Public health has never been something distant or theoretical to me. It has always been woven into the fabric of my life and the lives of people in the communities I come from. Before I studied public health or policy, I lived it. I saw how access, culture, and systems decided who received care and who was left to navigate illness alone. I learned earlier that public health is not only about data points and charts. It is about real people, real families, and real consequences.
Growing up in the United States with my father’s insurance through the Broward Health System, I had access to healthcare without needing to prove my worthiness for it. My care was not questioned. There were no hoops, no denials, no prolonged battles. But outside of my household, the story looked very different. Many families in my neighborhood relied on Medicaid, and their experiences were marked by delays, frustration, and constant pushbacks. Even as a child, I noticed who was treated with ease and who was treated with suspicion or indifference.
Spending time in the Bahamas added another layer to my understanding. There, technically everyone has access to healthcare, but the quality of care shifts depending on whether you rely on government coverage or have private insurance. No one is turned away, but everyone is not treated the same. The tier you fall into determines which options you receive. I saw again that systems decide outcomes long before a person ever enters a clinic.
These early experiences shaped how I would later interpret my own journey, especially during pregnancy and childbirth. Nothing prepared me for how deeply policy, bias, and systemic inequities would become embedded in one of the most vulnerable moments of my life.
The Moment Policy Became Personal
It was during my pregnancy that I truly understood how policy meets pain. As an expectant African American mother, I did what many women do. I researched everything. But what I learned frightened me more than any physical fear of childbirth. I learned that African American women in the United States have been experiencing a maternal mortality crisis since at least 1985. It has never been addressed at the level it deserves. I learned that education, income, insurance, and status do little to protect us. The risks remain high even for women who did everything right.
I felt personally responsible for bringing my daughter into a world that had already predetermined so many outcomes for us. I felt guilt for being pregnant under circumstances that played into stereotypes about young Black women and fatherless children. I felt fear because statistics told me that my chances of complications or even death were significantly higher, and that many of those complications were preventable if systems cared enough to prevent them.
On July 24th, 2019, I went into labor my birth partners, aka my parents, drove me to the hospital I was scheduled to deliver at. I remember every detail of that day because it was the moment when everything I had researched came rushing into reality.
The moment I entered triage, the tone shifted. I signed the paperwork, and the nurse assigned to me asked if I wanted an epidural. I politely declined, explaining I did not need one. Her response was, “You don’t have to be strong.” It was not just unnecessary. It was telling. It reflected a common assumption placed on Black women, that our decisions are rooted in pride rather than informed choice. She didn’t ask why. She didn’t ask what I wanted for my birth experience. She simply projected a stereotype onto me.
What she did not know was that both sides of my family have deep histories of women delivering without medical interventions. Some lacked access. Others gave birth in their homes in the Deep South with midwives or medicine women. My refusal was rooted in cultural memory, personal preference, and informed research, not a performance of strength.
Later, she mentioned the consent for a cesarean section as if it were inevitable. “If and when you need one,” she said. It was not her words but her tone that stung. It felt careless, dismissive, and rooted in an assumption that my body would fail me or that my experience required less consideration.
Once transferred to my private delivery room, the experience improved briefly when another nurse took over. But even then, my voice was still unheard. When I told her I was ready to push, she brushed me off. It wasn’t until I flipped onto all fours, gripping the rails in pain, that she realized my daughter was crowning. A whole team rushed in as I delivered my baby in a single push. I remember seeing the sac burst, watching the team scramble, and pushing through the final contraction using the techniques I had learned in Lamaze and in my own research.
I requested delayed cord clamping and stayed on all fours for three minutes before delivering my placenta. Although the moment was sacred, judgment still crept in. When I retrieved my placenta because I had signed the release ahead of time, a nurse questioned me with a tone that felt more accusatory than curious. When she corrected herself and advised me that I could not consume it due to meconium, I realized again that empathy was missing.
The postpartum experience did not improve. I was hooked up to Pitocin without consent. When I questioned why I needed it despite having a natural birth with no complications, the nurse said, “It’s just something we do no matter what.” I told her no immediately. I knew the risks. I knew the stories of Black women harmed by unnecessary interventions, overlooked reactions, or anesthesia complications.
Breastfeeding brought more pain and exhaustion. My daughter was hungry, I was overwhelmed, and the expectation was rigid. Because I said I wanted to breastfeed, I was expected to push through regardless of the pain. The lactation specialist tried to help, but the pressure and lack of patience broke me down emotionally.
By the third day, when I asked when the pediatrician would return to check my daughter’s bilirubin levels, I was told the doctor said she was fine and did not need further evaluation. I was furious. I had been cramped in a hospital bed for two nights, exhausted and stressed, all because I believed we were waiting for that assessment. I demanded my baby from the nursery, called my father, and packed our things. I was leaving.
What makes this story even more painful is that at the time, I was an employee of that same hospital system. And still, I was unheard, unseen, and treated according to assumptions rather than my humanity.
That experience, one that should have been beautiful, sacred, and supported, revealed a truth that statistics alone cannot capture. The disparities are not hypothetical. They are not exaggerated. They are real, and they are lived by women like me every day.
That is when my mission became clear. I want our voices heard. I want the stories policymakers ignore to be seen as data, as evidence, as lived truth that demands change.
Policy Shapes More Than Health Care
The weight of policy does not end in healthcare. I have also felt it in education and in the workplace. I have witnessed entire communities lose afterschool programs that once kept children safe, curious, and engaged. Programs in art, music, sports, and STEM were cut in neighborhoods that needed them the most. These programs were not luxuries. They were lifelines. Removing them increased risks of idle time, exposure to unsafe environments, and ultimately fed into the school to prison pipeline.
I have seen how policies decide who gets a fair chance and who becomes another statistic. In the criminal justice system, white individuals often receive lighter sentences or alternatives to incarceration even when charged with the same offenses as Black or Brown individuals. The same patterns echo throughout healthcare, where even wealthy and powerful Black women like Serena Williams and Beyoncé experienced dismissal or inadequate attention during childbirth.
These stories are mirrors of a system designed to prioritize certain lives over others.
Policies are not neutral. They have moral weight. They influence health outcomes, educational opportunities, economic stability, safety, and quality of life. When policies fail, people suffer. Communities crumble. Children grow up with fewer resources than they deserve.
Equality vs. Equity: Understanding the Difference
Many people use equality and equity interchangeably, but they are not the same. Equality assumes everyone begins from the same starting line. Equity acknowledges that people have different histories, barriers, and burdens. It recognizes that some individuals need additional support or resources to reach the same outcome as others.
Equality means giving everyone the same.
Equity means giving each person what they need.
I fight for equity because without it, equality is empty and performative. Real change begins with policies that acknowledge systemic harm and intentionally correct it.
Where Stories Become Data
I often think about how different our systems would be if stories were treated as data. If policymakers listened to the lived experiences of women, families, and communities. If our pain was not dismissed as exaggeration or misinterpretation.
Data reveals the disparities.
Stories reveal the humanity.
Together, they reveal the truth.
If I could rewrite policy today, I would restore the programs that kept kids safe. I would expand maternal health protections. I would ensure every family has access to adequate healthcare. I would address inequities not with temporary patches but with structural reforms that prioritize fairness.
Most importantly, I would create space for stories because stories are evidence. They represent the lives impacted by decisions made far from the people who feel the consequences.
When policy meets pain, the truth becomes impossible to ignore. And the truth is that we deserve better.