Little-known fact: abortion is technically a criminal offence in England and Wales, governed by a law from 1861, before women got the right to vote.
As powerful anti-choice groups seek to roll back reproductive rights in the UK - as we’ve seen in the US and Europe - Cosmopolitan has joined forces with BPAS, the UK’s leading abortion care service, on a new campaign: End 1861. It hopes to decriminalise abortion in England and Wales.
Head here to take action to raise your voice for choice and fight for bodily autonomy.
Growing up, I saw people on the internet call abortion “the easy way out.” Women were accused of being irresponsible, of not “taking responsibility” for being clumsy, reckless, or not “careful enough.” But let me tell you something: two of the hardest moments of my life were a miscarriage and an at-home early medical abortion. Nothing about either was easy.
Living through both of these experiences hammered home the reality of our current abortion law and its real-world impact.
One was my choice. The other was completely out of my control. But both were painful, lonely, and traumatising. Something that will stay with me for the rest of my life. Along with knowing that, in the eyes of the law, I could be treated not as a patient, but as a suspected criminal.
My miscarriage was sudden and brutal. I hadn’t yet made any decision about the pregnancy, but my body made it for me. I was alone at home, in agony, bleeding and terrified. I called for help because I feared for my life. I didn’t want to be on my own. But the idea that someone might suspect I had done something to cause my miscarriage never crossed my mind... until I found out they could. Because under the Offences Against the Person Act 1861, women who have suffered miscarriages or stillbirths have found themselves being investigated by police, under suspicion for illegal abortions. Those found guilty can be jailed for life.
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This included a 15-year-old girl, who suffered an unexplained early still birth. Police were called by hospital staff who believed she had taken a substance bought online to end her pregnancy.
She had her phone and laptop seized, with police performing an invasive digital strip search, including reading text messages she had exchanged with her boyfriend expressing worry about her pregnancy. The case was dropped after postmortem tests found the baby had probably been stillborn because of natural causes.
During my abortion, I bled so heavily that I passed out and had to be taken to hospital by ambulance [Editor's note: abortion is a safe and common medical procedure, but like any, complications can occur albeit rarely]. Despite taking the pills legally and as prescribed, the bleeding was so severe that I had to have an additional procedure to remove remaining tissue from my uterus. My legs were in stirrups. Exposed. Shaking. Humiliated. I felt guilty. I felt ashamed. And on top of that, I was scared, scared that even though I was well within the legal limit, my experience could still raise questions.
I wasn’t just vulnerable physically or emotionally. I felt vulnerable to being investigated. The pills I had taken were prescribed to me after a phone consultation. I wasn’t anywhere near the 24-week limit. But the pain was so intense, the bleeding so severe, I started to question myself. What if I’d miscalculated the dates? What if someone thought I’d lied? It was terrifying. I couldn’t think straight. It might sound paranoid, but this very thing happened. Nicola Packer, who was found not guilty of having an illegal abortion this month, and who was prescribed abortion pills over the phone.
She was 26 weeks pregnant but believed, at the time, she was six weeks pregnant. It took five years to clear her name.
You might not feel sorry for me. Maybe you think, well, it was “my choice.” Fine. But think about this. That law that is still in place today, in England, in Wales, it’s older than women’s right to vote. Older than the NHS. Older than almost every right we’ve fought to gain. And it's being used more and more frequently.
When Roe v Wade happened in the US, it caused people at home to be outraged, and rightly so. But we also thought we were safe. “That would never happen in the UK,” they said. “We’re more progressive.” But that outrage is built on a false sense of security. The very drugs that saved my life, in different ways, in both of those experiences, are being banned across parts of the US. And here, in the UK, our laws are hanging by a thread.
A change in government could change everything. Because our reproductive rights are still built on a 19th century law that treats pregnancy as a crime waiting to happen.
When I had my abortion, yes, I had access to medical care. Yes, I had the dignity of being at home. But I also had fear. If the pills had arrived too late. If something had gone wrong. If someone had reported me. I could have been investigated, interrogated, even charged. All while going through something that was already unbearable.
And here’s what matters: in both of those moments, I wasn’t doing anything wrong. I was putting my life first. My wants. My needs. My health. I wasn’t committing a crime. I was trying to survive. That’s what “pro-life” should mean.
This isn’t a distant threat. Between 2012 and 2022, at least 17 women in England and Wales were investigated for ending their pregnancies. In the last three years alone, six have been prosecuted. BPAS has received almost 100 police requests for patients’ confidential records — including for teenage girls, survivors of domestic abuse, and women who miscarried unexpectedly at home.
This is happening. Right now. Here. In the UK.
Abortion is still criminalised under the 1861 Act. The 1967 Abortion Act introduced a legal defence of two doctors who approved the procedure, but it didn’t take abortion out of the criminal code. In England and Wales, it’s still legally punishable by life imprisonment.
That’s why I’m backing the End 1861 campaign. This month, MPs have the chance to vote for an amendment that will finally decriminalise abortion. Reports suggest this reform is expected to pass through Parliament this week, but it is not guaranteed until it happens.
That’s why every single one of us needs to put pressure on our MP. We need them to vote to pass this reform. Not later. Not next year. Now.
It won’t change how services are delivered. It won’t change time limits. It will just recognise that abortion is what it’s always been: healthcare.
Every day this law remains in place, women remain at risk. The fear. The silence. The shame. The threat of being treated like a criminal just for surviving something horrific. Whether you’ve had an abortion or a miscarriage, that legal shadow hangs over you.
Abortion is common. Miscarriage is even more so. What’s not common, and what should never be acceptable, is a law that punishes women for surviving the hardest, most vulnerable moments of their lives.
This campaign matters. I stand behind it.
Because no one should grieve a pregnancy loss with a police officer watching.
Because no one should be scared to go to hospital.
Because no one should ever be punished for putting their life first.
It’s time to trust women.
It’s time to decriminalise pregnancy.
It’s time to drag this law out of the 19th century and into the reality we live in.
Join the campaign to End 1861 and email your MP using this template, urging them to vote in favour of the NC1 amendment to the Crime and Policing bill this week
