As Black Maternal Health Week approaches this year, I find myself returning to the conversations that have shaped my understanding of equity, community, and care. One of the most meaningful took place on March 12, 2026, when I had the privilege of moderating a conversation with Dr. Ebony B. Carter at the Partnership for Maternal & Child Health’s Maternal Health & Perinatal Safety Symposium. As I prepared for that session, I found myself thinking the way I often do in my practice—as a family doctor who has spent years listening to patients, watching systems fail them, and trying to make sense of what healing looks like when the world around them is not built for their thriving. Dr. Carter’s work met me right in that place.
She is a national voice in maternal health equity, but what struck me most was how deeply her work was rooted in community. Her Keynote address highlighted her years of work and passion. Through the EleVATE Collaborative, she and her partners showed that when prenatal care is redesigned with racial equity, trauma‑informed practice, and community leadership at the center, outcomes shift in ways that feel both measurable and profoundly human. Their pilot work showed reductions in postpartum depression, stronger postpartum engagement, and promising signals in preterm birth—especially for Black birthing people, who continue to face the highest risks in pregnancy and childbirth. Reading her studies, I recognized the same truth I’ve seen in my own exam rooms: when people feel seen, heard, and respected, their bodies respond differently.
During our conversation, we talked about why equity‑focused evidence struggles to become policy. The EleVATE findings were compelling, yet the systems around us remained slow to change. Dr. Carter spoke honestly about the structural barriers—rigid reimbursement models, political headwinds, and the discomfort institutions often have with interventions that require them to share power. Her clarity reminded me that evidence alone rarely moves systems; relationships, persistence, and community pressure often do the heavy lifting.
We also spent time talking about early‑career researchers. I thought about the young clinicians and scholars who have confided in me about feeling discouraged in this moment—worried about funding, worried about backlash, worried about whether equity work is still welcome. Dr. Carter offered the kind of grounded wisdom that comes from doing the work long enough to know its costs and its rewards. She spoke about building authentic partnerships, staying accountable to the people most affected, and refusing to dilute one’s truth for the sake of comfort. As the inaugural Associate Editor for Equity at Obstetrics & Gynecology, she had seen firsthand how often scholars were told to “tone down” their framing. Her response was simple and steady: honesty is not optional when lives are at stake.
One of the most meaningful parts of our conversation centered on humility. The EleVATE team had been open about the moments when they got it wrong—around trauma, mental health, and representation—and how community collaborators helped them course‑correct. In a field that often rewards certainty, Dr. Carter modeled something far more important: the willingness to be teachable. That resonated with me deeply. In family medicine, humility is not a virtue; it’s a clinical tool. It keeps us listening. It keeps us learning. It keeps us human.
As I look back on that conversation now, I’m struck by how fitting it was that it took place just weeks before Black Maternal Health Week. Each year, this week calls us to confront the realities Black women face in pregnancy and childbirth—and to honor the community‑led solutions that have always pointed the way forward. Dr. Carter’s work sits squarely within that lineage. EleVATE wasn’t built in a boardroom; it was built in community rooms, clinic basements, and living rooms, shaped by Black mothers who knew exactly what needed to change. Their leadership wasn’t symbolic—it was structural.
Black Maternal Health Week invites us to speak honestly about the inequities that continue to shape the experiences of Black birthing people, but it also encourages us to notice and uplift the models of care that are making a real difference. My conversation with Dr. Carter reminded me that equitable maternal health isn’t an abstract ideal. It’s something we practice. It’s something we return to. It’s a steady commitment to centering the people who have too often been pushed to the margins, and to building systems that honor their stories and their strength.
As clinicians, researchers, and community members, we are called to build systems worthy of the families we serve. That work is slow, often uncomfortable, and always relational. But it is possible. I saw that possibility clearly in Dr. Carter’s work—and in the communities that shaped it.
“Whatever affects one directly, affects all indirectly.” — Martin Luther King Jr.
A Family Doctor's Reflection 