Although I often think of myself as a self-made interior designer — with an education earned through years of HGTV and YouTube — it took me months to set up the nursery for my first, and currently only, child.
That wasn't because I didn’t have the time. I was pregnant during the COVID years, when leaving the house felt like an elaborate military operation, so I spent plenty of time at home. Nor was it because I hadn’t gathered enough inspiration: I had Pinterest boards and a deeply held conviction that I could easily recreate an expensive designer room on my own.
It took me months because I was afraid.
I had been working in reproductive justice for more than a decade. And through my work, I was viscerally aware of the devastation of Black maternal mortality and morbidity. The United States has the highest maternal mortality rate of any wealthy nation in the world, and Black women die from pregnancy-related causes at a higher rate than any other group. That’s mothers in hospitals in the 21st century, still not getting the care they need.
During a decade of work, I listened to stories, held mothers' hands, and fought for policies intended to decrease Black maternal and infant deaths. And now, seven months pregnant, I needed to put my son’s room together.
I kept hesitating to start building the nursery because of the thought of what would happen if I needed to take it down. It would have broken my heart into pieces to pack up the diapers, stuffed lions, and crib because he didn’t make it. Or even worse, imagining my mom having to disassemble that crib because the baby and I didn’t make it.
No one should have to approach pregnancy like a game of chance, hoping they have the good fortune to come home alive.
I had nearly every resource a pregnant person could ask for: attentive OBGYNs attentive, midwives checking in weekly, supportive family and friends, a wonderful doula both pre- and postnatal, food trains, the ability to seek second and even third opinions, and, eventually, a fairly short, fairly uncomplicated labor.
My son and I were lucky. But survival should not depend on luck. No one should have to approach pregnancy like a game of chance, hoping they have the right insurance, the right provider, the right zip code, the right skin color, and the right amount of good fortune to come home alive.
Nearly five years after my son's birth, the crisis facing Black maternal health has only worsened. In 2024, Black women remained roughly three times as likely as white women to die from maternal causes. Abortion bans have spiked maternal and infant death rates. Maternity wards are vanishing from communities. One analysis identified more than 130 rural labor and delivery units at risk of closure or severe service reductions because of the One Big Beautiful Bill Act, placing additional pressure on hospitals, clinics, and providers that disproportionately serve pregnant people, children, rural communities, and families with low incomes. On top of that, this bill includes the single largest cuts to Medicaid in the program’s history. Black mothers rely on Medicaid to give birth at more than twice the rate of white mothers, so when Medicaid gets cut, we are the ones who pay for it first.
When lawmakers criminalize one part of pregnancy care, slash funding for another, and allow hospitals to disappear altogether, there are consequences.
Abortion access, prenatal services, miscarriage management, labor and delivery, postpartum support, contraception, fertility treatment, and maternal health are all part of the same continuum. When lawmakers criminalize one part of pregnancy care, slash funding for another, and allow hospitals to disappear altogether, there are consequences. There are families all over the country packing up small baby clothes, giving away diapers, and burying moms who didn’t make it.
These policies are essentially dictating whose lives are worthy of protection. And the issue feels especially urgent to me now, as the United States marked the 250th anniversary of the Declaration of Independence, a document that promised life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. For some Americans, those words represent a birthright. For Black women, they have always represented an aspiration: a promise written before our great grandparents were recognized as fully human, and one the country has never completely honored.
Black women have rarely known what it means to have our lives protected without condition. From forced reproduction under slavery, to coerced sterilization, to medical experimentation, to the modern dismissal of our pain, this country has repeatedly treated our bodies as instruments of someone else’s prosperity, politics, or power. As a result, we have had to fight for the liberty to decide whether and when to have children. Ultimately, Black women have had to fight for the ability to pursue happiness by building families on our own terms.
But this contradiction at the heart of America's promise is not the end of the story. The Declaration also contains a radical proposition: The government derives its legitimacy from the people, and when it fails to secure our rights, we have the authority — and the responsibility — to demand something better.
That's the spirit behind the For All Our Futures reproductive justice resolution.
This resolution offers a blueprint for a country where everyone has the freedom to make decisions about our bodies, our health, and our pregnancies with dignity. More specifically, it calls for universal healthcare, maternal healthcare, paid family leave, comprehensive sex education, and protections against pregnancy-related criminalization, cementing reproductive justice as a vital part of the American project.
This resolution alone will not fix everything or erase generations of inequity, but it does say out loud where we need to go. Change begins when we name what we stand for, put our values on the record, and establish a standard against which laws, budgets, and our elected officials can be measured.
I eventually finished my son’s nursery. I put together the furniture, arranged his tiny clothes and stuffed animals. Today, he's a joyful, funny, 5-year-old who's deeply committed to asking questions, and to chicken nuggets.
My wish for America is that his — and every child and every family’s — ability to thrive is not based on luck, but on a commitment to ensuring everyone has the right to the pursuit of happiness.
Nourbese Flint is president of All* Above All and All* In Action Fund, leading the organization's work to achieve abortion justice and build the political power of voters of color. Drawing on this long history of movement leadership, Nourbese brings deep expertise on abortion access as a cornerstone of healthcare and economic stability and is helping shape the next chapter with inclusion, equity, and the principle that abortion is healthcare at the center.
