administration prioritize war, AI, and self-enrichment while cutting the services and protections that Americans cling to. The Appalachian ethos of Holler Health Justice is rooted in a lineage of people taking care of each other, one of the greatest acts of resistance there is.
The understanding that Roe was never enough puts Holler Health Justice in a position to forge ahead fiercely, to carry on regardless of the law of the land, and to recognize that even when laws rule in their favor, there is always work to do. Holler Health Justice and abortion funds operating across the country offer an alternative to despair in the realm of reproductive healthcare and beyond.
You can listen to Emma discussing her film on Yonder Radio in Episode 128 (9/24/26) on yonderradio.com or wherever you get your podcasts.
Emma Dessau is a documentary filmmaker based in Brooklyn, New York. She’s worked with social justice, labor, and progressive political movements and politicians across the country as a producer, editor, and director.
The post Documentary: Roe Was Never Enough appeared first on The Daily Yonder.
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