"More Than One of a Kind: Our Story and the State of Black LGBTQ+ Maternal Health" By Ebonee Smith

When my wife and I decided to grow our family, we knew we were in for a unique journey. But what we didn’t expect was how deeply isolating, challenging, and often invalidating the experience would feel—especially as two Black women navigating a maternal healthcare system not built with us in mind.

We were excited. Nervous. Hopeful. But almost immediately, our excitement was

Celebrating Zen's first month with love and togetherness.

met with confusion and implicit bias—from intake forms that didn’t include our family structure, to providers being pushy about induction. The moments that should have felt sacred were sometimes overshadowed by micro aggressions, medical dismissals, and a deep sense that we had to constantly advocate for ourselves in rooms that didn’t always see us.

This isn’t just our story—it’s the lived reality of so many Black LGBTQ+ families. I recently came across an article on Uncloseted Media titled “Why Lesbians Face a Maternal Healthcare Crisis”, and it struck a chord so deep it moved me to tears. Nearly every challenge the author described mirrored our own: being questioned, dismissed, overlooked due to bias, and unheard during some of our most vulnerable moments. But layered on top of that was something we didn’t expect—the complete disconnect between the fertility world and the medical systems that manage pregnancy and birth.

A tender moment captured during our maternity shoot, highlighting the love and anticipation shared for the new arrival.

Once we conceived through IVF, we thought we’d crossed the hardest part. Instead, we entered a system where providers showed little understanding of IVF protocols, often asking us to explain or justify each step. There was confusion at every turn—especially around my partner’s role. She was constantly asked if she was “also” the parent, as if our family structure needed validation or explanation. There was also uncertainty around how our care should be managed and what kind of support was appropriate. The forms weren’t inclusive. The language wasn’t affirming. And the protocols—when they existed at all—assumed we fit into a traditional mold that we simply didn’t. Even now, it seems we’ll always be met with the insanely awkward question: “Whose baby is he?”—as if the love, intention, and planning that brought him here weren’t enough. We weren’t just navigating pregnancy; we were constantly educating the people who were supposed to care for us.

Celebrating love and joy: Our first Mother's Day photoshoot captures the warmth and happiness shared between us.

I often reflect on my birthing story, marked by the scar of an unwanted cesarean—a physical reminder of a system not built with us in mind. And yet, that scar also holds power. It is a mark of resilience. It reminds me that despite the system’s failures, I brought our beautiful son safely into the world, into our arms, and into a home rooted in love.

These aren’t isolated incidents. They’re patterns.

Celebrating Pride: Embracing vibrant colors and confidence under the open sky.

Black birthing people already face disproportionate rates of maternal mortality and morbidity. When you add queerness to the equation, the risks and erasure compound. Medical institutions too often fail to acknowledge the diversity of our families, the legitimacy of our love, and the full humanity of queer Black birthing bodies.

But through it all, we found strength—in one another, in our chosen community, and in ourselves. With the steady guidance of our doula, we felt empowered to use our voices, to ask questions, to push back when we weren’t being heard. She reminded us that our experience mattered, and her presence made an often-fractured system feel just a little more whole.

Embracing love and new beginnings: Celebrating Pride and the start of our birthing journey together. 🌈✨

We learned how to ask better questions, demand informed care, and build networks of support that affirmed every part of our identity.

No one should have to do this alone.

To every queer, Black, birthing person reading this: your story matters. Your family matters. Your safety matters. And we are here to walk with you, to advocate for you, and to continue pushing for a world where your motherhood—your parenthood—is not only seen, but celebrated.