After Losing My Son, I Didn’t Want to Be ‘Strong’

During my pregnancy with my son Milan, I remember sitting with a pain that didn’t feel normal. It was sharp, persistent, and unsettling in a way I couldn’t ignore. As a former labor and delivery nurse, I understood the risks in a way many patients do not. I knew what to watch for. I knew my history. I knew when something felt wrong. Yet when I raised concerns, they were not met with the urgency they deserved.

At the time of my pregnancy with Milan, I had already experienced a high-risk pregnancy and an emergency C-section during a previous pregnancy. I knew that the vertical incision on my uterus could put a future pregnancy at risk. I spoke up. I asked questions. I paid attention to my body. Still, when I experienced a uterine rupture, I was navigating 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?

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 not an assumption. It is a proven fact, and it 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.

As the founder of Mielle, my mission is to empower women, especially Black women, to express their authentic selves. At its core, that mission is about care, agency, and visibility, which is why conversations like this matter. It’s about showing up for every part of Black women’s experience. We need to talk more candidly about what happens to Black women who survive the trauma of miscarriage or stillbirth, and the prolonged mental health challenges that can follow, including postpartum depression.

Black women are expected to remain “strong” while navigating 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.

https://www.self.com/story/black-maternal-health-week-mental-healthcare, GO TO SAUBIO DIGITAL FOR MORE ANSWERS AND INFORMATION ON ANY TOPIC