It was the day after we buried my sister that I sat in denial staring at two lines. I mean I had an IUD after all, so nothing to worry about, right? Ehh, nope. I was pregnant and those lines were not false positives. I remember the stillness after I told my husband. No words, just a suspension of time while we observed each other.

In my mind, I glossed over all the pressure we were under. I was in a master’s program, he was in a PhD program and we already had two children ages 3 and 1. Our oldest son required services for his developmental delay and for one second, I questioned how in the world we would manage with another baby. Oh yeah…and I still had to grieve. “We are going to prepare for this baby and continue creating the life we set out for our children”, he said. FAITH. Point. Blank. Period.

When I went in for prenatal care, I already knew they wouldn’t support a VBAC (Vaginal Birth After Cesarean) after having had two c-sections. But I hated that lengthy healing process, so I persisted with asking. Of course they said no, “It would be too risky and your uterine scar could rupture.” I always resented the decision to have c-sections. Then a random facebook message planted a seed that grew into my first experience with self-advocacy. After sharing some of my labor history, my friend said, “OMG, you were dilated to 9.5 and they couldn’t get him out vaginally?!”

My husband talked to his line brother whose wife is a Black OB/GYN at a clinic that supports VBACS. She was very clear that I had a 50/50 chance to be successful, but would oversee my care. I began doing research on my own, and there was consistently one very disturbing message in the articles I read: “Black women are the most likely to die in childbirth.” I weighed my risks and decided to prepare for all outcomes 1) I would get what I wanted and successfully deliver vaginally 2) I would have another C-section, but at least I tried or 3) My husband and children would have to grieve instead of celebrate.

I entered the hospital with faith that I was prepared to pursue this and I was completely covered in God’s grace to succeed. My doctor was not scheduled at the hospital, so there weren’t any staff on my delivery team who looked like me. We had a wonderful experience and the team was supportive and professional, but there was still something missing.

My doctor got the page and came in! I felt like I didn’t need to be as vigilant after she arrived. She facilitated the residents through delivering my baby. But shortly after pushing out the placenta, I knew something wasn’t right, so I gave her a ‘look’ and asked, “ am I supposed to feel dizzy?” She immediately had the rapid response team come and I remember hearing my blood pressure was 76/26, and that I had also lost two liters of blood. I was in and out of consciousness, but I knew the room was filled with white coats and scrubs. Still, my doctor was facilitating my care and I looked over to see another Black woman with the ultrasound machine assessing my scar. She would have been the doctor to facilitate an emergency response if it had ruptured; I felt safe in her presence.

I saw that every doctor in that room just wanted me to be medically stable regardless of what their identities were. However, the presence of Black doctors in that room is what really made me feel safe and comforted knowing that I would receive culturally competent care. Even though I didn’t encounter what I read in the articles about maternal mortality rates in Black mothers, like being ignored when something didn’t feel right; in my vulnerable state, I really recognized the value of having my Black Doctors in that delivery room. I appreciated the Black girl magic in that room taking care of me. In fact, the comfort I felt knowing they were there, could have made all of the difference in how my story turned out.