Black maternal health and equity |
When I walked into the hospital to deliver my daughter, I carried more than a hospital bag. I carried fear.
Not the ordinary anticipatory fear of first-time motherhood. Not just the lingering grief of losing my bonus father weeks before. I carried something rooted in reality. I knew the statistics that Black women are far more likely to die during childbirth than white women. I knew that for women who look like me, bringing life into the world can also mean risking our own.
And so, as I crossed the threshold into that delivery room, a question echoed in my spirit: Will I walk back out?
This is the weight of fear that too many Black women carry into motherhood, born not of hysteria, but of history.
In Arkansas, that history is bleak. Black women in our state die at more than twice the rate of white women. In recent years, the disparity has been even more devastating. They are mothers, daughters, sisters. They are families forever altered. And experts agree that the vast majority of these deaths are preventable.
So when Black women say we are afraid, understand this: Our fear is rational, informed and earned.
In the delivery room, my body bore witness to that fear. My hands trembled. My breath shortened. My doctor wasn't there. My partner couldn't be there because of covid protocols. The room felt sterile, cold, unfamiliar, unsafe. And my body told the truth plainly: I am afraid of dying.
Then, something shifted. A nurse--another Black woman--stepped forward. She placed her hands on my shoulders, looked me in the eye, and said, "Sweetheart, breathe. I'm going to stand right here until you're OK."
That moment did not erase the statistics. It did not dismantle systemic inequities. But it reminded me that I was not alone. And that matters.
Because one of the most persistent failures in our health-care system is not access or outcomes, but a failure to listen. Too often, Black women's concerns are dismissed. Our pain is minimized. Our voices are unheard. This is documented. Unequal care, implicit bias, and gaps in provider access, especially in rural communities, continue to shape outcomes for women of color.
So when I speak of fear, I am also speaking of what happens when that fear is ignored. But I am also speaking of what becomes possible when it is acknowledged.
My tears in that hospital were not a weakness. They were truth-telling, my body insisting on being heard. They were a response to generations of women who carried similar fears, often without the language or space to name them.
Black women have long been told to be strong--to endure, to persevere, to push through. But strength should not require silence. Strength should not mean invisibility. And it certainly should not come at the cost of our lives.
If we are serious about addressing maternal health in Arkansas and across this country, we must begin by honoring that truth. We must listen to Black women. We must believe Black women. We must design systems of care that respond not just to clinical needs but to lived realities and fears.
That means expanding access to providers, especially in underserved areas. It means investing in culturally competent care and supporting doulas, midwives and community-based models that have long centered the voices and needs of women of color. And it means holding institutions accountable for outcomes that are in too many cases preventable.
But beyond policy, something deeper is at stake. There is belonging.
In that hospital room, that nurse gave me more than reassurance. She gave me a sense of being seen, held and valued. She created a moment of sanctuary in a system that too often fails to do so.
Every mother deserves that. Every woman deserves to enter childbirth with hope, not dread. With confidence, not calculation. With the expectation of care, not the fear of neglect.
My story is not unique. That is both the tragedy and the urgency.
Too many Black women are carrying this same weight of fear. And too many are doing so without the support, recognition or systemic change required to ease it.
During National Minority Health Month in April, we are called not just to acknowledge disparities, but to humanize them. Behind every statistic is a story like mine. A woman trembling in a hospital. A mother asking if she will survive. A family waiting on the other side of that question.
We cannot allow these stories to remain unseen or unheard. Because the goal is not simply survival. The goal is equity. The goal is dignity. The goal is a world where Black mothers live, and where that outcome is not a miracle, but a guarantee.
Rev. Shantell Hinton, a poet and author of "Love, Auntie: Parables & Prayers for Sacred Belonging," is senior equity officer at the Winthrop Rockefeller Foundation.