Maternal Health Policy Must Continue to Name Black Mothers

By Dr. Matisa Wilbon, Moynihan Institute for Fatherhood Research and Policy

A recent article by Barbara Rodriguez in The 19th raises a concern that should matter deeply to families, fathers, policymakers, and anyone invested in maternal and child well-being. The article reports that the word “Black” has been almost completely removed from the latest version of the “Momnibus Act,” a package of federal bills originally known as the Black Maternal Health Momnibus Act and long understood as Congress’s primary legislative effort to address the Black maternal health crisis. That may sound like a small wording change, but it is not.

Words do more than describe policy. Words point policy toward the people it is supposed to serve. When a crisis is racialized in its outcomes, but race disappears from the language used to address it, we risk creating solutions that are too broad to reach the deepest wound.

The article explains that earlier versions of the legislation clearly named Black women, and later Black pregnant and postpartum individuals. By 2023, most of that language had been removed, with the word “Black” appearing only once, referring to historically Black colleges and universities or other minority-serving institutions. These changes carried over into the latest version.

The stakes are high because the maternal health crisis in America is not evenly distributed. The United States continues to have maternal mortality rates that exceed those of other developed nations. In 2023, the national maternal mortality rate was 18.6 deaths per 100,000 live births, while the rate for Black women was 50.3 deaths per 100,000 live births. In other words, Black women are about three times more likely than white women to die from pregnancy-related causes.

Maternal health isn’t a women’s issue alone. It is a family stability, child well-being, and fatherhood issue. When mothers are unsupported, endangered, unheard, or erased from policy, fathers are left to carry grief, fear, confusion, and responsibility. A pregnancy-related death does not end with the mother. It changes the life of a child. It alters the emotional foundation of a family. It can leave fathers navigating parenting, trauma, medical mistrust, financial strain, and unanswered questions all at once.

Writing for The 19th, Rodriguez captures a tension inside the current debate. Supporters of the revised Momnibus language argue that the substance of the bill still helps Black women and that broader definitions may help ensure funding reaches communities experiencing elevated maternal mortality and severe maternal morbidity. Rep. Lauren Underwood, one of the lead sponsors, emphasized that the bill remains connected to the Black Maternal Health Caucus and continues to advance maternal health priorities.

At the same time, several advocates interviewed for the article expressed concern that removing the word “Black” weakens the bill’s clarity. Their argument is simple: If Black women are the population most harmed by the crisis, then Black women must be named in the solution.

We can’t build strong families with vague language, and we can’t repair inequity with language that tiptoes around the people most affected. There’s a difference between being inclusive and being evasive. Inclusive language expands the circle without erasing the center. Evasive language makes the center harder to see.

For fathers, this becomes a call to pay attention. Too often, fathers are invited into maternal health conversations only at the edges. They are told to show up for appointments, help with transportation, support breastfeeding, monitor postpartum recovery, and encourage medical care. All of that matters. But fathers must also understand the policy environment shaping the care mothers receive.

If Black mothers face a higher risk of dying during pregnancy, childbirth, or postpartum, then Black fathers, families, and communities need to know. Churches, barbershops, fatherhood programs, maternal health advocates, doulas, midwives, hospitals, and policymakers need to speak with clarity and honesty so that families can prepare, advocate, and protect one another.

Good policy shouldn’t fear precision. Good policy should be able to say “Black mothers,” “rural mothers,” “Indigenous mothers,” “Hispanic mothers,” “low-income mothers,” “incarcerated mothers,” “young mothers,” and “postpartum mothers” without pretending that one group’s pain cancels out another’s. Specificity isn’t division; it’s how we get help to the right people at the right time.

For fathers, the lesson is this: Maternal health advocacy must become part of responsible fatherhood, which means:

• Asking better questions at prenatal visits
• Learning the warning signs of postpartum complications
• Making sure mothers are heard when they say something doesn’t feel right
• Respecting doulas, midwives, nurses, doctors, and community-based birth workers who help families navigate systems that can feel intimidating
• Standing beside mothers when policy conversations attempt to soften the truth.

Black maternal health must be named because Black mothers must be seen. And when Black mothers are seen, families are better protected.

The article in The 19th reminds us that language isn’t cosmetic. Language shapes priorities. Priorities shape funding. Funding shapes programs. And programs shape whether families receive the care, support, and protection they deserve.

Dads belong in this conversation, not to speak over mothers, but to stand with them. Not to replace their voices, but to amplify the urgency of their safety. Not to make maternal health about men, but to recognize that fatherhood is strongest when it protects the whole family.

A child’s first home isn’t only a place. It is the health, safety, and stability of the people who love them. And that begins with making sure mothers survive.