As a midwife who had dedicated her life to supporting and protecting Black mothers during childbirth, she knew the statistics, the disparities, and the heart-wrenching reality that Black women in America are more likely to die during childbirth than their white counterparts. She knew it was not just a statistic—it was a lived reality that haunted her community.
Janell’s decision to become a midwife wasn’t driven by the desire for applause or recognition. It wasn’t about a title. It was about a calling, a deep-seated desire to make childbirth safer for those who had been repeatedly overlooked, mistreated, and abandoned by a healthcare system that failed to protect them.
She knew what was at stake. She had seen the pain in the faces of mothers who were ignored. She had witnessed the fear in the eyes of women who were unheard. She had seen the way Black women’s voices were often silenced during labor and delivery, how their pain was too easily dismissed, and how their lives were sometimes treated as expendable.
That’s why she became a midwife—to stand in the gap where the system failed, to offer safety and compassion where too often there was none.
But even Janell’s immense knowledge, experience, and preparation couldn’t save her.
Janell died during childbirth, the very thing she had spent years ensuring was safer for others. The cruel irony of her death cannot be overstated: a woman who dedicated her life to ensuring that other mothers survived childbirth was not spared herself.
A Life Built Around Helping Others
Janell Green Smith was a beacon of light in her community. She wasn’t just a midwife; she was a mother, a partner, a friend, and a fierce advocate for Black maternal health. Her patients trusted her implicitly, and they knew they were in the hands of someone who understood the risks and who would fight tirelessly for their safety.
She was a mother who had given birth to her own children—children who would grow up in a world where their mother would no longer be there to guide them, to love them, or to protect them.
Her family knew Janell as a woman who loved fiercely, who cared deeply, and who always put the needs of others before her own. She was known for her unwavering commitment to making a difference, to making sure that every mother had the best chance of survival during childbirth, and to helping create a better future for Black families.
But that future was stolen from her on the day she was supposed to give birth to her own child.
Janell’s story, from the outside, was one of success and achievement. She had built a career that allowed her to do what she loved, and she had a family that loved her in return. Yet, beneath that story of success was a sobering reality—a reality where the life of a Black woman in labor was never guaranteed, no matter how much preparation, care, and love she had in her heart.
The Day That Changed Everything
On the day Janell passed away, she was expecting. She was in labor, preparing to welcome a new life into the world. Like every expectant mother, she had hopes, dreams, and plans for the future. But that day ended in heartbreak, not just for her family but for every woman who has ever faced the risks that Black mothers face in the United States.
Janell had known all too well that Black women are more likely to face complications during childbirth, more likely to experience severe complications and even die from them, and more likely to be ignored when they ask for help.
She knew these facts. She had heard the stories. She had read the statistics. But she had chosen to fight back by becoming a midwife. She had chosen to be a voice for Black women in labor, a steady hand in the face of overwhelming odds. But despite everything she knew and everything she had done, she could not escape the tragic outcome that so many Black mothers fear.
Janell’s death was not just the loss of a woman; it was the loss of a mother who had dedicated her life to making childbirth safer for others. It was the loss of a woman who had fought tirelessly to ensure that every Black mother could bring a child into this world without fear. And it was a loss that felt especially cruel because Janell knew all too well the risks and the realities that Black women face in childbirth.
The Heartbreaking Irony
Janell’s story is tragic because of its irony. Here was a woman who understood the dangers. Here was a woman who had devoted her life to making childbirth safer for Black women. And yet, it was childbirth itself that claimed her life.
She had done everything right. She had prepared. She had educated herself. She had trained for this moment. And yet, it wasn’t enough. It never is.
This is the painful truth that so many Black mothers must face. Even when you are educated, even when you are prepared, even when you are loved and cared for, you are still not guaranteed safety in childbirth.
Janell’s death is a reminder that the system isn’t just broken—it is rigged against Black mothers. Despite all the education, all the preparation, all the hard work, Black women are still dying in childbirth. And until that changes, there will be more stories like Janell’s.
The Systemic Failure
This tragedy is not just an individual loss; it is part of a larger, systemic issue that affects the lives of Black women everywhere. In the United States, Black women are three to four times more likely to die from pregnancy-related complications than white women. This fact is not new, and it is not an accident. It is the result of centuries of racial inequality, discrimination, and systemic racism in healthcare.
Janell’s death is not an isolated incident. It is part of a much larger problem that affects the lives of Black mothers every single day. And that is what makes this loss so unbearable—because Janell, like so many other Black women, should not have had to face the risks that came with childbirth. She should have been able to bring her child into this world safely, with the support of a healthcare system that treated her with respect and care.
A Call for Change
Janell’s death must be a catalyst for change. The fight for Black maternal health cannot end with her passing. It must continue, fueled by the memory of the women we have lost and the women we still have to protect.
We must demand better. We must demand a healthcare system that values the lives of Black women. We must demand an end to the systemic racism that leads to the deaths of so many Black mothers. And we must do it now, before another woman like Janell is taken from us.
Janell Green Smith’s life mattered. Her work mattered. Her love for her family mattered. And her death must not be in vain.
Her story, like the stories of so many other Black mothers, serves as a reminder of the work that still needs to be done. It serves as a call to action, one that we cannot ignore. We cannot let this continue.
Rest in Power, Janell Green Smith
Rest in power, Janell. Your life mattered. Your work mattered. And we will continue to fight for justice in your honor. We will keep pushing for change. And we will make sure that your legacy lives on through the work you started.
You were a healer, a protector, and a mother who deserved to live. Your death will not be forgotten. Your story will continue to inspire those who fight for Black maternal health, and we will keep fighting until every mother, no matter her race, can give birth safely.
You will always be remembered, Janell. Rest in peace, knowing that your work was not in vain. Your story will continue to be told, and your fight will continue through all of us.
When Hope Feels Fragile: Facing the Spread of Disease.4088
Crushed. That was the word that came to mind the moment we heard the news. It wasn’t just a word; it was a weight pressing down on our chests, a leaden, suffocating force that made every breath feel impossible. The disease had spread. There was no sugarcoating it anymore. The scans were clear. The doctors had said what we feared: it was progressing, moving faster than anticipated, attacking relentlessly.
I remember sitting in the sterile hospital room, the hum of the fluorescent lights above blending with the rhythmic beeping of machines that seemed almost mocking in their precision. The smell of antiseptic clung to everything, mingling with the faint perfume of hope that I’d been holding onto for months. But now, that hope felt hollow. It had crumbled like dry leaves underfoot, leaving only fear and despair in its place.
Things aren’t looking good. I repeated the words silently over and over, as if saying them enough times might somehow bend reality, make the disease retreat, give us even a sliver of reprieve. But deep down, I knew there was no bending reality. The numbers, the scans, the reports—they were all undeniable. Each piece of information was a brick added to the wall that was closing in around us. The certainty of its advance left no room for doubt, no space for optimism. Just the cold, unflinching truth.
We are broken. That’s the hardest part. Not just physically, not just emotionally, but in a way that penetrates the soul. The disease didn’t just attack the body—it tore apart our sense of normalcy, our sense of safety, our sense of the future. Plans we had made, dreams we had nurtured, all of it seemed to vanish in an instant. Nights were the worst. Lying awake, staring at the ceiling, imagining all the things we’d lose, all the moments we’d never get back. The laughter, the small victories, the quiet evenings that once seemed mundane now felt like precious memories slipping through our fingers before they had a chance to exist.
I looked around at my family, at the people I loved most in the world. The exhaustion etched into their faces mirrored my own. There was fear in their eyes, yes, but also a quiet, stubborn defiance. We clung to each other because we had nothing else. Hands held, tears wiped away, hearts beating together in shared sorrow and desperate hope. Each day became a battle—not just against the disease, but against the creeping hopelessness that threatened to consume us.
The disease is cruel in ways that words can barely capture. It isolates you, forces you into tiny, sterile rooms, separates you from the life you knew, and slowly strips away the illusion that you are in control. Friends and family reach out, but their words, though loving, can never fill the emptiness left by the constant fear. Every phone call, every visit, every message is both a lifeline and a reminder of what’s at stake.
Yet, even amidst the despair, there are moments that pierce the darkness. A laugh that escapes despite everything. A soft squeeze of a hand. A shared look that says “I see you, I feel you, we’re still here together.” These moments don’t erase the pain—they can’t—but they remind us that we are human, that even in the worst circumstances, connection and love persist. That persistence is what keeps us moving forward, one day at a time, even when the future seems bleak and uncertain.
We learned quickly that life becomes measured not in years or months, but in minutes, in small victories that are often overlooked by the world outside the hospital walls. A day without unbearable pain. A smile that surfaces despite exhaustion. The courage to face another scan, another treatment, another conversation with doctors who carry the weight of so much bad news in their calm, practiced voices.
Crushed. That word will always echo, but it does not define us completely. It is the shadow under which we live, but it does not extinguish the light of the love that surrounds us, the stubborn hope that flickers even in the darkness. We are broken, yes, but in our brokenness, we are also holding onto each other with every shred of strength we have left. And for now, that is enough.
Because even when the world feels unrelenting, even when the disease spreads and hope feels fragile, there is a quiet, resilient power in simply surviving—moment by moment, breath by breath, together.
