Once the backbone of community care, Black midwives are reclaiming their place in a healthcare system that has long erased them.
This essay is part of an ongoing Gender & Democracy series, presented in partnership with Groundswell Fund and Groundswell Action Fund, highlighting the work of Groundswell partners advancing inclusive democracy. You’ll find stories, reflections and accomplishments—told in their own words—by grassroots leaders, women of color, Indigenous women, and trans and gender-expansive people supported by Groundswell. By amplifying these voices—their solutions, communities, challenges and victories—our shared goal is to show how intersectional organizing strengthens democracy.
There is a quiet crisis raging in America: Black women are three to four times more likely to die from pregnancy-related complications than white women. Our babies are twice as likely not to see their first birthday. And yet, the very people we know we can rely on to protect us the most—Black midwives—have been nearly erased from the national birth narrative.
I am one of those midwives. And I write this piece to affirm that we are still here.
Long before there were hospitals—and hospital births—there were Black midwives. Rooted in African traditions and adapted through centuries of survival and resilience, the Black midwife, often called a “granny midwife” in the South, was the cornerstone of community health. She delivered babies, yes, but also offered deep wisdom, spiritual grounding, herbal medicine and fierce protection. She held our stories and our secrets, often the only healthcare provider Black families could trust.
Yet instead of honoring the expertise of Black midwives and ensuring the health and safety of the communities they served, the medical establishment launched a campaign of systemic erasure.
It is part of a long history of medical racism in this country. As the fields of obstetrics and gynecology rose in the 19th century, it did so on the backs of enslaved Black women. The so-called “fathers” of gynecology diabolically and ruthlessly experimented on our foremothers without anesthesia, their pain dismissed as myth. While white doctors were gaining credibility and amassing financial power, Black midwives were being forced out of practice, often criminalized simply for continuing their sacred work. Midwifery, once the art of community, became emblematic of the science of control.
By the 20th century, through a combination of targeted legislation, draconian licensing restrictions and smear tactics labeling them as “untrained,” Black midwives were systematically pushed out of birth work. Their knowledge was appropriated, while Black families and communities were left to suffer under a system that was never built with them in mind.
The result? A healthcare system where Black women too often go unheard, undermined and unseen. A system where our pain is underestimated, our symptoms are ignored and our lives are undervalued.
Three enslaved Black women in the 1840s were subjected to repeated experimental surgeries without anesthesia or consent by Dr. J. Marion Sims, often called the “father of modern gynecology.” Their suffering and involuntary participation led to breakthroughs in obstetrics and gynecology, yet for decades their contributions went unacknowledged.
Today I say their names: Anarcha, Lucy and Betsey.
As a Black woman of the South and now a proud midwife, I have lived this fight firsthand. My journey to becoming a midwife was not linear. It was an odyssey.
I traveled across three states and trained under six different preceptors. Only one of them was a Black woman.
At every turn, I was reminded that this system was not built for me. The certification process was long, rigorous and costly. I was required to fund my own education and clinical hours, navigate complex regulations that vary state by state and often defend my very presence in spaces not meant for me. And still, I rose.
I rose because this work is sacred. Because every Black mother deserves someone who sees her. Because every Black baby deserves to be welcomed into the world by someone who believes in their right to thrive.
There are policy solutions we can and must invest in here and now. We must train more Black midwives and re-educate the public about midwifery practice. This goes beyond improving the numbers: We must restore the trust, dignity and cultural reverence that have been stripped from Black birthing people. Studies show that racial concordance between provider and patient leads to better outcomes. We know this—we’ve always known this.
Our nation’s shockingly high maternal mortality rates need not be inevitable. When Black midwives lead, communities rally and rise.
But we cannot do this alone. In addition to policy change, we need funding, mentorship pipelines and community investment. We need our stories told, our legacy restored and our futures protected. To become a Black midwife in America today is to resist and reclaim what was stolen. It is to plant seeds in soil that tried to bury us and watch them bloom anyway.
And still, I have hope.
I see it in the eyes of the Black mothers I serve. I hear it in the laughter of the babies I’ve helped deliver. I feel it in the fierce determination of the next generation of Black birth workers coming behind me.
We are not a trend. We are not an afterthought. We are not a statistic.
We are the blueprint. And we are here to stay.
