Born Into Resilience: Strengthening Black Maternal Health Through My Own Legacy.

As Black Maternal Health Week comes to a close, I’m reflecting not just as a founder or an advocate but as a daughter, a granddaughter, and a mother. This week isn’t just about policy or statistics. For me, it’s personal. My story is rooted in the legacies of women who gave everything to make sure I was here.

I was born to a mother with sickle cell disease, which a condition that doctors told her would make pregnancy impossible. But she had me anyway. And even in pain, even while being dismissed by the very system meant to care for her, she showed up and raised me as best as she could with the cards that were dealt. What most people didn’t see was that I had to grow up early. I helped raise my brother and sister, taking on a role that no child should have to carry, but I did it, because I saw my mom doing everything she could just to simply survive. It was a thankless job most times, but it shaped me. It taught me what it means to show up for others even when no one shows up for you. I had to learn this young.

My grandmother (my nee nee) became a mother young. She carried the weight of our family on her back for generations, because not only was she a young mother, she was a young mother to a sick child. Watching her battle cancer recently, watching her fight as hard as she could and ultimately pass cracked something open in me. I saw how racism in healthcare shows up in quiet, painful ways. I saw how easily Black women can be overlooked, underserved, and forgotten. It made me angry. It made me move.

Just two years after losing my mom, I lost my nee nee, the two women who taught me everything I know about survival, nurturing, protecting, and pushing forward. I never imagined mothering without them by my side. I’m only 33 yall, and I’ve already had to figure out how to raise my daughters without my maternal figures. This grief is loud. But the purpose is louder.

Through all of this, I kept breastfeeding. I kept pumping. I kept teaching. I kept building Mood Lactation Partners and curating The Black Birth Collection, not because it was easy, but because I had to! Because no other Black mother should have to figure it all out alone. Because we deserve more than survival, we deserve a village, support, safety, joy, and legacy.

Black women in Wisconsin are five times more likely to die in childbirth than white women. These numbers are unacceptable, but we are not powerless. Every workshop, every donation, every conversation, every hug... it matters. It’s how we reclaim our stories. It’s how we create new outcomes for ourselves and our babies.

Today, I’m sharing this amazing photo, four generations of women in my family. My great-grandmother (My "Mother" Dorothy C. Smith), my grandmother (My Nee Nee Brenda A. Davis AKA BAD- iykyk), my mom (Felecia L. Davis "Feedoll"), and me as a baby. These women birthed me, poured into me, and taught me how to love and lead. They are the reason I fight for better birth outcomes. They are the reason I believe that healing is possible and necessary.

1994, Paisley, Felecia, Brenda, Dorothy

As Black Maternal Health Week comes to a close, I hope we carry OUR stories forward. Not just the statistics, but the faces. The families. The women who deserved more. The women who still do.

If this work moves you, support it. Donate. Show up. Share.

Because we’re not just changing numbers, we’re changing generations. I call it "Generational Health"

Learn more or contribute at https://www.moodlp.org/donate

We’re just getting started.

LOVE LOVE LOVE,

Pais