This article references reproductive coercion and domestic abuse.

As a family law barrister, I witness the collapse of relationships, the bitterness of divorce, and the pain of custody battles. You could say I see the worst of family life. While not every family breakdown enters the arena of family court, for those who do, it’s often a bruising encounter.

Behind closed doors, away from public scrutiny, many of these cases involve grave allegations: rape, domestic abuse, and coercive or controlling behaviour. We know just how widespread this is: one in three women experiences domestic abuse, and far too many of their children are drawn into its destructive orbit. Family courts are supposed to shield these families, but as I show in my new book, He Said, She Said, the system often does the opposite, re-traumatising victims and exposing them, once again, to their perpetrator.

Among the many disturbing patterns I encounter, one form of abuse remains particularly insidious and rarely spoken about: reproductive coercion. It strikes at the core of a woman’s bodily autonomy – controlling if, when, and how she becomes pregnant.

Whether through emotional manipulation, deception, or threats, it often unfolds in the shadows of intimate relationships. I’ve represented women deceived into pregnancies by men hiding secret families, and others who were pressured into continuing or ending pregnancies against their will. This abuse doesn’t end with conception or birth – it often marks the beginning of a prolonged campaign of control.

Francesca’s story stays with me. She was in labour with her daughter when her ex-partner bombarded her with abusive messages: “Hurry up,” he wrote. “What the f*** are you doing?” Despite begging him to stay away, he repeatedly called the hospital and eventually turned up uninvited. The hospital staff called the police. But Francesca was too terrified to disclose the full extent of the abuse.

In court, her silence was twisted against her— “She didn’t report it, so she’s lied,” they said. “She didn’t leave, so it can’t be true.” Despite compelling evidence, it still took her years and thousands of pounds to prove her truth and protect herself and her child.

Shockingly, reproductive coercion – how a man tries to control a woman’s pregnancy – is barely acknowledged in our legal framework. It’s only fleetingly mentioned in the Crown Prosecution Service guidance under coercive and controlling behaviour. But it deserves far more attention. After all, it attacks at one of the most vulnerable and personal moments in a woman’s life.

In He Said She Said, I draw on Lydia’s story. Her ex-partner told her he wanted nothing to do with their unborn child. She accused him of using threats, manipulation, and emotional blackmail to pressure her into an abortion. She refused. He later resurfaced when he made an application to the family court, not just seeking contact, but actively undermining her attempts to protect their child from the man who had once allegedly told her he would kill them both. The trauma of pregnancy was just the beginning; the legal system added a fresh layer of torment.

Then there was Beth. What she told me defied belief. I then saw it in black and white. Her ex had drawn up an informal ten-point document – a contract – for pregnancy. Among the terms: she was to “entertain all [sex] requests – whenever and whatever – with a smile,” perform oral sex “much more regularly,” and always wear make-up and nail polish. One clause chillingly stated the contract was binding “for eternity.” For abusive men, a woman’s body – especially during pregnancy – is just another battleground for control.

This desire to dominate doesn’t end with sex or reproduction. It bleeds into something seemingly as symbolic as a surname. In my book, I explain why I have long argued that women should retain their own names after marriage – and give their children their names, too. These are the women who carry the children, wake with them through the night, feed them, raise them, and, as I’ve seen time and again, fight tooth and nail to protect them – often from the very men who once held power over their bodies. Why should the child carry his name?

The tradition of giving children their father’s surname is so deeply embedded in our culture that we rarely question it. I’ve represented women who have had to beg abusive ex-partners for permission to change their child’s surname to reflect their own, only to be refused by them and the court. What should be a personal decision becomes another avenue for control, manipulation, and litigation.

Reproductive coercion, surname battles, forced silence in the courtroom—these are not isolated incidents. They are all part of a much larger story about how we treat women’s autonomy in this country. A woman’s name is more than just a label. It’s a declaration of identity, independence, and self-worth. It is just as worthy of protection as her body, her choices, and her safety.

He Said She Said: Truth, Trauma and the Struggle for Justice in Family Court by Dr Charlotte Proudman is out now.