Joy Metric
Photographed by Niss Baty
My last four births had several moments of joy: Birthing in my home, catching my babies, dancing to Barry White, and the “girl you bad” from family. I went into birth believing it wouldn’t beat me but would add to me.
The same way we celebrate a family’s first-time college grads, we are still celebrating “first wins” within birth. Our birthright is to enter into birth and motherhood like we would a soul train line: We may be nervous or even afraid, but once the music drops, we start cuttin’ up. And at the end of the line, we’ll be glad we did.
— Whitney Robinson
Finding joy was very difficult. I found out I was pregnant in April 2020, at the height of the pandemic. I found joy through song, leaning on my support system, leading prayer groups, exercising, and finding a provider I knew would listen to me and my fears.
It is absolutely possible to have joy and peace that surpasses the understanding of the harsh realities. I say to others that preparation is essential. One, prepare your body for pregnancy: Get blood pressure under control, take prenatal vitamins, begin a routine of exercise. Two, prepare your mind for pregnancy: Get therapy, read pregnancy books, have conversations with your health care team. And three, prepare your voice for pregnancy: Have a birthing plan, save for a doula or ask for contributions at the baby shower, learn boundaries, practice speaking up for yourself.
I believed in my body’s ability, and I birthed on my own terms. Any possible fear I had was replaced by faith, and that faith led me to the ultimate joy—bringing my healthy babies Earthside. I hope that more Black parents can embrace the process of birth and do so in a safe environment—that they feel ready to embark on the journey with a sense of empowerment instead of fear. That black families aren’t merely surviving but thriving.
Our birthright is to experience the beauty of birth—to feel safe and supported and to lean into our intuition and reclaim the power over our own bodies.
— Carla Williams
We, as Black people, are so aware of the things that want to hold us back, kill us, make us invisible. That knowledge puts us in the perfect position to give our children everything they need to grow into full human beings.
When I hug my daughter, I let it linger. I cover her in kisses. I still smell her. I look into her eyes. I marvel at how smart she is. Her budding sense of humor cracks me up. Her imagination is beginning to blossom, and I just love that! Even when she's throwing tantrums or not wanting to do what I'm telling her, I find that if I stay in awareness, I'm able to communicate better with her, thereby breaking some of our generational curses, tragedies, and abuses. That brings me tremendous joy.
My hope for Black birth is that it will be a space for Black families to thrive. I want for Black families to feel safe, be healthy, be simultaneously grounded and swept away by the magic of the moment. Birth is so beautiful. I want Black families to have the supported space to feel beauty in its deepest fullness. Health is our birthright. Love is our birthright.
— Angela Lewis
I found joy in the outpouring of love I received from the community, as well as honoring the fact that my body was creating life. And I find joy in watching my kids flourish and grow into their own people. What brings me joy is watching them succeed in whatever they are attempting to accomplish—no matter how big or small. Seeing them overcome with joy makes me the happiest person alive in that moment.
My hope for the future of Black birth is, first and foremost, trans inclusivity. I also hope for people to start using doulas and other birth workers. Safe, equitable, nurturing care is our birthright.
— Kayden Coleman
About the Author
Inspired by Black women, her inner child, and the timeless photographers before her, Niss is a passionate and limitless creative committed to sharing her POV one photograph at a time. With her experiences in this industry, one valuable lesson she walks with is: “How you do anything is how you do everything.”
www.nisshoots.com/#1
Niss Baty
Kwami Lee is Florida raised, NYC based visual artist working across multiple genres to explore and document people and their stories. Inspired by culture, community, fashion, and the human experience, his work invokes an underlying feeling of intimacy and nostalgia while remaining contemporary and chic. His work is currently focused on editorial, documentary, and commercial projects and has worked with brands such as Zara, Revlon, Jean Paul Gaultier, Wall Street Journal, and Well+Good.
www.kwamilee.com/gallery
Kwami Lee
Angela started ALC in 2016. What started off as a hobby and a love for her youtube channel videos about hair and makeup, grew into a huge brand. The idea was to be able to give everyone else the same quality and fun style of capturing moments that she was doing for her own channel. Angela studied and received her Bachelor's of Science degree at Howard University in 2012. She's SUPER passionate about everything pertaining to visual arts but especially photography and film making. Photography and Film allows us to capture moments, freeze time and travel back to them again and again.
www.angelalauren.co/
Angela Lauren
John Leath was born and raised in Los Angeles, California. He is a father of two sons and has been married for 19 years. Leath is the owner of Eyemjonarthur Photography, and his clients include musicians and entertainers, entrepreneurs, technology consultants, and business owners. His current work follows the Queen Mother of GaDangme Land as she engages in cultural exchange and business development in China.
www.eyemjonarthur.com/work-flatiron
Jonarthur
5 Black Parents on Experiencing Happiness During Birth and Beyond
by Kimberly Seals AllerS
Quotes have been edited and condensed for clarity
The Black maternal health crisis in the U.S. is indeed a serious one. Black women are two to three times more likely to die from pregnancy and childbirth-related causes, according to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC). In places like New York City, that disparity is up to 12 times higher for Black women. These are top of mind for so many Black people, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t joy in Black birth, too.
When we only view Black birth as a collection of dire statistics and harrowing headlines, it can perpetuate stereotypes of Black women as perpetually cursed victims. It prevents productive conversations about the role of racism and bias in health care that contributes to such outcomes, and it keeps us from learning from what’s going well.
Fear is a form of oppression—and a health threat. It’s well-documented that chronic fear and anxiety during pregnancy contribute to poorer birth outcomes, such as preterm birth and low-birthweight babies. And racialized stress, more broadly, contributes to early biological aging and higher rates of death from conditions like stroke, heart disease, and diabetes. The media’s propensity to report only Black maternal deaths ignores the fine line between raising awareness and making Black birthing people weary.
I am focused on addressing the latter.
Last year, I launched Birthright, a podcast with an explicit mission to tell joyful Black birthing stories. With funding from the California Health Care Foundation and now the Commonwealth Fund, the episodes highlight joyful birth stories as a critical tool in the fight for birth equity and counter weariness in the Black birth space. Birthright is narrative-shifting work: It tells the world that Black people have joyful birthing experiences while providing the context. Most importantly, Birthright presents possibility—and possibility is everything.
Joyful birthing does not always mean perfect. The maternal health care system continues to fail women across racial and socioeconomic lines, so expecting perfection from a broken system is not the goal. Nor is it to whitewash the harsh realities that Black birthing folks endure every day. (I read those experiences regularly on the Irth app, a maternity doctor and hospital review and recommendation platform I launched for Black birthing people.) However, while we work on making maternal care safe, respectful and equitable, we can’t forget that joy and pain can co-exist.
Ultimately, Black joy is for Black people to define. Birthright guests determine what made their experience joyful. For some, it involved feeling safe in a delivery room of Black people, dancing to a favorite song while delivering, or feeling confident in their body’s ability to deliver. Fear was likely still present in these experiences, but joy transcended, and, in the end, replaced it.
As season two launches next week, I am excited to continue a treasured and sacred Birthright ritual. Naming and claiming what Black birthing people are owed simply by being human is critical to shifting cultural norms and redefining what is possible.
Below, you’ll find five reflections from Black parents who found joy in the birthing process and continue to explore it in parenthood. May their stories remind you that joy is instrumental as we continue to push toward safe and equitable births.
I went into birth believing it wouldn’t beat me.
Kimberly is the founder of Irth (as in Birth without the B for bias), the first of its kind, doctor and hospital review and recommendation platform for Black birthing people. An award-winning journalist, former senior editor at Essence, and author of five books, Kimberly is one of the leading voices on motherhood and the intersection of race, class and policy. Listen and subscribe to Birthright wherever you get your podcasts.
www.Irthapp.com
www.BirthrightPodcast.com
Kimberly Seals Allers
I find joy in the small moments. God has truly blessed me with a child who loves to laugh, explore, and finds comfort in my lap. I find myself marveling at the fact that I get to spend so much time with my son during his formative years. Working from home and hearing his giggles in the next room or being able to witness his milestones as they happen is a joy.
My hope for the future of Black birth is that the disparities and inequities in healthcare delivery are completely eradicated. I hope that families entering the birthing experience can feel safe, heard, and have fond memories of pregnancy and birth.
— Morine Cebert Gaitors
It is absolutely possible to have joy and peace that surpasses the understanding of the harsh realities.
I birthed on my own terms.
My hope for the future of Black birth is, first and foremost, trans inclusivity.
Health is our birthright. Love is our birthright.
Is a
Whitney Robinson
have joyful birthing experiences while providing the context. Most importantly, Birthright presents possibility—and possibility is everything.
Joyful birthing does not always mean perfect. The maternal health care system continues to fail women across racial and socioeconomic lines, so expecting perfection from a broken system is not the goal. Nor is it to whitewash the harsh realities that Black birthing folks endure every day. (I read those experiences regularly on the Irth app, a maternity doctor and hospital review and recommendation platform I launched for Black birthing people.) However, while we work on making maternal care safe, respectful, and equitable, we can’t forget that joy and pain can co-exist.
Ultimately, Black joy is for Black people to define. Birthright guests determine what made their experiences joyful. For some, it involved feeling safe in a delivery room of Black people, dancing to a favorite song while delivering, or feeling confident in their body’s ability to deliver. Fear was likely still present in these experiences, but joy transcended, and, in the end, replaced it.
As season two launches next week, I am excited to continue a treasured and sacred Birthright ritual. Naming and claiming what Black birthing people are owed simply by being human is critical to shifting cultural norms and redefining what is possible.
Below, you’ll find five reflections from Black parents who found joy in the birthing process and continue to explore it in parenthood. May their stories remind you that joy is instrumental as we continue to push toward safe and equitable births.
The Black maternal health crisis in the U.S. is indeed a serious one. Black women are two to three times more likely to die from pregnancy- and childbirth-related causes, according to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC). In places like New York City, that disparity is up to 12 times higher for Black women. These numbers are top of mind for so many Black people, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t joy in Black birth, too.
When we only view Black birth as a collection of dire statistics and harrowing headlines, it can perpetuate stereotypes of Black women as perpetually cursed victims. It prevents productive conversations about the role of racism and bias in health care that contributes to such outcomes, and it keeps us from learning from what’s going well.
Fear is a form of oppression—and a health threat. It’s well documented that chronic fear and anxiety during pregnancy contribute to poorer birth outcomes, such as preterm birth and low-birthweight babies. And racialized stress, more broadly, contributes to early biological aging and higher rates of death from conditions like stroke, heart disease, and diabetes. The media’s propensity to report only Black maternal deaths ignores the fine line between raising awareness and making Black birthing people weary.
I am focused on addressing the latter.
Last year, I launched Birthright, a podcast with an explicit mission to tell joyful Black birthing stories. With funding from the California Health Care Foundation and now the Commonwealth Fund, the episodes highlight joyful birth stories as a critical tool in the fight for birth equity and counter weariness in the Black birth space. Birthright is narrative-shifting work: It tells the world that Black people
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Photographed by KWAMI LEE
MOrine Cebert Gaitors
Photographed by KWAMI LEE
Carla Williams
Photographed by Angela lauren
Kayden Coleman
Photographed by Jonarthur
Angela Lewis
About the Photographers
