I almost died when I experienced my first pregnancy loss due to the colour of my skin.

Writing that sentence has taken me 8 years to write…8 years! Even as I read it back my heart is beating rapidly, my palms sweaty. This truth sits heavily on my heart.

I have only recently been able to speak and begin to write about this.

Over the years I have come to realize that I cannot fully advocate for the pregnancy and infant loss community if I am not speaking about the intersectionality of race. It’s a truth that is really hard for me to discuss but I can no longer stay silent about it.

So here it is. I almost died when I experienced pregnancy loss because the white doctor who first saw me dismissed me.

 

They saw my skin colour and made assumptions.

They doubted my dates of conception.

They did an unwarranted breast “exam” without my consent.

They blamed my loss on me and accused me of being hyper sexual, while my Caucasian partner stood in shock.

 

They spoke in a contrived East Indian accent to the nurses when they thought I could not hear.

 

And then they sent me home—where I almost died due to a rupturing Fallopian tube.

At the time I did not speak up.

I was dismissed. I was mocked. I was blamed. I was ridiculed. I was assaulted.

I was an educated social worker at the time. And still, I did not speak up.

It is clear to me now why I didn’t speak up; silence is the deepest symptom of oppression.

I have always been a person who speaks up about many topics. But not the racism I have experienced.

 

I was taught growing up to “keep my head down” and to not “ruffle any feathers”. That mistreatment due to my brown skin was a part of my reality.

That day was no different. That day, I froze. In shock. In disbelief. This is what oppression looks and feels like. I still get nauseous thinking about it. I wished for it to go away. But it didn’t.

 

Not only did I have my first experience of parenthood end in loss—I also had to process the lack of care, respect and human decency my loss was met with. Simply because my skin is brown.

I told a few people afterward. Most people grew visibly uncomfortable and backed away from my words. Shutting down; sending the message that I shouldn’t say anything. That perhaps I was overreacting.

I know now that I was not.

 

So I kept this truth in. Out of fear of losing friends. Losing followers. Of “ruffling feathers”.

8 years later though, I have found my voice again. And here it is:

I almost died due to the colour of my skin.

It has taken me years to acknowledge that the trauma from my pregnancy loss was furthered by the trauma of the systemic and blatant racism that I experienced. How my healing took longer and was layered in complexity because of it.

And now I can not fight for any cause without acknowledging the intersectionality of trauma that marginalized groups face. That I still face as a person of colour.

So today I speak my truth.

 

And I refuse to keep my head down anymore.

My words are clear.

My voice loud.

My fight, stronger than ever.

I am sharing this now because our marginalized members need support. They need acknowledgment of the complex intersections of their trauma.

So I will continue to speak up for myself. For that version of myself that did die that day.

And I will speak up for all those who have been there and continue to be there.

The silence ends now.

 

– Aditi Loveridge