01/05/2026
Every time there’s a story like Dr. Smith’s, the same question comes up:
“What could we have done differently?”
We know Black maternal health has been studied.
We know this is not simply about education, access, or health status.
We also know that even clinicians—women who understand the risks—have been ignored, dismissed, or forced to fight to be heard in moments when they were most vulnerable.
In every case, the details must be examined—first by her care team and family.
And then by the larger medical community—for education, reflection, and accountability.
What breaks my heart most is this:
This was her work.
and she was amazing at it from what people have shared.
She understood the risks more than most.
So I find myself asking:
Where did it go wrong?
Was it a rapid, catastrophic complication—something like sepsis or DIC?
Were there signs during labor or postpartum that pointed toward this outcome?
Did her family have to advocate—and if they did, were they heard?
And then I pause.
Because I’m not just hearing this story as a physician.
I’m hearing it as a Black mother.
And as a NICU physician caring for babies whose lives begin in crisis.
Her daughter is now in the NICU.
There is a father—and a family—who must grieve the loss of a mother while still carrying the weight of medical uncertainty, long-term outcomes, and the psychosocial impact this will have on their newborn’s life.
This is the ripple effect we don’t talk about enough.
Why do families still have to advocate at all?
Advocacy should be built into our role as healthcare professionals.
It should not be an added burden placed on families in their most vulnerable moments.
It should be a requirement of the job.
So I ask:
Why isn’t CARE already inherent in healthcare?
My heart breaks—for the tragic end of her life, for her family, and for every parent who wonders if they will be heard, especially the pregnant black mothers now fear the same outcome 💔
