“During the midst of my training to become a doula and a lactation educator, I started learning about birth work in general, how it wasn’t this field of work that upper-middle-class white women use to bring their babies into the world. I learned that it was something that we have been doing since we came from the continent. Knowing that lineage that’s been passed down from birth worker to birth worker, it started to feel like a cultural responsibility.”

These words from William Moore, CPE, a doula and race and health equity administrator, kicked off a webinar hosted by the Black Women’s Health Imperative (BWHI). Moore, William Rowe, MS, a lactation educator with BWHI, and Mohamed Kamara, MBA, CEO of InovCares.com, spoke about the role of Black men in reproductive justice and birth equity. Together, the speakers shared their experiences as professionals and as family members participating in the process of childbirth.

Rowe’s story of becoming part of the movement to end the Black maternal mortality gap began with a college course in maternal and infant nutrition. The course revealed glaring disparities in the data surrounding maternal and infant health outcomes. “I only saw that, even in the imagery and the context and the studies, everything was around white women,” Rowe said. “The little knowledge that was available on Black birthing women and birthing people, it was all around how they are ‘missing the mark.’” The problem received little attention in research or investigation, and what existed often framed Black birthing people as the problem—rather than acknowledging systemic barriers and the lack of accessible pregnancy and birth education. Despite the field of maternal and infant health being laden with red tape for men, and especially Black men, Rowe committed to addressing these disparities.

The disparities are well documented. The maternal mortality rate for Black women in 2023 was 50 deaths per 100,000 live births, according to Policy Center for Maternal Mental Health. This rate was nearly three times higher than the rate for white women. These alarming gaps in outcomes remain a driving force behind efforts to reshape who participates in maternal health—and how.

For Kamara, it was a dear family matter. “My sister was delivering her fourth child in Sierra Leone when she suddenly passed on. It was a hemorrhage. Rushed to the hospital, bleeding profusely. They couldn’t stop the bleeding. That led to her death.” Later, a similar tragedy struck again. “In Columbus, Ohio, my aunt died of preeclampsia. It was her second delivery.” Even in the U.S., with more resources and a more advanced health care system, the risk for Black women remained painfully real. Determined to help prevent future losses, Kamara committed himself to advancing reproductive justice and maternal health.

All three men pushed past invisible barriers to become active advocates for Black maternal and infant health. Because pregnancy and childbirth are often viewed as exclusively women’s domains, men who try to get involved are often met with skepticism. “Science does show that a lot of times men go through these hormonal changes as well while their partners are in the midst of the birth process. They also experience postpartum depression,” Moore said.

These experiences aren’t just emotional—they’re biological. Studies show that some men experience shifts in testosterone, cortisol, and even estrogen during pregnancy and after birth. These changes can affect mood, energy, and bonding. Yet awareness remains low—especially in communities already underrepresented in maternal health spaces. Many partners struggle with emotional changes but don’t recognize the symptoms or know that support is available.

Due to this lack of inclusive information and persistent gender assumptions, few men pursue careers or activism in maternal health. “If I say, ‘It takes a village – to do what?’ Everybody knows how to finish that phrase off. ‘Raise a child.’ But my question to that is, if we all know that it takes a village to raise a child, why are we constantly only equipping half the village to do so?” Moore said. When partners are given access to information and included in the experience, they can play a powerful support role—similar to that of a doula—relieving pressure on the birthing person and improving outcomes for the whole family.

Research shows that doulas improve outcomes across multiple measures, including lower rates of cesarean birth, shorter labors, and reduced use of pain medication. For Black birthing people, doula support has been linked to more positive birth experiences and fewer complications—particularly in settings where systemic disparities persist.

As more Black men are welcomed into these supportive roles—whether as partners, doulas, or health professionals—the ripple effect expands. Visibility increases. Cultural understanding deepens. And birth outcomes begin to shift. This visibility can help reduce hesitation among men who might otherwise feel out of place supporting their partner’s birth experience. “I think community is one of the biggest wins as well. There is a sense of community that’s being built among Black men because when we’re talking about the birthing process, there’s other men going through these same feelings. There’s other men trying to figure out, ‘How can I better support my partner, my spouse?’ So we’re building community right there. We’re having them have dialogue, together,” Rowe said.

“Why are we constantly leaving our brothers out of part of this—or leaving our women out of some parts of it—just because we think certain responsibilities have to stick with particular gender norms? It’s not the case at all. This is our responsibility.” 

To learn more about how Black men are continuing to shape the future of reproductive justice and maternal health, watch the webinar here.