Why Men’s Stories Matter in Maternal Health Advocacy

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

As a researcher, I spend a lot of time with data.

I know the statistics. I know the numbers. I know the reports that tell us what’s happening in maternal health, particularly for Black women and families. I understand the trends, the disparities, and the preventable nature of so many of these losses.

But recently, during a day of advocacy on the Hill focused on father awareness, education, and maternal health, the numbers became names. The data became faces. The statistics became fathers.

I met men whose wives and partners died from preventable issues that arose during childbirth or in the days and weeks immediately following it. These were fathers who went to the hospital expecting to celebrate new life, expecting to leave with their partner and their baby, expecting to begin the next chapter of their family’s story together. Instead, they came home alone with a newborn.

They were thrust into single parenthood in the very same moment they were grieving the loss of the person they loved. They had to learn how to care for a baby while trying to understand how such a devastating loss could happen. They had to become advocates while still carrying fresh grief. They had to tell a story no one should ever have to tell. And yet, they told it.

Often through tears, they stood and shared their stories with a courage that moved me deeply. I marveled at their ability to speak the names of their loved ones, describe the gaps in care, explain what they saw, what they knew, what they tried to say, and how often they weren’t heard.

Their stories reminded me that fathers aren’t bystanders in maternal health. They are witnesses. They are partners. They are caregivers. They are advocates. And when tragedy happens, they are survivors, too.

But what stayed with me just as much as their pain was their tenderness. I watched these fathers comfort one another. I saw them cry together, laugh together, encourage one another, and hold each other up. I smiled as they dapped each other with that familiar, affectionate handshake so many men of color use — a small gesture, but one full of recognition, brotherhood, and love.

In that moment, I saw something our society too often refuses to see.

We live in a time when Black men are still too often portrayed through the narrow lens of aggression, danger, or absence. We see Black boys and teenagers denied the chance to dream freely about their futures, including the possibility of one day becoming fathers themselves, because too many are gunned down, locked up, or written off long before adulthood.

But on that day, I saw a different company of fathers.

I saw Black men grieving. Black men loving. Black men remembering. Black men advocating. Black men standing together in the aftermath of unimaginable loss, not hardened by it, but moved by it to protect other families.

Their stories were traumatic, yes. But they were also stories of love and partnership. They were stories of fatherhood, learning, resilience, and advocacy.

And they need to be told.

Too often, conversations about maternal health exclude fathers or treat them as secondary. But fathers carry knowledge. They notice changes. They ask questions. They sit in hospital rooms. They hear concerns. They remember what happened. And when the worst happens, they are left to parent, grieve, and make meaning out of what should have been prevented.

We need their perspective.

We need their voices.

We need their stories.

Not because their pain should be placed on display, but because their truth can help save lives. Their stories can teach providers, policymakers, researchers, and communities what the data alone cannot. They can help us understand where systems failed, where families were dismissed, and where fathers could have been better informed, better included, and better supported.

Men’s stories matter because they reveal the fullness of family life. They remind us that fatherhood isn’t just provision or presence. It’s love, vulnerability, protection, grief, and advocacy.

The fathers I met on the Hill didn’t just tell stories of loss. They told stories that demanded action. And we owe it to them, to their partners, to their children, and to the families who will come after them, to listen.