It’s Black Maternal Health Week, and we need to talk about one of the most dangerous lies Black women are told before they ever set foot in a delivery room: "You’re strong, you’ll be fine."

It’s meant to be encouraging. A compliment, even. But in reality, that single phrase is doing a lot of damage. Because when the world assumes your strength is infinite, it stops seeing your pain as urgent. And in the case of Black maternal health, that assumption can be fatal.

The "strong Black woman" trope has been praised in pop culture and family kitchens alike. She’s the matriarch, the survivor, the one who holds it all together. But this cultural script—rooted in a legacy of survival and trauma—often leads to silence, dismissal, and avoidable tragedy when Black women speak up about pain, fear, or medical concerns.

Black women in the United States are three times more likely to die from pregnancy-related causes than white women, according to the CDC. And these outcomes persist regardless of income or education level. Serena Williams, one of the most decorated athletes of all time, nearly died after childbirth because doctors initially ignored her symptoms of a pulmonary embolism. Her celebrity didn’t save her. Her wealth didn’t protect her. Her strength almost became her downfall.

The myth of strength is killing us.

When Black women enter medical spaces—especially labor and delivery rooms—they’re often expected to endure more, complain less, and recover faster. That expectation is not only dehumanizing, it’s dangerous. A 2016 study published in the Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences found that some medical students and residents still falsely believed Black patients feel less pain than white patients. These racial myths bleed into clinical decisions that determine who gets life-saving interventions and who gets told to "wait it out."

It’s not just doctors. Families, doulas, nurses, and even partners can unintentionally reinforce this expectation of stoic survival. Instead of checking in on emotional well-being, we praise "strength" and "toughness," assuming that being vocal about pain is weakness rather than wisdom.

Let’s be clear: strength is not the problem. The myth is. The performance. The expectation. The silence.

True strength should look like being listened to, being believed, being cared for without skepticism or delay. It should mean being allowed to be scared, vulnerable, and in need of help—without judgment.

This Black Maternal Health Week, we should be interrogating the roles we all play in perpetuating this deadly narrative. Healthcare providers must receive training in racial bias and cultural competency—not just once, but continuously. Families and communities must create space for Black women to express fear, uncertainty, and pain without being gaslit or dismissed.

We also need more Black providers, more doulas, more therapists, and more support systems built for and by Black women. Because when care is culturally aligned, it’s not only more effective—it’s life-saving.

And we need to stop confusing resilience with invincibility. Black women are allowed to break down. They’re allowed to cry in delivery rooms. They’re allowed to say, "I can’t do this alone." That isn’t weakness. That’s wisdom. That’s power. That’s survival on our terms.

So the next time someone tells a pregnant Black woman, "You’re strong, you’ve got this," make sure it’s not a cop-out. Make sure it’s followed by action. By listening. By care. By making space for her full humanity.

Because strength shouldn’t be a prerequisite for survival. Not in the delivery room. Not ever.