Who is Well Worth Watering? Why ALL of Our Voices Matter For Black Maternal Health
Who is well worth watering? Black women are. Black birthing people are. Black children are. Our experiences are. YOU are. And I certainly am. But you couldn’t have told me that I was a couple of years ago.
I was trying to find that elusive rhythm with my then 7-year old girl, a new baby boy, a work-from-home graphic design career and my ongoing fist fight with self-doubt. There was no harmony in sight. And like most worn out mothers, I told myself that if a plate had to fall, it had to be mine.
But in those early days I found comfort in reminiscing about my pregnancy and birth experiences. In between my pumping sessions, while twisting my daughter’s hair, I couldn’t stop thinking about how blessed I was to experience two very different births—one hospital, one at home. I enjoyed safe, uncomplicated pregnancies and births. I was cared for by experienced professionals and supportive family.
I was able to carry children and make it through the enterprise that birthing babies in this country has become, trauma-free. And I did it as a black woman.
Courtesy of Michael Belk
I remember the gravity I felt when I’d first read that powerful New York times article, “Why America’s Black Mothers and Babies are in a Life or Death Crisis”. Linda Villarosa laid out a hard truth: Despite education, profession or income level, the lived experience of being a black woman in America has deep consequences for our maternal and overall health.
“In fact, a black woman with an advanced degree is more likely to lose her baby than a white woman with less than an eighth-grade education,” Villarosa’s research cites from a Brookings article.
Coverage about black maternal health and the disparity between our birth outcomes and that of white mothers has increased in recent years. Stories of black moms fighting for their lives and their babies lives sounded an alarm about the crisis level that this inequity has reached.
Last year, the world learned that famous athletes (see Serena Williams story) and even those close to the data (also see Shalon Irving’s story) were not exempt, dismissing the idea that this issue is a class-based one.
The more I thought about my experience, the more I contrasted it to the stories I was hearing. The more I researched, the more indignant I became. But my inspiration to act grew alongside a lot of doubt. And then came the excuses:
“I’m just too tired. Next month. After I wean the baby. After this project. Let me just fold this laundry right quick. Ugh, time to pump. You’re a graphic designer anyway, that should be your focus.”
And worse than all of these excuses, I questioned the value of my voice. There are countless black women who have endured blatant racial bias, trauma and neglect, some who are no longer here to tell their story. Who did I think I was to add my voice to a body of women who deserve to be heard?
Courtesy of Michael Belk
It didn’t matter that I am outraged about this injustice. It didn’t matter that maybe, just maybe the Universe was quickening something in me, telling me to use my voice to speak for those that couldn’t. It didn’t matter that expectant black moms need to see stories of powerful and peaceful birth alongside the statistics. None of that mattered as I ran desperately away from myself.
I would love to say that I just woke up a different woman. But the truth is, I’m moving while scared. I’m showing up for something far greater than myself. Because I might still be tired and half-asleep some days. But I will share our stories of pain and peace, laughter and sorrow, tragedy and triumph, to help nourish a whole and balanced picture of what our maternal health looks like.
The goal of Well Worth Watering is to nourish the maternal health experiences of black birthing people through education, empowerment and transformative storytelling and story honoring. It started as a blog that delved into my experiences through pregnancy, childbirth and motherhood but is growing into so much more.
I believe that our stories are a source of growth for ourselves, our diverse narrative, and our maternal health advocacy. There are countless midwives, physicians, doulas, public health workers, researchers, educators and mothers that are dedicated to eradicating the black maternal health crisis. And I consider their work an integral part of this essential chorus.
We are a life source for our communities. We are creators, capable of birthing and nurturing new life and ground-breaking change. But we have to give ourselves as much water as we so willingly pour out.
