Believe Black Birthing People: Our Lives Depend On It

The March of Dimes just released its latest Maternal and Infant Health Report Card — and once again the United States earned a D. That letter isn’t abstract. It is a life sentence: higher preterm births, entrenched racial inequities, and a system that fails families long before they reach the delivery room. It means too many people who are pregnant—especially Black women—are carrying pregnancies in a landscape where the odds are already stacked against our survival.

We see how that plays out in real time. In the last few weeks, two Black women in active labor were either neglected, or turned away from care. One was my husband’s high school classmate here in Northwest Indiana. She went to the hospital, asked for help, and was told to go home — “you’re not ready.” Eight minutes later, her husband delivered her baby in their truck, on the side of the road. Eight. Minutes. Later. She deserved so much better than that. She deserved care, dignity, and safety. We all do.

My story could have been a statistic, too.

I write this as a therapist who specializes in maternal mental health, as a Black woman, and as a mother — and as someone who began life on the edge of survival. I was a preemie, born in the 46806 ZIP code. That neighborhood has historically carried some of the highest infant and maternal mortality rates in Indiana; locally, the numbers are alarmingly higher than the national average (11.7 deaths per 1,000 births in Indiana, versus about 5.6 per 1,000 nationally). For Black families, the toll is even worse: in Indiana, mortality rates for Black moms and babies are roughly double those of White families.

Today I serve mothers from the 06 and surrounding areas. I consistently support people at highest risk for perinatal complications, preterm birth, and maternal and infant mortality. My story — and my mother’s story — could easily have become part of the statistics. My mother was on bedrest for nearly a month. She went into premature labor twice. The second time, she hemorrhaged and passed a blood clot the size of a roast. She thought she was losing me.

Rushed to the hospital, she learned she had heart blockages, placenta previa, and abruptio placenta — the last causing the clot that pushed me upward and crowded her heart. She needed an emergency C-section. The doctor had to reach up near her chest to deliver me. By God's grace, timing, and the competent care of the healthcare team, we made it.

I was born two months early, 2 lbs 12 oz. I spent 33 days in the NICU. If my mother had been treated the way far too many Black women are treated today, neither of us might be here to tell this.

Why this keeps happening

A March of Dimes D-grade is more than a failing score on paper — it reflects a system that undervalues pregnant people, underfunds maternal healthcare, underserves Black communities, dismisses women’s pain and intuition, and fails to listen and be accountable.

That a Black woman in labor can be told to “go home” is not an isolated horror. It’s predictable in a system that routinely denies Black women and Black birthing people the dignity, care, and protection we deserve.

A direct call to providers: your action saves lives

If you work in maternal care — OB-GYN, nurse, midwife, doula, social worker, hospital admin, mental-health provider — your choices matter in every single patient encounter. We need empathy AND concrete action.

1. Believe first. When a Black woman or Black birthing person says something is wrong, accept it. Do not interrupt or minimize. Act.

2. Face your bias. Everyone has bias. What matters is whether you actively examine it. Take training, track decision patterns, and be accountable.

3. Slow down. Patients are often rushed or dismissed. Double-check vitals. Ask clarifying questions. Document concerns carefully.

4. Push for institutional change. Advocate for measurable anti-bias programs, better staffing, culturally competent perinatal mental-health screening, doulas or advocates at births, and transparent reporting on disparities.

5. Speak up. If a colleague dismisses pain or delays care, intervene — calmly, clearly, immediately. Accountability saves lives.

6. Partner with community-based care. Black moms thrive when care is connected to community. Build real relationships with Black-led doulas, mental-health practitioners, lactation consultants, and advocacy groups.

7. Normalize second opinions. Encourage and support families who want additional perspectives — no shame, no friction.

8. Center mental health. Perinatal mental health influences outcomes. Screen early, refer early, and treat the whole person — body, mind, and spirit.

   
   

We are not asking for favors. We are demanding our lives be protected.

Black women are not asking for special treatment. We are demanding fair, competent, life-preserving care. We want our pain recognized, our intuition respected, and our lives valued. This is not about headlines — it is about people who died this week, people who survived with trauma, my mother, me, and every mother I serve in the ’06 and beyond.

To every provider reading this: your advocacy is not optional. It is essential. Act like it.

Black women being refused care is not a temporary outrage. It is a national crisis. Believe Black women. Listen to Black women. Our warnings, our pain, and our intuition are not up for debate.