The disconnect between knowledge and care
During her pregnancy with her son Milan, the author felt pain that didn’t feel normal. It was sharp, persistent, and unsettling in a way she couldn’t ignore. As a former labor and delivery nurse, she understood the risks in a way many patients do not. She knew what to watch for. She knew her history. She knew when something felt wrong. Yet when she raised concerns, they were not met with the urgency they deserved.
At the time of that pregnancy, she had already experienced a high-risk pregnancy and an emergency C-section during a previous pregnancy. She knew that a vertical incision on her uterus could put a future pregnancy at risk. She spoke up. She asked questions. She paid attention to her body. Still, when she experienced a uterine rupture, she was handling a system that did not respond with the level of care and urgency that the moment required.
If someone with years of labor and delivery experience can recognize the signs, advocate for herself, and still be failed, what happens to the women with less information, fewer resources, or less confidence that they will be heard?
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The data regarding Black maternal health is stark
Conversations during Black Maternal Health Week often center around one urgent truth: Black women are still far more likely to die from pregnancy-related causes in this country than white women. This is a proven fact that should stop all of us in our tracks. It also does not only impact one socioeconomic group. It affects everyone, including some of the most visible and resourced women in the world.
The data make clear that this crisis is ongoing. Black women are about 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 are not random gaps. They reflect a healthcare system and a culture that too often normalizes Black women’s pain instead of responding to it.
This cultural expectation to be resilient can create a hidden barrier to safety. While strength is often framed as a virtue, it may discourage patients from reporting symptoms immediately or advocating aggressively for help, out of fear that doing so will label them as difficult or burdensome. This hesitation delays critical interventions, turning potential recoveries into preventable tragedies.
Mistreatment in clinical settings
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Research shows that one in five women, or about 20%, report mistreatment during maternity care, but for Black women, that figure climbs to nearly 30%. This reflects more frequent experiences of bias, disrespect, and lack of autonomy in clinical settings. Nearly half of women say they have held back from asking questions or sharing concerns. In one of the most vulnerable moments of a person’s life, too many are already calculating whether speaking up will make things worse.
Black women are expected to remain “strong” while handling medical emergencies. We’re dismissed, told to wait, to calm down, and to trust a system that has not always earned that trust. We survive experiences that change our families and us forever. And then, too often, we are expected to do something just as impossible: keep going as if survival is the end of the story. It is not.
Living with the aftermath
In her book, The Glory In Your Story, the author writes about how grief does not follow a timeline. It entered her marriage, her motherhood, her body, her faith, and eventually her work. Healing begins not by outrunning it, but by acknowledging it.
That matters because so many Black women are praised for being strong when what we actually need is space to be human. After losing Milan, she returned to work. She kept moving. She built her company. From the outside, it can look like a story of resilience. But we have to be honest about the lessons we take from stories like mine. The lesson should not be that Black women are uniquely equipped to carry devastating grief and still perform at a high level. It should not be that our resilience makes systemic failures acceptable.
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Too often, we celebrate the comeback without sitting long enough with the conditions that made it necessary. Faith carried her. Purpose helped her rebuild. But none of that changes the reality that more listening, better care, stronger hospital systems, and greater urgency might have changed her story.
Demands for change
Black Maternal Health Week gives us an opportunity to think more broadly about what justice looks like. It looks like hospitals are equipped for emergencies. It looks like providers who listen to Black women the first time, without requiring patients to fight to be believed. It looks like support for families after loss— not just during a crisis.
It is time that we honor not only the women we have lost, but also the women still here carrying what the system could not or would not hold for them. Survival is not the finish line. Being heard, protected, and cared for should be.
