Black Maternal Health Includes Care After Pregnancy Loss

After losing her son Milan, I didn’t want to be praised for being strong. I wanted my pain to be heard and my family to be cared for. Black maternal health has to include what happens after a medical crisis or pregnancy loss, as well as the care that might prevent harm in the first place.

During my pregnancy with Milan, I felt sharp, persistent pain that alarmed me. I had worked as a labor and delivery nurse, had already experienced a high-risk pregnancy, and had undergone an emergency C-section. I knew the vertical incision on my uterus could create risks in a later pregnancy. I raised concerns and paid attention to what my body was telling me. When I experienced a uterine rupture, I did not feel that the response matched the urgency of the situation.

My experience leaves me with a difficult question: if someone familiar with childbirth risks can speak up and still feel unheard, what happens to someone with less information, fewer resources, or less confidence that a clinician will take them seriously? No patient should have to be an expert in labor and delivery to have pain or concerns addressed with care.

That question matters beyond one family. Black women in the United States are about three times more likely to die from pregnancy-related causes than white women. More than 80% of those deaths are considered preventable. Black infants also die at more than twice the rate of white infants. These figures point to differences in care and outcomes that deserve attention; they are not a measure of how much individual women can endure.

Experiences during maternity care offer another view of the problem. Research cited in this piece finds that about one in five women report mistreatment in maternity care. Among Black women, the share is nearly 30%, including experiences involving bias, disrespect, or a lack of autonomy in clinical settings. Nearly half of women say they have held back from asking questions or sharing concerns. That hesitation can shape a clinical encounter, especially when someone is already in a vulnerable moment and wondering whether speaking up will help.

Care must continue after a loss

Maternal health discussions often focus on deaths and emergencies. Those subjects demand attention, but they do not cover the whole experience. Families also need support after miscarriage, stillbirth, and other pregnancy trauma, including care for mental health difficulties that may persist. Grief can affect a person’s relationships, body, faith, work, and sense of self. It does not follow a set schedule.

In my book, The Glory In Your Story, I write about learning to acknowledge grief instead of trying to outrun it. After Milan died, I returned to work and kept building Mielle, the company I founded. From the outside, that can look like resilience. It was part of my life, but it does not mean the loss was resolved or that moving ahead erased what happened.

Faith helped carry me, and purpose helped me rebuild. Those sources of strength mattered to me personally. They do not make inadequate care acceptable, and they should not be treated as substitutes for listening, timely medical attention, or meaningful support after a loss. A story of continuing to work or care for others can coexist with pain that still needs room and recognition.

Strength should not be the expectation

Black women are often expected to remain “strong” through medical emergencies, dismissal, and grief. Praise for resilience can sound supportive, yet it can also obscure what made that resilience necessary. The takeaway from my story should not be that Black women can carry devastating loss while continuing to perform. Nor should personal perseverance make failures in care seem less serious.

We can celebrate someone’s recovery while also asking what might have prevented the harm. In my case, more listening, better care, and a more urgent response might have changed my story. That possibility deserves to be said plainly. It also points toward practical needs: facilities prepared to respond to emergencies, clinicians who take concerns seriously the first time, and support for families after a pregnancy loss—not only during the immediate crisis.

For people navigating pregnancy care, sharing concerns and asking questions may be part of a conversation with a clinician, but the responsibility for safe care cannot rest on patients alone. A person who feels unheard can consider seeking support from someone they trust or raising the concern with another care professional. Clinicians and care teams have a responsibility to listen and explain what they are assessing, particularly when symptoms or a patient’s history raise concern. Anyone dealing with grief or ongoing emotional distress after a loss may also want to discuss available support with a health professional.

Black Maternal Health Week is a reason to think about health beyond survival. The work includes taking Black women’s pain seriously, responding to urgent symptoms, and making space for grief without asking people to turn it into inspiration before they are ready. We should honor the women who have died and care for those living with the effects of trauma and loss. Being heard, protected, and supported belongs at the center of that conversation.

Related:

• I Could Not Goop My Way Out of Infertility
• I Have One Child, and Now I Can't Seem to Have Another
• 11 Health Conditions You Should Know About If You're Black and Pregnant

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