In the Room Where Life Begins

I’ve been pregnant three times, and each time, I’ve wrestled with Death.

The first time was at the end of my first pregnancy. I had carried my daughter for 41 weeks before the doctor suggested we induce. I was so eager to meet her—so tired of the foot-cramping, back-aching work of carrying her—that I agreed. 

Twenty-four hours before my induction, pain began radiating across my back. I assumed it was more of the same nine-month seasoning I had experienced before. So, I found a position on all fours, shoved a pillow under me for added comfort, and refused to move from the bed. Little did I know, I was in labor.

By the time I arrived at the hospital the next day, I was three centimeters dilated. My daughter was well on the way to making her grand entrance, but she wasn’t coming fast enough for the doctors. After a few hours, they decided to induce, but the drugs they gave me seemed to halt my labor. I writhed in the hospital bed, waiting.

Time produced no widening, but a child was surely descending. Doctors painted a dire picture: my baby could split me open, killing her or us both if we didn’t intervene with an emergency C-section. I wish I’d known then that Texas has some of the highest delivery-by-C-section rates in the country, with critics suggesting they’re recommended more for convenience and speed than quality of life. I was terrified, but I wanted to do whatever would keep my baby and me alive.

They rushed me into a surgical suite and removed my husband from the room, awarding him his souvenir hairnet and green gown for making it this far. I remember the room buzzing around me with nurses and doctors as I trembled on the steel operating table, trying to settle my racing heartbeat that played on stereo through the heart monitor. And then something happened.

Like a light switch, all the hustle that torrented around me became a current flooding out of the room. A nurse on her way out came by my bedside and explained that a nearby patient had “crashed.” Reassigning my team to her was faster than waiting for a new one to scrub in.

They left me alone, shivering beneath a paper sheet, listening to my heart rate begin to slow. There was no new team. No one showed up to check on me, except Death.

When my husband returned, Death came in on his heels. She watched as he held my hand and tried to reassure me. She counted the seconds as more than 20 minutes passed—as my baby’s heart rate began to climb, as the exhaustion of being in labor for over 47 hours began to take hold.

I guess, now, my husband made some deal with Death to let me stay, because a few hours later, I woke to our eight-pound bundle of joy resting in his arms. Seeing her erased every close call and aching pain.

I chalked up the mistakes and neglect I experienced in that hospital room to the crucible of becoming a mother. After all, every woman in my family had a story of a near-death experience during childbirth. When I explained how terrified I was, I was met with more indifferent “Welcome to the club” statements than compassion.

My next encounters with Death were just as chilling. About 11 weeks into my second pregnancy, I began to bleed at work. It was so early in the pregnancy that I hadn’t even told my close friends I was expecting. Scared, I raced to my doctor, who conducted a sonogram. He saw nothing wrong but assumed it was a miscarriage.

I explained that my autoimmune disease causes bleeding ulcers, but he told me all we could do was wait. He sent me home without running any additional tests or telling me what to expect. Only later would I learn that there are blood tests that can determine if you are miscarrying.

No one prepared me for what might come next. So, for the 10 days that followed, I spent every waking moment praying and scouring the internet for solutions. Nothing showed up, except Death at my door. She was there to take my child away.

My last pregnancy may have been the scariest. I began bleeding at 13 weeks. More familiar with how quickly a child can slip away from you, I rushed to my doctor, more determined to find answers. I was met with the same copy-and-paste protocol: a sonogram without additional testing and another assumption that I was miscarrying. When I pushed for more information, begging my doctor to investigate “why,” he pulled up his stool and looked me square in the eyes, Death waiting just behind his shoulder. He offered to “start me over.” Removing my baby so I could try to get pregnant again was his only solution.

Instead, I sought out Eastern medicine. I’d had success with acupuncture for irregular periods before. Though the acupuncturist couldn’t promise to save my baby, they told me they might be able to stop the bleeding. I lay still, praying for a miracle while they pressed thin needles into my legs and belly. They gave me Chinese herbs and sent me home. Within two days, the bleeding stopped.

Fearing my child hadn’t survived, I went to my next appointment. That’s when they found a strong, steady heartbeat. I wailed in the exam room. The nurses tried to quiet me, not knowing the fear, hope, and longing baked into my cry.

After hearing the good news, the doctor returned and took a deep breath, his face deadpan: “You should know your child will never be normal,” he told me. Without running tests or investigating why I was bleeding in the first place, he urged me to prepare for my child’s death—a warning he repeated at each visit for the rest of my pregnancy. Despite this, I delivered a healthy baby boy at 40 weeks.

For years, I explained my experiences away, thinking it was because of my insurance or my income. Then I heard the stories about Beyoncé, Serena Williams, Tori Bowie, and Tatyana Ali—celebrities and Olympians with all the resources who still faced the same predicament. The healthcare system failed them, too.

I’d learned that what I once thought was paying my dues as a mother was actually a red flag, a sign that too many of us have experienced traumatic treatments during birth that have put our lives in danger. Something happens when there’s a history of this, when a community accepts a practice as normal: People are less likely to challenge it, to dream that better is even possible.

Research shows no amount of education, class, or status closes the gap for Black mothers. Nationally, the CDC reported in 2025 that in 2023, Black women died at nearly 3.5 times the rate of white women during pregnancy, childbirth, and in the six weeks that followed. These numbers didn’t include the many women with near misses—ones left injured and scarred.

And even in a region that touts one of the largest medical complexes in the world, the outlook is grim: A Harris County Public Health report found that from 2016 to 2020, the county was the worst place in the US for Black women to give birth, with the nation’s highest rate of maternal mortality among them.

I want to tell you this has nothing to do with race—to say the numbers have been skewed or blame it on the environment. The truth is: These numbers reflect a pattern that stretches far beyond Houston. My experience was not an exception. It was the rule.

That realization sparked The Call Me Mother Experience—an immersive, curated look at maternal health through art.

As an artist and storyteller—someone who has always processed the hardest truths in this world through my creative work—I set out to collect the stories of people in my community. I knew there had to be a way to make practitioners see our humanity and dignity. Starting in 2024, I reached out to artist friends of all genders to see how pregnancy and birthing a child had affected them. I found people who lost babies they were still mourning—ones they had never mentioned to anyone, not even to partners. I found artists who had been making work others had refused to exhibit. I found practitioners, doulas, midwives, and community organizers who, for years, have been making it their mission to change how Black birthers are treated. I found a community of stories that added life and depth to complex and often dismissed data.

First launched at the Health Museum, the multi-site experience stretches across several community sites, combining my art with that of eight other artists who have experienced painful losses around maternal care: Omari Maynard, Keda Sharber, Andonnia Maiben of Annlettered, Stacey Allen, Joshua Mouton, Saida Carter, Vogue Robinson,  and Chris “Truth B. Told” Owens. Each contributes to a showcase spanning sculpture, photographs, film, performance, and two-dimensional art, allowing audiences to see the humans behind the trauma—people like me who wanted family and legacy, only to be met with indifference.

Call Me Mother is an invitation for the Houston community, artists, and the health care system to join a conversation about the care we all deserve. Because when Black women call for more culturally competent care, everyone gets to advocate for their needs. When we demand to be heard, everyone gets a closer listening ear. And when we address the most affected populations, Death doesn’t get a permanent place in the rooms where we’re trying to welcome new life.

The Call Me Mother Experience is on view at the Health Museum through February 28, 2027. Satellite exhibits and installations will open at the Houston Community Land Trust on November 5; at the Jung Center, January 8–February 15, 2027; and at the Alley Theatre, January 28–February 7, 2027.