A Mother’s Plea: The Unspoken Truth About Black Maternal Health
As a former labor and delivery nurse, I never thought I would find myself in a situation where I would have to fight for my life and the life of my unborn child. But that’s exactly what happened during my pregnancy with my son Milan. Despite my years of experience and knowledge of the risks involved, I was failed by the very system that was supposed to support me.
It’s a story that’s all too familiar for many Black women. We’re expected to be strong, to carry the burden of our grief and trauma with dignity, and to move on without ever looking back. But the truth is, survival is not enough. We need more than just to make it through the day; we need to be heard, seen, and supported in our journey towards healing and recovery.
The Statistics are Alarming
The data makes it clear: Black women are three times more likely to die from pregnancy-related causes than white women, and more than 80% of those deaths are considered preventable. Black infants also die at more than twice the rate of white infants. These statistics are not just numbers; they represent real lives, real families, and real communities that are being torn apart by a healthcare system that is failing us.
But it’s not just about mortality; it’s also about the lived experiences of Black women. We’re more likely to experience mistreatment during maternity care, with nearly 30% of Black women reporting bias, disrespect, and a lack of autonomy in clinical settings. We’re more likely to hold back from asking questions or sharing concerns, fearing that speaking up will make things worse. And we’re more likely to be left with the emotional and psychological scars of trauma, without the support and resources we need to heal.
The System is Broken
The system is broken, and it’s not just because of a lack of funding or resources. It’s because of a deep-seated bias and racism that permeates every level of our healthcare system. It’s because we’re seen as less than, as less deserving of care and compassion. And it’s because we’re expected to be strong, to carry the burden of our grief and trauma without ever looking back.
But what does it mean to be strong? Is it to carry the weight of our grief and trauma without ever showing vulnerability? Is it to move on without ever looking back? Or is it to acknowledge our pain, to name it, and to seek help when we need it? The answer is clear: being strong means being human, means being vulnerable, means being willing to seek help and support when we need it.
A Call to Action
So what can we do to change this narrative? We can start by listening to Black women, by amplifying our voices and experiences. We can start by acknowledging the pain and trauma that we’ve endured, and by seeking to understand the systemic and structural barriers that have led to this crisis. And we can start by working towards a healthcare system that is equitable, just, and compassionate.
We owe it to ourselves, to our families, and to our communities to do better. We owe it to ourselves to be heard, seen, and supported in our journey towards healing and recovery. And we owe it to ourselves to create a world where survival is not enough, where we can thrive, not just survive.
