07/26/2025
Do they even see me?
Or just the chart?
Just the contraction?
Just the āstrong Black womanā who wonāt complain.
I was screaming on the inside.
The epidural didnāt work.
My back was fire.
I asked the nurseāplease, tell them to stop.
Those eyes are forever etched in my brain.
How they looked right past me,
like I was noise, not a person.
I thought I was protected.
Fancy hospital.
Doctor was skinfolk.
But skinfolk aināt kinfolk
when the system teaches them
that our pain is performance
and our silence is safer.
At midnight,
they stripped my water.
Didnāt tell me why.
Didnāt ask how I felt.
I felt invaded.
Like I was somewhere between patient and prisoner.
And thenā
they wheeled me into surgery,
cut me open,
and pulled out my joyā
but left my spirit behind.
My mind started slipping.
Hormones crashing.
Sleep stolen.
Fear whispering through the cracks.
I went home with a baby
and no instructions
for how to keep myself alive.
My breasts were full,
but I was empty.
Feeding someone else,
while starving for sleep,
for peace,
for help,
for me.
They asked about the babyā
his weight,
his sleep,
his smile.
But no one asked if I had eaten.
No one asked if I had cried.
No one asked if I felt like a ghost
in my own skin.
They told me to be gratefulā
as if gratitude could replace rest,
or support,
or a system that shouldāve caught me
when I was falling.
But I found pieces of myself
in the whispers of Black mothers
who came before meā
in the hands of sisters
who built a village
from pain and hope.
I am still healing.
But I am not lost.
Because from that rupture,
I became a storyteller,
a strategist,
a witness.
And now,
when another mother says,
āNo one ever asked if I was okay,ā
I look her in the eye and say:
I see you.
I hear you.
And I will never be silent.
š¤
