Birth, Belonging & the Silent Weight of Assumptions
A personal reflection on birth justice, racism, and raising a bi-racial family
When I became pregnant with my first child in Cape Town, South Africa, I was filled with both anticipation and quiet concern. I had already learned that over 85% of births in private hospitals there end in C-sections; a statistic that troubled me deeply. But what weighed even more heavily was the way I felt inside the system: out of place, unwelcome, and constantly scrutinised.
As a foreigner married to a Black South African man, I was navigating a maternity system shaped not just by medical policy, but by the unspoken remnants of apartheid, a political legacy still etched into the walls of hospitals, into protocols, and into people's assumptions. I didn’t feel safe. Not emotionally. Not culturally. And certainly not as a mother-to-be preparing for a transformative moment.
Choosing a home birth became the most grounded decision I could make. Not just for the sake of autonomy, but because it was the only path that felt truly safe for me and my family. Finding a doula wasn’t just about birth support; it was about protection. I needed someone who would embrace our relationship without bias, someone who would hold space with awareness, tenderness, and respect. There weren’t many options. But I found two doulas, both in bi-racial relationships themselves, and that shared experience was the only reason I felt I could trust them.
My son was born in love, at home. But the story didn’t end there.
What followed were countless moments where racism crept in quietly, cloaked in politeness or professional demeanor:
My white doctor, during follow-up visits, repeatedly asked if I was “really married” to my son’s father—despite my clear answers.
Nurses assumed my mother-in-law was a maid, not family.
I was mistaken for an employer, bringing someone else’s child in for care.
Each moment chipped away at the joy and fullness of new motherhood. Not because I wasn’t proud; but because the system wasn’t built for us, and every assumption made that painfully clear.
Now, back in Europe, I face a different flavor of scrutiny—the sidelong glances, the loaded questions, the quiet doubts. It's softer here, maybe, but still present. Still tiring.
To all the families of colour; to those navigating birth, identity, love, and injustice; I see you. I feel you. I walk with you.
It’s not always visible, but the emotional labor is real. It’s hurting, and it's exhausting. And yet, we carry on. With love. With clarity. With fierce softness.
This is why I do the work I do.
Because birthwork is justice work.
Because safe birth is not just about avoiding harm; t's about being seen, being respected, and being home in our bodies, in our relationships, and in the world we're bringing our children into.
