I remember well, seeing those two lines slowly emerge on the thin white stick that bore the profound message that my life was about to change forever. I was pregnant, and our unit of two was about to become a family of three. I was immediately flooded with emotion ranging from excitement that I was carrying an actual human, to fear that I was... carrying an actual human.
The pregnancy went well. I was young, I felt strong and able, and I was surrounded by family and community. When the time for delivery came, the expected anxieties around giving birth were present and pervasive, but not beyond the realms of the usual emotions of a woman about to step into a whole new identity of being a mother.
I recall the experience well, the sense of overwhelm, the uncertainty and flurry of medics in and out of my delivery room as decisions were made about whether I would need stirrups, whether I would have an epidural, which arm would be the most fitting site for the next drip, and so on.
However, there was one aspect of the experience that sticks out to me. It was an encounter with an ageing midwife. I remember her because she appeared as a replacement for another midwife, when I was at the height of my then very long, excruciatingly painful labour. I asked for pain relief, and she retorted ‘You’re only giving birth’. Only... giving birth?! It was a complete oxymoron, and a complete dismissal of my pain. Luckily, I had sufficient wherewithal and presence of mind to demand pain relief. It came, all too slowly and labour continued until I gave birth to a beautiful baby girl.
I’ve often questioned whether her disregard was due to some kind of racial bias. Whether her condescension was rooted in poorly masked racism. I’ve I often wondered.
And I'm not alone. It's a question many Black mothers in the UK who've had similar experiences to me have also found themselves pondering. For us, the joy of childbirth is all too often eclipsed by fear. An unyielding, ever-present dread borne from the hard truth that we are four times more likely to die during pregnancy or childbirth than white women in the UK. It’s a stark, confronting reality that becomes increasingly sharper in focus, the closer we get to the arrival of our newborn.
And this reality doesn’t just affect the mothers—it rips through families and communities, leaving behind grief, anger, and a chilling reminder of how inequality manifests even in what should be life’s most joyous moments.
The UK prides itself on the NHS and attitude to universal healthcare, and there is indeed much to be proud of. But the fact is that Black women are facing heightened risks during childbirth tells us that high quality care in our NHS is far from universal. This disparity is not unique to the UK. In the United States, Black women are three to four times more likely to die from pregnancy-related complications than their white counterparts. And there too, these statistics are met with remarkably muted responses.
But behind every statistic is a story of a woman whose pain was ignored, whose cries for help were brushed aside, or whose symptoms were dismissed. This isn’t conjecture—it’s the lived experience of far too many. From celebrities like Serena Williams, who almost died after giving birth in 2017 and says she was repeatedly dismissed by her medical team, to everyday women who don’t have the platform or resources to make themselves heard. The theme is painfully familiar: Black women are not being listened to, and it’s costing them their lives.
The fear that Black women carry isn’t just a product of the now widespread knowledge of the statistics—it’s inherited. We hear it in the stories passed down from our mothers, sisters, and friends. We know what it feels like to be unheard, to be watched but not seen. And when we enter through those hospital doors, it’s not just with the weight of our unborn child we carry, but the weight of a system that has failed women like us time and time again.
This stress doesn’t just live in the mind—it manifests in the body. Studies show that chronic stress, especially when tied to discrimination and injustice, impacts pregnancy outcomes. It takes a toll. It has real consequences.
The reasons this is happening are many and complex, but here’s a few reflections. First, there’s implicit bias. Healthcare professionals—often without even realising it—treat Black women differently. Studies show that Black patients, including pregnant Black women, are less likely to receive appropriate pain management or timely intervention compared to white patients. This isn’t a matter of opinion; it’s well-documented. And when you combine that with the life-or-death stakes of childbirth, the consequences can be devastating.
Second, systemic racism. This is a reality in healthcare. Black women, because of long-standing societal inequities, are often navigating the healthcare system with less trust and fewer resources. When things go wrong, when pain is ignored or signs of complications are missed, Black women are more likely to fall through the cracks.
Finally, there’s a gap in medical research, education and training. There’s a shocking lack of understanding about how certain conditions present differently in Black women. There’s also the lingering and deeply harmful myth that Black people have a higher pain threshold—something that has no basis in fact but continues to influence medical practice.
But amidst this grim reality, there’s hope—and that hope is driven by grassroots movements and organisations like CAHN (The Caribbean and African Health Network), The Motherhood Group and Black Mothers Matter. These organisations are on the front lines of this fight, working tirelessly to reduce the maternal mortality rate among Black women. Their mission? To demand better from the system and ensure that Black women are heard, respected, and protected when they walk into those hospital rooms.
Their work isn’t just about tackling the physical risks; it’s about addressing the emotional and mental toll, too. Their advocacy extends to mental health support, education for healthcare professionals, and providing spaces where Black women can share their stories without fear of being dismissed.
One of the simplest ways we can start to turn this around is by listening to Black women. It sounds simple, but time and again, Black women’s voices are silenced, their pain is downplayed, and their experiences are disregarded.
Listening is not just courteous—it’s critical to saving lives. Healthcare professionals need to actively check their biases, lean into the discomfort of acknowledging that the system is failing certain groups, and truly hear Black women when they say something is wrong.
This crisis won’t be fixed overnight. It requires a systemic shift in how we view and deliver maternal care. Healthcare professionals need better training on racial bias and the specific health needs of Black women. There needs to be more research into how pregnancy-related conditions affect Black women differently. And community-based solution, like increasing access to culturally competent care and advocating for more midwives and doulas who understand the unique challenges Black women face, must be prioritised.
What we need right now is courageous leadership. The kind that doesn’t shy away from hard truths but confronts them head-on. Healthcare professionals, policymakers, and society at large need to prioritise this issue with the urgency it demands. Black women deserve to bring life into the world without fearing for their own. And that change starts with all of us, listening, learning, and taking action.
This isn’t just about fixing a broken system—it’s about ensuring that every woman, regardless of race, can give birth safely, confidently, and without fear. We all need to work towards that future.
It’s a future that I feel deeply compelled to fight for. Because I know that I fight for my daughter to have a healthcare system where she feels safe and cared for. Where she can confidently say that the hue of her skin, had no bearing in the quality of her care.
It’s future that compelled that same daughter to pursue a career as a Clinical Negligence Barrister. It’s a future that called us to co-found an organisation called She Leads for Legacy that advocates for the rights of Black women. We continue to fight - and it's a cause worth fighting for.
Sharon Amesu is a multi-award winning professional speaker and criminal barrister who now runs a consultancy that supports organisations with Leadership Development and Diversity and Inclusion initiatives. A Founding Fellow of the Society of Leadership Fellows, Sharon was an Honorary Industry Fellow of the University of Salford Business School and former Branch Chair for the Institute of Directors.
She Leads for Legacy is a social enterprise, co-founded by mother and daughter team Sharon and Afiya Emusu, to champion the acceleration of Black female professionals to reach senior leadership and Board level roles within the workplace and across their communities. Both co-founders are Black women working within the corporate sector and have first-hand experience of the lack of representation of Black women in decision-making roles. To attend their next event, Empowered to Lead, click here.