The Weight of Motherhood While in Pain

They say moms don’t get sick days—and it’s true. When you’re a mom, your body breaking down doesn’t pause the fact that a tiny human still needs you.

As I lay in a hospital hallway, in the hospital bed, in the operating rooms, doubled over in pain, waiting for surgery with barely any updates, one thought kept running through my mind:

I can’t miss my daughter’s first birthday.

That thought haunted me. She was turning one. That’s supposed to be a moment of joy, of pride, of “we made it.” And yet, there I was—sick, scared, and treated like an afterthought in the very place I went to for help.

The weight of motherhood never lets up. Even when I was vomiting, even when I couldn’t eat, even when I couldn’t get out of bed—I kept thinking about her.

Who would feed her?

Would she be okay without me?

Would she remember if I wasn’t there?

I know her father is present. I know the world would still go round. But at that moment, I was gripped by fear. People tried to comfort me by saying others have it worse. But it felt like my pain—my depression, my anxiety—was constantly being downplayed.

It’s a cruel twist that the healthcare system fails so many Black women—especially mothers—when we need it the most.

We’re told to advocate for ourselves.

But how do you do that when you’re too weak to stand?

How do you keep begging for help when you're being ignored or treated like you're exaggerating?

I remember pressing that call button again and again, all night long, feeling like I was being annoying—just for needing help.

I survived.

But the pain—physical, emotional, and psychological—is still with me.

Anyone who knows me knows it takes a lot for me to speak up, to admit I’m not okay, to ask for help.

Vomiting in the hospital bed, curled over the toilet, crying out that something was wrong—while being stared at with cold indifference or avoided altogether—I don’t even have the words to explain that kind of dehumanization.

And relying on others? That’s never been easy for me.

Not to disrespect anyone, especially my parents—but they weren’t reliable when I needed them most. I've always had to rely on myself. I learned early: the only person who’s going to save me is me.

I’m not sharing this for sympathy.

I’m sharing this because we need to talk about it:

How Black women are treated.

How moms are stretched thin.

How terrifying it is when your body is fighting and the system meant to help you is failing.

To any mama reading this:

You are not alone.

Your voice matters.

Your care matters.

Your life matters.

It’s hard. It’s unfair. The world is often built against us. And those with the most continue to take from those who have the least.

But I write this with hope—that one day things will change.

That my daughter grows up knowing she is seen, she is valued, and she is worthy.

And that I was doing everything I could to be the role model she deserves.