Before I got pregnant, I had heard the statistics but hadn’t fully grasped the implications. In the UK, Black women are five times more likely to die during pregnancy and childbirth compared to white women (I believe it is now four times). We are more likely to suffer from birth complications, and we are more likely to experience birth trauma. Knowing this scared me, but I hoped—naively—that I would somehow escape the harsh reality by arming myself with all of the information I could find. I did everything I thought I could to make myself safe. I read so many books, I invested in great antenatal education, I hired a doula, I checked which hospitals had good ratings from other Black women. I already knew about the potential for bad experiences and thought that set me apart.
When I became pregnant, I felt an overwhelming mix of emotions—excitement, fear, joy, and trepidation. As a Black queer woman, I knew my experience of motherhood would be a journey, but I didn’t realise just how much it would test me in ways I could never have imagined. Pregnancy and birth are sold to us as beautiful, life-affirming experiences, but for me, the whole thing was tarnished by trauma, neglect, and a deep sense of isolation.
The early stages of my pregnancy were incredible. I had that “glow” everyone spoke about. My bump was cute and shapely. I felt so strong and powerful, in my womanhood. All my tests came back great. It was picture perfect. Then the third trimester hit me like a ton of bricks. I was struggling with pelvic pains, I was getting breathless just walking to the kitchen, I was tired all the time. My wife was very worried. I spoke to my healthcare provider about each difficulty and this is where I began to feel like I was being treated differently. My concerns were brushed aside, my pain dismissed. At one point, I went into the hospital because I knew something wasn’t right, but I was told to go home and rest. My instincts were telling me that my baby and I weren’t safe, but my voice was constantly silenced.
During labour, I was in unbearable pain, I know labour hurts but this was something else. I wasn’t offered adequate pain relief until I begged and screamed for it. Even then, it felt like an afterthought, like I was an inconvenience rather than a person in agony. I had a gut feeling that my body wasn’t being treated with the care it deserved and I was right. My labour ended in an emergency C-section because of complications that could have been avoided if anyone had listened to me sooner. I lost a lot of blood. My baby was whisked away from me and my wife wasn’t told what was happening with either of us. I told her to follow our baby and the doctors wouldn’t tell her where he was taken.
I needed a blood transfusion and I could hear comments about me being gay and needing “black blood”. I wasn’t in any fit state to challenge any of this. My wife was trying to be with our son but kept being told that only his parents could be in the room. She couldn’t “prove” that she was my wife and our baby boy was alone. My brother in law ended up bringing our marriage certificate to the hospital to prove my wife was who she said she was and the nurse on the desk informed my (white) brother that my wife had been unnecessarily aggressive and that was why she wasn’t permitted to enter the NICU.
After we left the hospital, I expected the trauma would start to fade, but it only deepened. What followed was a year of postnatal depression that I could never have predicted. I couldn’t bond with my baby. Every cry felt like a reminder of my inadequacy. Every sleepless night became a spiral into guilt and shame. I started to feel like I wasn’t enough for my wife or child—like I was failing them before I even had a chance to succeed.
The NHS offered minimal support for my mental health. I had my six-week check, and when I mentioned feeling low, it was shrugged off as normal. I knew I needed proper help, but I didn’t know how to ask for it. And when I did, the help wasn’t there. I was referred to a mental health specialist after months of struggling, but even that felt like an afterthought—a box ticking exercise rather than real care. The person I spoke to had no experience working with queer people, birth trauma or Black people.
I couldn’t explain to anyone how deeply I was struggling because I was too ashamed. As a mother, you’re supposed to feel that instant, all-consuming love for your child, and when that didn’t come to me, I felt like I was breaking some unspoken rule of motherhood. The shame made me withdraw further, and the depression worsened. My wife, my partner in everything, felt helpless. She didn’t know how to support me or how to bridge the growing gap between me, her, and our baby.
I made the terrible mistake of posting in a new parents group looking for solidarity but I was told that I was perpetuating racism and homophobia by seeking a therapist who had worked with Black queer women in the past. I was told I had a chip on my shoulder and that I was harming my baby because of my racism and homophobia. I felt like I was in a waking nightmare.
I had dreamed about what it would feel like to hold my boy for the first time, but the reality was different. I was exhausted, emotionally and physically drained from the trauma of the birth. When I held him, I didn’t feel that rush of love that people talk about. Instead I felt like an outsider, a spectator in my own life. He didn’t seem to recognise me nor I him. The more I struggled to connect, the worse I felt. I began to question whether I was meant to be a mother at all. I was constantly on edge, waiting for the next moment of failure. My wife tried to reassure me, tried to step in when she could, but it didn’t change how I felt. The disconnect between me and my child was a constant source of pain and guilt.
Being queer amplified all of the pain and distress. While the world expected me to fit into a heteronormative template of motherhood, I was grappling with an identity that made me feel even more isolated. There is already so little representation of queer families in the broader society, and being a Black woman in this space felt doubly isolating. All the drop in, song and rhyme times or mummy and me sessions were full of straight white women who spoke of their goofy husbands not knowing which way up a nappy goes or how to warm a bottle or how to fold up the pram. I couldn’t relate on any level. I felt like an alien. A changeling. Like somehow I’d been replaced in my body by someone else.
Healing from birth trauma and postnatal depression is still a work in progress. I wish I could say that I’ve completely come out the other side, but the truth is, there are days when the darkness still creeps in. The trauma doesn’t just disappear—it lingers, shaping the way I see myself and my role as a mother. But I am learning to navigate it, to be kinder to myself.
I’ve found community in other Black women and queer parents who have had similar experiences. Sharing my story has been a crucial part of my healing and this is the first time I have committed it to text – albeit anonymously. Knowing I’m not alone in this journey has given me strength, but I still can’t help but wonder how different things might have been if our healthcare system had truly cared for me, listened to me, and supported me when I was hurting as much as it had when things were great.
I’m still bonding with my baby. It’s happening slowly, and I’ve come to accept that it’s okay if it doesn’t look like everyone else’s experience. My wife and I are working together to create a home full of love, despite the challenges we’ve faced.
Knowing that there are people out there supporting Black and queer folk on their journey to parenthood has been eye opening. As I said, I was already informed on birth outcome disparities for Black and brown women and also queer people (the lack of research really shows up here!) I watch things from afar with fear and trepidation but who knows, maybe one day I might be helping someone who finds themself in the position I was in.
Resources for Black mothers:
https://fivexmore.org/black-maternal-health-week-2024
https://themotherhoodgroup.org.uk
www.mentalhealth.org.uk/explore-mental-health/stories/black-maternal-mental-health