At 34, happily married for two and a half years, and still childless, I find myself grappling with an immense amount of pressure to start a family. It seems like everyone around me—friends, colleagues, and family—are announcing pregnancies, yet I feel hesitant. It’s not that I’m against having children; it’s a deep-seated fear that holds me back. I’m not just nervous; I’m genuinely terrified. The thought of not surviving a pregnancy—or worse, that my child won’t survive—haunts me. And while such fears are common among expecting parents, the statistics indicate that my concerns are all too valid.
My husband and I share the usual worries many couples face: Are we financially stable enough? Will we manage without our families nearby? Can we find a home in a good school district? However, as an interracial couple, we have our own unique set of fears. We often ponder how to navigate the complexities of raising children who embody both black and white identities. How do we teach them to embrace their heritage while ensuring they feel secure and proud?
For now, these worries feel irrelevant because we’re not expecting. We aren’t even trying, simply because we recognize that our fears extend beyond the typical parental concerns. The elements that frighten me the most are tied to my race and the implications it may have for my future children.
After our honeymoon in 2017, we considered starting a family, but a statistic I stumbled upon shattered that dream: Black women are 243% more likely to face pregnancy or birth-related deaths compared to their white counterparts. The maternal mortality rates in the U.S. continue to be alarming, with about 40 Black women dying for every 100,000 births, as opposed to 12 white women. High-profile figures like Maya Johnson and Angela Smith have shared their harrowing experiences in hospitals. If they faced such struggles, who was I to believe I’d be treated any better?
My own experiences in medical settings haven’t been encouraging. I’ve voiced my pain only to be dismissed, with medical professionals telling me to simply endure discomfort. It often takes a severe situation to elicit a serious response. How will I communicate my pain during childbirth when I know the odds are stacked against me? The thought that my white husband might receive more attention from medical staff than I do only adds to my anxiety. Why should I have to rely on him to ensure my pain is taken seriously?
Take the tragic story of Marcus Evans, whose wife, Kira, died shortly after giving birth, despite being in excellent health and having prior birthing experience. She expressed her fears, yet her concerns were overlooked until it was too late. This reality is terrifying, and it makes me hesitant to even consider starting a family.
After that, we decided to put our plans on hold for another year, wanting to savor our time as a couple. During a trip to Costa Rica, we learned about the Zika virus, leading my OBGYN to recommend a six-month wait before trying to conceive. As that period comes to a close, another alarming study crosses my path: premature Black babies have a lower chance of survival than their white, Hispanic, or Asian counterparts due to disparities in care quality in NICUs.
It’s 2023, and these issues persist. The idea that mothers and babies are suffering due to systemic racism and neglect is both frightening and infuriating. Meanwhile, my friends are sharing their pregnancy journeys with confidence, while I’m left grappling with the stark reality that my chances of survival during pregnancy and labor are disproportionately lower.
I wonder if other women feel this way too. How do they move past these fears?
For those looking into family planning and alternative options, resources like this guide on intrauterine insemination can be incredibly helpful. And if you’re considering your own journey into motherhood, Home Insemination Kit offers a variety of tools to get started, while Fertility Boost provides additional support.
In summary, my fears surrounding pregnancy stem from both personal experiences and broader societal issues. As a Black woman, the stakes feel higher, and while many around me seem ready to embrace parenthood, I find myself hesitant, questioning whether I should take the leap.
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