Guest Post by Teon Hayes

Senior Policy Analyst at CLASP

To the eight mothers who trusted me with their truths, and those who did not have the capacity to participate but still sent love and well wishes, thank you.

Thank you for believing that a message like this holds the possibility to create real, meaningful change.

I hope this is just the beginning.

Founded in 2018 by Black Mamas Matter Alliance, this year’s Black Maternal Health Week invites us to imagine what it truly means for Black mothers to thrive in lives rooted in justice and joy.

Historically, systems and policies affecting Black women have too often been shaped without their voices and ideas from inception through implementation. The danger in this approach is clear: solutions that fail to meet the needs of those they claim to help because those solutions flatten lived experiences into statistics, headlines, or policy debates and ultimately miss the depth, nuance, and everyday realities that should shape those decisions. When Black mothers are not centered, their full humanity is reduced to simplified, incomplete, and inaccurate representations.

This misguided approach is reflected in what we see every day. For example, regardless of education or socioeconomic status, Black women are still more likely to lose their lives during pregnancy, childbirth, or the postpartum period than women of other races. These high maternal mortality rates are not the result of genetics; they are the consequences of systemic inequities and failures across our health and social systems. From deeply rooted implicit bias and a lack of culturally responsive providers to the limited availability of birthing services that meet women’s needs, these systems continue to fail Black women.

What would it look like to build a world where Black mothers are not only heard, but deeply listened to and respected? A world where systems and policies are built with their voices at the center?

This piece is one step in that direction. It is a call for more of us to create spaces where Black mothers are centered, not just included, and where their lives and care are actively invested in through policies, resources, a strong infrastructure rooted in culturally responsive approaches, and community support.

I asked some of the Black mothers in my life to share their raw, unfiltered truth. These direct quotes and reflections consider what joy feels like, what justice means to each mother, and what it would take to truly thrive.

Their powerful and transformative words all shared this truth: Black mothers do not need to be saved. They need to be heard and for their voices to guide the investments, policies, and systems that affect their lives. This means investing in community care, ensuring cultural responsiveness throughout maternal health care and health systems, creating the space and permission for Black mothers to fully exist without exhaustion, and building a world that protects and nurtures Black children rather than taking from them.

Together, their voices paint a fuller picture. One that reminds us that Black motherhood is not defined by struggle alone, but by complexity, intention, resilience, and vision.

If we are serious about advancing policies that protect and support Black women, we must start here — by listening.

Joy is Intentional, Defiant, and Necessary

For Black mothers, joy is not accidental. It is deliberate, intentional, protected, and at times it is deeply defiant.

“A life rooted in joy, for me, looks like choosing softness without surrendering my strength.”

“Joy is soft, but it is also sharp and defiant. It is choosing peace in a world that profits off my exhaustion. It is building a life where love is not scarce, where we are not asking for crumbs and calling it a feast. It’s Legacy. It is the Cure.”

“It may sound unusual to say this out loud, but joy is an intentional watchword in our family. It is not an abstract idea or an unspoken feeling. It is something we name … Joy lives here.”

Joy is not passive. It is cultivated and spoken into existence even in the midst of competing demands and expectations. In a world that is constantly demanding more while offering less, claiming joy is a purposeful, intentional act.

“A life rooted in joy is freedom. Freedom to provide what my children need, freedom for them to experience the world, and freedom for me to rest, show up for myself, and be fully authentic. Joy looks like balance, family, autonomy, and the ability to safely experience the pleasures of life.”

“Joy is not optional. It is vital. It is a form of resistance and a source of strength.”

As one mother shared, a life rooted in joy is freedom. And yet, even the act of claiming joy can be misunderstood.

“For me, as an African-American mother, that focus can feel countercultural. Too often in the narrative suggests that because of deep inequities and injustice is woven into the fabric of this community, Black women, mothers, daughters and wives are somehow incapable of holding space for joy. But that narrative misunderstands us … when it is layered with the weaponization of Black and brown skin, with systematic inequities, institutional racism, and patriarchal structures that shape nearly every space we enter, it becomes easy to grow hardened, and it becomes easy to mistake survival as the purpose of life.”

Joy Requires Safety, Dignity, and Being Seen

While joy is intentional, it cannot fully exist without emotional, physical, and systemic safety. This is where justice is missing. For many Black mothers, the absence of these conditions hits close to home and is felt daily.

Even as Black mothers intentionally choose joy, there is still pressure to show up as unflawed, unemotional, perfect, almost robotic beings. Black women carry the weight of having to be “twice as good to get half of what they have.”

“In order for me to feel safe, supported, and just, I need the world to understand the Black mother experience, to give grace. To allow access to safe spaces to just be without having our value linked to our performance.”

“I need spaces where Black women feel empowered to be selfish and prioritize what they want to do for themselves as opposed to doing things for other people. A safe, supported and just experience sounds like empathy, grace, and genuine interest in a Black mother’s experience.”

“Justice in my personal world looks like truth being acknowledged, harm not being minimized, and my voice not being questioned but regarded with respect. It looks like reciprocity.”

“And justice, beyond me, looks like a world where my children are free to exist in their fullness. Where reclamation and reparations are not resistance, but reality. Where Black motherhood is supported, protected, and honored, not just in words, but in resources, in policies, and in practice.”

Justice is Inconsistent, and Both Justice and Injustice are Deeply Felt

For Black mothers, neither justice nor injustice is a theoretical concept. Justice is felt in its presence, and even more deeply in its absence. In many cases, that absence is not subtle. It is generational, passing along grief and the weight of what could have been for years to come. This kind of deep, repeated harm shapes maternal mental health and ripples outward, affecting not only mothers but the well-being of families and entire communities.

“To feel truly safe, supported, and to experience justice would require something like a cosmic heart transplant in the soul of America. Even if I were given a magic wand and the power to enact sweeping legislative and societal change, it would still not be enough. Laws matter, but the deeper transformation must happen in the hearts and minds of people. So many things would need to change.”

“I want justice for my son. I would like for them to go deeper into what happened … and that’s not only for me. I think about all these young women and young boys, and they suffer, you know, overdoses. And they say, ‘it is what it is.’ But it’s deeper than that.”

Justice is about policy, but also about dismantling the structures and mental models that allow systemic racism and inequities to persist. These same forces determine whose pain is acknowledged and whose life is protected.

“My son often says the first time he saw me cry was when the verdict was announced in the Trayvon Martin trial … It confirms what Black families have known for generations, that justice has been painfully inconsistent and often absent from the Black experience.”

“I think our deep fear is rooted in colonization and white supremacy, what Black mothers have experienced since the beginning of time, I think it really has passed down a deep fear of just our children’s well-being in this world.”

This inconsistency forces Black mothers to carry an added weight. Not only are they navigating their own safety, security, and healing from cycles of grief and intergenerational trauma, but they are also raising children and preparing them to move through a world where their safety is not guaranteed, while carrying a persistent fear for the well-being of those they love.

Even where joy and a sense of justice are cultivated within individual lives, Black mothers live with the constant reminder that justice itself is fragile, and they must maintain this delicate balance.

“Justice, in my experience thus far as a Black mother, is both something I am holding and I can feel slipping through my fingers simultaneously.”

There is a tension between what has been built and what remains at risk. Between moments of progress and the reality of what has yet to change.

These reflections make clear that justice is not consistent, guaranteed, or distributed equally. Rather, justice is something that Black mothers must navigate, question, and at times, grieve.

And in the absence of justice, the responsibility to protect, prepare, and preserve the next generation falls even heavier on their shoulders.

Systems Were Not Designed for Us, But We Persist Anyway

A clear pattern emerged in these interviews: that Black mothers are not only navigating the everyday realities of motherhood, but they are also doing so within systems that were never designed with them in mind.

And yet, they persist.

“Because of that support, I became a graduate of North Carolina Central University at the young age of 22 and went on to further my education at the University of Maryland, and The George Washington University. Soon, I will be a doctoral graduate of Yale University … This is what thriving can look like for a Black mother who has faith in God, a strong foundation, and the support of a committed village. It is an experience I wish for every Black mother.”

For some, that persistence looks like preparation. It looks like learning systems inside and out, anticipating barriers, and positioning themselves in ways that protect their families.

“I’ve been beyond blessed with community and support, federally, to navigate motherhood, and I’ve never even fathomed injustice as a Black mother. I’ve planned in advance what needed to be done to bypass some of the obstacles I saw in the field of medicine.”

“…nurses being more culturally competent… None of the Black or African nurses disrespected my mom. Only the white nurses. Circumcision, customs, and traditions are important for us people of color, ranging from Africans, Caribbean, Black American, Afro-Latinas, you name it. People need to be more respectful and allow some of those customs to be honored.”

For some, this has meant turning to public support like food assistance while also excelling in school and professional spaces to anticipate and navigate barriers before harm occurs.

These perspectives are important, because they are reminders that Black mothers are not a monolith and that cultural responsiveness within our systems is not optional. It is essential to care that is safe, respectful, and responsive.

But even within that reality, there is a deeper truth. The ability to “bypass” harm often requires over-preparation, access to resources, and a level of vigilance that should not be necessary in the first place. Yet for many Black mothers, this truth is the difference between being heard and being dismissed.

“If Black mothers were truly valued in this country, it wouldn’t have to be said. We would feel it in how we live.”

“It would look like ease where there has only ever been endurance.”

“We wouldn’t have to fight so hard to be seen, to be heard, or to be believed in our own bodies. Our care, before, during, and after bringing life into this world, would be handled with intention, not neglect.”

What would it look like to design systems that do not require Black mothers to be twice as prepared, twice as knowledgeable, or twice as resilient just to receive the care they deserve? What would it look like to build systems that are, from the start, responsive to their needs, their cultures, and their lived experiences? One mother made this tangible by naming what true structural support could look like:

“If Black mothers were truly valued in this country, maternity leave would not be limited to six or twelve weeks. It would be long enough for mothers to heal, recover, and care for their children without jeopardizing their jobs.”

“Safety wouldn’t be something we piece together; it would be something built around us.”

Building these systems, creating safety by design, means investing in community-based care models, expanding maternal health supports, and designing policies that reflect the realities Black mothers have already named.

The Village: Where Care Becomes Legacy

“A child who is not embraced by the village will burn it down to feel its warmth.” That proverb immediately brought me back to the saying, “It takes a village,” which is exactly how I envision Black mothers not merely surviving, but thriving.

If there is one thing these reflections make clear, it is this: Black mothers were never meant to do this alone.

“We were not built to have children alone. For centuries, women were surrounded by communities of women who helped them rest, heal, and recover. Community care is ancestral wisdom, and returning to that is essential for safety, support, and justice.”

Again and again, the vision of thriving returns to the same place: not individual strength, not survival through resilience, but community. Care that is shared. Support that is consistent. A village that does not disappear when things get hard.

“I imagine a village that surrounds a mother from the moment she gives birth, caring for her as her body recovers after carrying a child on average for nine months and enduring labor and delivery. I imagine a village that helps care for the baby, prepares meals, and continues to show up long after the newborn stage has passed. A true village does not disappear after the celebration of birth … For that kind of village to exist, however, we need advocates at every level: local, state, and national, who believe in and invest in this mindset.”

“I need a community that shows up with me and for me. Not just when I’m pouring, but when I’m empty too. Support that looks like shared responsibility, like being reminded that I am not meant to carry motherhood, healing, and legacy all on my own.”

This is what thriving looks like. Not isolation. Not endurance. Not carrying everything alone.

“It looks like being held. It feels like a warm embrace.

“Black motherhood would not be synonymous with struggle. It would be seen as sacred, as powerful, as worthy of protection and softness. We wouldn’t be praised only for how much we can carry but supported so we don’t have to carry it all.”

Thriving looks like systems that align with communities, rather than replacing them. Policies that invest in care, not just outcomes. Resources that meet Black mothers where they are and move with them throughout their lives.

Because the truth is, Black mothers do not need to be saved. They need to be supported. They need to be believed. They need to be invested in.

“This disconnect doesn’t come from thin air. Generational curse is how it is often coded. It is the outcome of generations disrupted, education distorted, and communities under-resourced on purpose. This disconnection is a direct result of intentional injustices bestowed upon Black communities and bodies, with no reparations or collective agreement and action on how to heal.”

“The way systemic and generational harm didn’t just take from us materially, it fractured mindsets. It interrupted the transfer of wisdom. It made survival louder than consciousness, louder than intention, louder than sacred responsibility.”

To talk about thriving without acknowledging this history is to ignore the very conditions that made thriving harder to access in the first place. This history did not begin in recent decades but goes back to the Transatlantic Slave Trade, where human lives were exploited and resources, traditions, cultures, and knowledge were systematically taken and disrupted.

These losses did not disappear with time. They were reinforced through generations of policies, practices, and systems that continued to extract, exclude, and underinvest in Black communities. Those impacts are still with us today, shaping access to care, quality of life, and the conditions in which Black mothers are expected to raise their children.

To truly move forward, we must first acknowledge this harm — not as history alone, but as a living reality that continues to influence the systems we navigate today. Even within that truth, however, Black mothers hold a vision and hope for a greater future for generations to come.

“But there is a unique and incomparable joy in seeing the next generation reflected in my grandson … imagining all of the possibilities that lie ahead for his life brings me nothing but pure joy."

“I try to navigate the privilege and responsibility of motherhood without passing down the curses of injustice.”

Black mothers are already doing the work of repair. They are bridging generations, holding both grief and possibilities at the same time, and most importantly, redefining joy.

They are asking clarity, intention, and sustained investment, all of which are possible.

“Where love is abundant, support is consistent, and justice is not something we name, because it is something we live.”

About the Author: Teon Hayes is a Senior Policy Analyst with the mental health and spiritual wellbeing team at CLASP, where she focuses on the intersection of racial justice and community-led solutions for Black families.