Hanging up the blazer

After six years, the time has come for my final bow. As the 2025 legislative session ends, so does my tenure as Metriarch’s policy analyst.

The winds have swept down the plains and dropped me in California.

When I arrived in Oklahoma, the stage was set. COVID-19 was on the horizon, and the fall of Roe v. Wade was two years away. At the time, I was a casual legislative analyst, giving presentations as favors for friends, just trying to make that MPA worth something. But I was quickly embraced and put to work. Take Control Initiative took a chance on this novice who had only worked on blue-state policy, dropped me into this new program called Metriarch, and said: “Go.” And I did.

Over six years, I got my hands dirty, donned the pink jacket, and helped build Metriarch’s legislative and policy arm from scratch. No one could have prepared me for what I walked into. Sure, I went to school to understand policy, but nothing readied me for what I encountered. Within months, I was thrown into Oklahoma’s fight to lead the country in ending abortion access. From “modest” bills decreeing that only OB/GYNs could provide abortions to laws threatening 10-year prison sentences for providers. These weren’t fringe proposals. I watched as they passed.

The years leading up to Roe‘s reversal only intensified the fight and took a toll on my mental health. It wasn’t just about reproductive rights. I sat through hours of debate as lawmakers dehumanized the queer community. I carried the weight of knowing the strategies I led could shape the futures of entire organizations. At times, all I could do was dissociate as I watched elected officials cast aside fellow humans declaring them predators, irreparably sick, and unworthy of dignity.

But here I am, stronger than yesterday. I could not have made it through without the friends, partners, and support network that formed around me. Working in public health—not just women’s health—in Oklahoma demands a level of resilience we don’t talk about enough. My time in the Sooner State toughened me more than I ever imagined. But now that I’m in California, I see a new facet of our national fragmentation.

Gurl, California policy and Oklahoma policy don’t exist in the same dimension.

It’s surreal to move between what is often seen as the most conservative and most liberal states. Californians can’t fathom the bills that gain traction in Oklahoma, ranging from the performative to terrifyingly real. Meanwhile, Oklahomans are amazed by the programs Californians take for granted. From abortion access on college campuses to health care for undocumented immigrants. The difference isn’t just in policy—it’s in possibility.

When California Governor Gavin Newsom vetoed a bill to provide free condoms in schools due to cost, he was widely criticized. The cynic in me couldn’t help but chuckle. Not at the veto, but at the fact that such a bill even made it to his desk. Twice, apparently. Meanwhile in Oklahoma, they’re still debating whether menstrual products in boys’ restrooms pose a threat to the fabric of society. Cost isn’t even the primary concern. Lawmakers who once led these proposals retreated after facing backlash at the ballot box.

When I share my experience with other policy professionals, I’m sometimes interrupted mid-sentence while recounting battles over STI criminalization or bills that would allow denial of health care. It’s not skepticism—they’re simply confused. There’s no frame of reference. If I really want to throw them for a loop, I mention that I once wrote a workaround definition for contraception that deliberately avoided defining it. That usually draws a blank stare, as if I’ve just recited some folksy nonsense metaphor.

But Oklahomans get it. Because in a place where contraception is politicized and not seen as basic healthcare, a single misplaced word or rogue amendment can become a weapon to decimate reproductive health.

Abortion reveals the deepest disconnect. Many Californians know it’s banned in Oklahoma, but few grasp the extent. Just this year, I sat through a committee hearing where a lawmaker advocated for the death penalty for women who obtain abortions—the same lawmaker who claims nearly all contraception is abortion-inducing. It got a hearing. It’s not as fringe as it sounds.

Recently, I met a clinic escort for a Planned Parenthood in California. I praised her work recognizing the comfort she brings to patients navigating harassment is important. But I couldn’t help but think of Oklahoma, where protesters didn’t just scream—they exercised their ability to open-carry firearms.

Imagine, as someone seeking or providing health care, walking into a clinic while belligerent protesters film you, track your movements, and call you a murderer. Now add a looming figure standing nearby with a rifle slung over his shoulder—legally. That still chills me in a way I cannot fully convey. But Oklahomans understand.

I’m not here to argue who has it worse. I’m trying to show how the policy world isn’t fractured just by politics—it’s fractured by divergent realities. Yet, we judge each other’s efforts through our own frameworks. I’m not advocating for some grand mobilization or collaboration. I’m here to reinforce something I said often at Metriarch: staying informed is enough.

We can work to improve our states’ health outcomes while accepting that what’s possible in one place may not be possible in another. Oklahoma’s public health workers are fierce. They know the evidence, they live the data. But realistically, even suggesting some interventions can get your seat at the table yanked away. Say the “wrong” thing, and the door shuts, the padlock clicks. Regressive laws don’t mean regressive advocates. The tools are different, the tone more restrained, but the goal is shared: let’s improve the health of our neighbors. In California, some fights are won before they begin. In Oklahoma, those same fights are existential.

To my partners friends in Oklahoma: thank you. Thank you for trusting me, for challenging me, for standing beside me. Thank you for your resilience, your humor, and your relentless defense of women’s health in one of the hardest places to do it.

To my new colleagues in California: listen to those in states like Oklahoma. They’re fighting some of the hardest battles you can imagine—every single year. Ask what they need, not what you think they need. Celebrate their wins, even if they sound small because, trust me, that win may have taken years of work. And don’t underestimate their insight; there’s a certain kind of strength that comes from standing firm in a storm that never passes.

I will carry your stories and struggles with me. And I will tell them in rooms where they would otherwise be unknown. As Harvey Milk said, “Hope will never be silent.”

Here’s to bringing Oklahoma hope to California.

With gratitude, solidarity, and three pink blazers I don’t know what to do with,
Tommy Yap