Why the Blake Lively Case Matters—and Why Most Women Like Her Have No Legal Recourse

According to Blake Lively’s allegations, Justin Baldoni repeatedly discussed his porn addiction and personal sex life, made comments about her body and improvised physical intimacy that had not been choreographed.

Her claims were dismissed, not because a judge found them lacking in merit, but for procedural reasons tied to her independent contractor status under California law. The harassment itself was never adjudicated.

In 2019, in direct response to the #MeToo movement, New York state lowered the bar for what constitutes sexual harassment. Under current New York law, a worker cannot be subjected to inferior terms or conditions of employment because of their sex. Behavior that rises above a petty slight or trivial inconvenience is now actionable.

In my practice, I see the real effects of sexual harassment on women every day. That psychological weight is real and costly. Not only are women jumping from job to job to avoid harassers, but companies are also losing talented employees.

It is time for federal law to catch up, lowering the standard so that harassment that subjects women to inferior terms and conditions of employment is actionable, regardless of which state they work in.

Women’s Sports Were Built by Letting Girls In

When the Supreme Court upheld West Virginia’s ban on transgender girls participating in girls’ school sports in West Virginia v. B.P.J., it said the ruling was about protecting the safety and fairness of women’s and girls’ sports. I hear that claim against everything I actually lived.

Thirty years ago, in United States v. Virginia, the Supreme Court held that generalizations about “the way women are” cannot justify denying opportunity to women whose talent and capacity place them outside the average description. That principle didn’t just build my generation of athletes. It built a generation of women: the litigators and judges, the surgeons, the CEOs and entrepreneurs, the senators and governors, the police officers and firefighters and fighter pilots, the women who were the first of everything. Every one of those doors was held shut by the same argument Virginia made: Most women wouldn’t want this, most women couldn’t do it.

Women of my generation didn’t fight to be seen as individuals—as athletes, as leaders, as whatever they had it in them to be—only to watch that principle eroded now, in their name and over their objection.

More than half a century ago, this country decided that girls who had been told they didn’t belong on the field belonged there after all. I got to live the proof of that promise. The work now is to keep that promise for every kid who wants to play.

A Single Abortion Clinic Closing Rarely Makes Headlines. What Happens When None Are Left?

Picture a map of the United States. It’s 2022, and in southern states like Texas and Tennessee, there are clusters of black dots that represent independent clinic closures. These are abortion care black holes: communities where it’s no longer possible to get an abortion at a nearby clinic.

Fast forward to present. It’s 2026, four years after the Supreme Court’s decision in Dobbs v. Jackson Women’s Health Organization, and black dots have multiplied in states across the country. It no longer matters if the state is red or blue, governed by conservatives or progressives. None are immune to the increasing weight of political pressure, financial strain and operational difficulty that are forcing independent clinics to close or stop providing abortion care.

Each of these black dots is a community suffering a healthcare crisis, and they are proliferating across the United States at a rapid rate.

Independent clinics are often the only places to get clinical abortion care, unbiased information and support for pregnancy options. They are where people go to feel safe and respected, whether they are getting an abortion, continuing a pregnancy or getting gender-affirming care. In small towns and rural spaces, these clinics are often the only safe place for many people, especially those who are LGBTQIA+. If clinics close, there is often nowhere else to go.

And once abortion clinics close, it’s not as simple as reopening when they can, if they can. Even if a specific restriction is lifted, severe financial constraints, continued political hostility, threats of violence and legal uncertainty still stand.

A Rape-Survivor-Turned-Prosecutor Is Teaching Women How to Heal

One of us is a doctor, the other a lawyer. We’re also members of a club that no woman ever asks to join, but too many are forced into, often by men they loved and trusted.

JoDee Neil, a Texas attorney and former prosecutor, has spent her career seeking justice for survivors of sexual violence. Now, in her new book Outcry Witness, she tells her own story—one shaped by rape, trauma and the long, uneven path toward healing. As survivors ourselves, we recognized something familiar in each other: the understanding that comes without explanation, and the belief that when institutions fail us, women often become each other’s lifeline.

An “outcry witness” is the first person a survivor tells about their abuse, and that response can shape the course of healing. Neil argues that being believed is not a small act of compassion—it is the foundation on which survivors rebuild their lives.

In an era when powerful men continue to evade accountability, Outcry Witness offers something the legal system too often cannot: validation, community and hope.

Our conversation became more than an interview. It became a reminder that storytelling is itself an act of resistance—that women speaking honestly to one another can challenge shame, expose violence and create the conditions for healing.

“We are at the precipice of the dam breaking,” Neil told me. “We’ve never been able to communicate in real time with each other, to really put the pieces together. … I am so full of excitement to be a part of this movement for humanity.”

Her book is an invitation for survivors to do exactly that.

The World Cup Is Here—But Who Is It For?

Soccer is one of the most beloved sports in the world, and the 2026 FIFA World Cup—the largest in the tournament’s history—has drawn millions of fans across the globe. This year, for the first time, the event is being jointly hosted by the United States, Canada and Mexico, with matches and related events taking place across North America.

FIFA stands to earn billions of dollars from the tournament.

But as the organization reaps record revenues, many host communities are bearing significant costs. Soaring ticket prices, displacement, labor concerns and aggressive immigration enforcement have raised questions about who truly benefits from the World Cup. For many working-class residents—and even lifelong soccer fans—the tournament is out of reach.

To better understand those impacts, I spoke with Jennifer Li, co-director of the Center for Community Health Innovation at the O’Neill Institute and director of Dignity 2026, a coalition of labor and human rights organizations working to protect communities most at risk during the World Cup.

Soccer “is very much an immigrant sport, let’s face it,” said Li, “and by extension, a sport for people of color, diverse communities. It is a sport that’s not expensive to play, but very expensive to watch, apparently. So, the question then becomes: Who is this for?”

What Do Most Female Prisoners Have in Common? They Are Actually Victims.

When I first began reporting on incarcerated women, I was fascinated by studies that showed that showed that upwards of 70 percent of women in jails and prisons were subjected to intimate partner violence before they were incarcerated.

But as I covered more stories on the topic, I started to see that, more disturbingly, many women I interviewed had been incarcerated because they responded to violence perpetuated against them.

Again and again in my research, I came upon cases in which a woman claimed that she had acted in self-defense, or had followed orders from an abuser because she didn’t want to die, or had protected a loved one — and she was subsequently charged with murder, convicted, and locked away, sometimes for life. This is the little-known phenomenon termed “criminalized survival.” I wanted to understand how common it was.

‘They’re Taking Our Humanity Away’: Kimberlé Crenshaw on Her Memoir, America’s Future and Why the Fight for Justice Requires ‘Backtalking’

For decades, pioneering legal scholar and activist Kimberlé Crenshaw has shaped the language we use to understand systemic injustice—from coining the term “intersectionality” to helping launch the #SayHerName movement.

In her new memoir, Backtalker: An American Memoir, Crenshaw traces the personal and political experiences that shaped her work, while warning that the attacks on critical race theory, feminism and Black women are inseparable from the broader erosion of democracy itself.

In this wide-ranging interview, Crenshaw reflects on Anita Hill, Clarence Thomas, “intersectional failure,” the backlash against Black women leaders and the dangers of what historian Timothy Snyder calls “anticipatory compliance.” She argues that today’s political moment—from attacks on independent journalism to the dismantling of civil rights protections—demands a more expansive understanding of solidarity and resistance.

“The other side doesn’t want us to feel empathy,” Crenshaw says. “They’re taking our humanity away, the thing that makes us humans and not a machine.”

Crenshaw also speaks candidly about the personal costs of “backtalking” to power, the unfinished grief that continues to shape her activism, and why she still believes collective action and moral clarity matter.

“One step forward can lead to five or 10 steps back,” she says. “When we see the forces of retrenchment coming on the horizon, we must pick up every weapon we have to fight against it.”

‘A Warning Shot’: DOJ Indictment of Southern Poverty Law Center Sparks Outcry Across Civil and Women’s Rights Movement

The U.S. Department of Justice’s criminal case against the Southern Poverty Law Center marks a stunning escalation in the federal government’s attacks and aggression toward civil rights organizations. A grand jury has indicted the SPLC on charges of wire fraud, bank fraud and money laundering—allegations the organization has called false and politically motivated.

The charges are rooted in bad-faith characterizations of payments SPLC made to informants in extremist groups like the Ku Klux Klan. Trump’s DOJ is attempting to argue these payments counted as financial support. In reality, the SPLC’s work helped dismantle some of the country’s most prominent white supremacist groups.

For feminist and civil rights groups, the indictment is the clearest sign yet of an escalating campaign to intimidate the nonprofit sector, criminalize civil rights advocacy and silence dissent. In their view, the administration is not only attacking outcomes or messages, but working to turn the machinery of government itself against advocacy groups: criminal law, regulatory scrutiny and national security frameworks.

Inside the DC Jail Debate Team, Women Find Their Voice

“I know of a woman who spent most of her first prison sentence in isolation. She had no access to programs to help her heal from childhood trauma, abuse, neglect or depression,” Chelsee Wright wrote in remarks prepared for a February debate. “Without mental healthcare, she self-harmed and attempted suicide multiple times.”

Wright is part of the DC Jail Debate Team, founded in 2024 as the first coed team in the National Prison Debate League. Each semester, up to 20 participants—many without prior debate experience—meet twice a week inside the Washington, D.C., jail.

At a February debate on solitary confinement, Wright delivered her closing remarks: “When her release date was near, she intentionally assaulted officers. She needed more time.

“Three years later, she thought she was ready … but the outside world was intimidating. Now she’s back in jail on a charge that could have been avoided if she had healthier coping tools. Being home felt uncomfortable. You wouldn’t believe this, but solitary felt like home. Being controlled, degraded and caged was what she was used to. No human should feel this way—to the point where human contact is frightening.”

She paused for a few seconds, then added, “And by the way … the woman I just described is me.”

(This story is part of “Breaking the Cycle,” a three-part Ms. series on how women impacted by incarceration are building new futures—from education and job training, to debate teams and book clubs inside jails. Later this week: how women behind bars are finding their voices in public debate, and building community through literature.)

‘The Other Roe’ Film Shines a Light on Forgotten Abortion-Rights Case Doe v. Bolton

On June 24, 2026, we’ll reach the fourth anniversary of the Supreme Court’s infamous Dobbs decision that overturned Roe v. Wade in 2022. This year, which would have been Roe’s 53rd anniversary, also coincides with the United States’ 250th, reminding us that while the U.S. has been independent since 1776, American women are still far from having full rights and power over our own bodies.

Roe v. Wade, which passed in 1973 and stood for 49 years, gets most of the credit for establishing the national right to abortion. Many people think of Roe as the first big bookend ushering in the right to abortion in the U.S., with Dobbs as the other bookend taking that right away again.

However, Roe wasn’t the only groundbreaking case that paved the way for abortion rights in the U.S. 

Doe v. Bolton, Roe v. Wade’s lesser-known companion case, was argued before the Supreme Court in 1973 the same day as Roe and was equally crucial to abortion rights in the United States.