During her pregnancy with her son Milan, the author experienced a sharp, persistent, and unsettling pain that she couldn’t ignore. As a former labor and delivery nurse, she understood the risks and knew what to watch for, but when she raised concerns, they were not met with the urgency they deserved.
The author had already experienced a high-risk pregnancy and an emergency C-section during a previous pregnancy, and she knew that the vertical incision on her uterus could put a future pregnancy at risk. Despite her efforts to advocate for herself, she experienced a uterine rupture and was failed by a system that did not respond with the level of care and urgency required.
Conversations during Black Maternal Health Week often center around the urgent truth that Black women are still far more likely to die from pregnancy-related causes in the US than white women. This is not an assumption, but a proven fact that should stop everyone in their tracks. The author notes that this issue affects not only one socioeconomic group, but everyone, including some of the most visible and resourced women in the world.
The data make clear that this crisis is ongoing, with Black women being about three times more likely to die from pregnancy-related causes than white women, and more than 80% of those deaths being considered preventable. Black infants also die at more than twice the rate of white infants, reflecting a healthcare system and culture that too often normalizes Black women’s pain instead of responding to it.
Research shows that one in five women report mistreatment during maternity care, but for Black women, that figure climbs to nearly 30%, reflecting 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, calculating whether speaking up will make things worse.
The author argues that Black mothers deserve more than just “survival” and that the conversation around Black Maternal Health Week must also be about what it means to live after trauma, preventable harm, and loss. It’s about showing up for every part of Black women’s experience and making space for grief and trauma without expecting them to turn it into inspiration before they are ready.
In her own life, the author’s grief did not arrive quietly, but entered her marriage, motherhood, body, faith, and work. She writes about how grief does not follow a timeline, but becomes part of who you are, and healing begins not by outrunning it, but by acknowledging it. The author notes that many Black women are praised for being strong when what they actually need is space to be human.
Black Maternal Health Week gives us an opportunity to think more broadly about what justice looks like, including hospitals equipped for emergencies, providers who listen to Black women the first time, and support for families after loss. It’s time to honor not only the women who have been 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, and being heard, protected, and cared for should be the goal. The author’s experience and the data highlight the need for a healthcare system that responds to Black women’s pain and provides better care. By listening to Black women’s experiences and making space for their grief, we can work towards a more just and equitable healthcare system.
As the founder of Mielle, the author’s mission is to empower women, especially Black women, to express their authentic selves. This mission is about care, agency, and visibility, which is why conversations like this matter. By showing up for Black women’s experiences and advocating for better care, we can create a more just and equitable society for all, where women fight for lasting change.
