I was twelve
and already learning
how systems hold you down
before they ever hold you.
A body still becoming
told to become a mother
without a child
told to become quiet
told to become small enough
to fit inside metal cuffs.
Ice packs slipping
because I could not hold them.
Milk building
because I could not release it.
Pain multiplying
because my suffering
couldn’t make them prescribe
any mercy.
I learned then
that dignity is not guaranteed.
That healing can be denied.
That even in a place built for care
some of us may never be free.
And now—
years later,
we wrote it down.
We named the harm.
We called it what it was.
We said:
no more shackles in hospital beds.
no more children punished
for needing care.
no more suffering
that serves no purpose.
Such a small ask.
Such a careful step.
Bare minimum dignity
written into law.
And still—
too much.
Still something to hesitate over.
Still something to reconsider.
Still something
not worth moving forward.
What does that say
about the weight of our pain?
About whose bodies
are allowed to heal?
I carry it still,
the cuffs
the fever
the silence
the way I couldn’t speak
even when everything in me
was screaming.
And now I carry this too:
the knowing
that even when we tell the truth
even when we ask for so little
justice can stall
mid-sentence.
But listen,
I am still here.
That child is still here.
Unfinished, yes.
But not erased.
And this story
will not stay quiet.
***
In 2007, I was 12 years old. I was in custody, in a hospital bed, having just given birth while also dealing with mastitis. I remember trying to express milk while chained to the bed, with male guards watching me. That’s not something you forget.
In California, we shackle kids, pregnant people, cancer patients, even people who have already died. Every year, I work on state legislation that is deeply personal and this is one of those issues.
Shackling people—which includes handcuffs, waist chains, and ankle cuffs binding arms and legs together or to the hospital bed—in medical settings is a public health problem. When someone is sick, recovering, pregnant, or already physically vulnerable, putting them in shackles causes extreme risk. People are more likely to fall, get injured, or develop complications. It also makes it harder for doctors and nurses to do their jobs, delaying diagnoses and treatment when time actually matters.
And shackling doesn’t just affect one person at a time. When care is delayed or disrupted, health outcomes get worse. People end up sicker, in the hospital longer, and needing more care; that puts more strain on a system that is constantly being deprioritized and defunded.
Being shackled while you are trying to receive medical care is humiliating and traumatic. It breaks trust. And when people don’t trust healthcare providers, they are less likely to speak up, follow treatment, or even seek care in the first place. The consequences for our society’s health are extraordinary.
Public health best practice emphasizes trauma-informed, patient-centered, and evidence-based care. Shackling is fundamentally incompatible with these principles.
There is a quiet erosion of our human rights happening in advocacy, public health and otherwise. It is not driven by opposition, but by our own hesitation. Too often, the boundaries of what we fight for are not shaped by principle, but by what feels politically palatable to those who already resist change. We have accepted a dangerous habit—negotiating with injustice before we have even challenged it.
Courage in this space does not mean ignoring political reality. It means refusing to let that reality define the limits of our vision. It means recognizing that dignity does not expire at the prison gate and certainly not at any hospital bedside.
The opposition will always tell us what is “possible.” Our responsibility is to decide what is acceptable.