When Cardi B revealed that she’s pregnant by NFL star Stefon Diggs, the internet did what it always does when a Black woman shares her joy: it turned her womb into public property. Within hours, timelines filled with hot takes — critiques of her parenting, questions about her “timing,” armchair debates about her relationship choices. For too many, Cardi’s body became less about her agency and more about the public’s expectations.

This isn’t new.

Black women’s reproduction has long been subject to control, commentary, and judgment. From slavery, when Black women were forced to bear children for economic exploitation, to the forced sterilizations of the 20th century, to the welfare queen stereotypes of the 1980s, society has treated our wombs as if they belong to everyone but us. Cardi B may be a global superstar, but fame doesn’t shield her from these old patterns.

Nobody blinks when male celebrities father multiple children with different women. Diggs himself won’t face even a fraction of the scrutiny Cardi B will. The narrative rarely questions men’s capacity to parent or their lifestyle choices. Women, and particularly Black women, are framed as irresponsible, messy, or unfit the moment their personal lives don’t align with an imagined standard of respectability.

When Rihanna announced her pregnancy with A$AP Rocky, people dissected whether she was “throwing away her prime career years.” When Serena Williams had Olympia, the conversation wasn’t just about her motherhood — it was about whether she could still dominate tennis. And when Beyoncé revealed her pregnancies, the speculation swirled around what it meant for her brand and her body. Meanwhile, Jay-Z, A$AP, and Alexis Ohanian got to remain “supportive partners” without the microscope.

The comments always come cloaked in faux concern: Is this the right time? What about her other children? Is Stefon Diggs really the one? But beneath that “concern” is a toxic mix of misogyny, racism, and voyeurism. People want Black women to perform perfection — the right partner, the right timing, the right image — and when reality doesn’t fit, they feel entitled to criticize.

But here’s the truth: Cardi B is a grown woman with resources, support, and autonomy. She doesn’t need the internet’s approval to decide when and with whom she builds her family.

This obsession with Cardi B’s pregnancy isn’t just about celebrity gossip. It’s a reflection of how society constantly monitors and devalues Black women’s reproductive choices. Whether it’s politicians trying to roll back reproductive rights, trolls policing motherhood online, or media outlets framing pregnancies as career-ending, the underlying message is the same: Black women don’t get to control their own narratives.

Cardi B has always defied those expectations. She was told a stripper couldn’t become a rap superstar. She was told she’d be a one-hit wonder. She was told she couldn’t balance motherhood with a career. Every time, she’s proved her critics wrong.

Cardi’s pregnancy with Stefon Diggs should be just that — her pregnancy, her news, her joy. If anything, it’s a moment to celebrate that a Black woman who’s built a career on her own terms continues to live life unapologetically. The rest of us? We should stop turning her womb into a battleground and remember that behind every headline is a human being making choices for herself, not for our approval.

Because the real scandal isn’t Cardi B’s pregnancy. It’s that we’re still acting like Black women’s bodies belong to anyone but themselves.