Black women in community with white women?

Last night, I found myself thinking about the year 2010. It came out of nowhere, but it landed heavy.

That was the year my husband and I began trying to start a family. It was also the year I discovered The Bump—a spinoff from The Knot, that popular wedding website. The Bump had forums for every stage of trying to conceive and pregnancy: TTC, pregnancy after loss, miscarriage grief, TTC over 35. You could scroll endlessly, read stories, ask questions, and—if you were brave enough—post your own.

I became very active. I posted words of encouragement. I asked for advice. I read obsessively. At first, it felt like community.

But even then, something felt off.

The group I was in was overwhelmingly white. You could tell from the profile pictures. I remember only one other Black woman, she was an ER nurse—sharp, insightful, kind. She didn’t post much,  work kept her busy. But even just seeing her name pop up made me feel less alone.

That same year, I got pregnant for the first time. I was due in December. I was overjoyed and shared the news with the group. Dozens of women celebrated with me. For a moment, I felt wrapped in care.

Then I started spotting before my first OB appointment. My husband and I spent hours in the ER. After waiting anxiously, a young white male ultrasound tech walked in and, with what felt like cold detachment, said, “Doesn’t look good. I just see debris.”

That word. Debris.

Not “fetal tissue.” Not “we’ll need to monitor.” Not even “I’m sorry.” Just… debris.

I was crushed. Confused. I cried. I went home without answers and without closure. Still unable to get in to see an OB because I wasn’t yet 8 weeks, I turned to the group, my online “community.” I posted my experience just as I’d seen so many others do.

Some women offered condolences. But others? Snark.

One woman in particular stood out. She was a registered nurse, I think she worked in prenatal care if I’m not mistaken, but her screen name reflected that she was a registered nurse. Many women in the group leaned on her for advice. I hadn’t asked for her input, but I hoped she’d see my post. Maybe she’d offer some comfort or clarity. Maybe she’d remind me that what I was feeling was real and valid.

She did reply. Her comment was cold, clinical. She asked if I had called my doctor. I explained that I had, but the OB wouldn’t see me before eight weeks. I was still waiting.

Her final response cut deep.

She said, “You’re a grown woman having unprotected sex. You should be able to figure this out.”

That was it. No one stepped in. No one told her she was out of line. No moderator said anything. The thread ended there. My grief was met with silence.

Days later, the one Black woman in the group sent me a private message. She had just seen my post. She asked how I was doing. She wanted to know if I’d seen a doctor. She asked if I’d learned if my pregnancy was still viable. But more than anything, she offered care. She offered presence.

And in a moment of humor that carried truth, she said, “Most of these women are bitches. That’s why I don’t mess with them. I’ve wanted to cuss them all out so many times.”

She checked in with me every step of the way. When I finally got in to see my OB, I learned I had lost the pregnancy. I would need a D&C. She walked beside me through it all. Eventually, we became Facebook friends. I’d become

Pregnant again several months later (she as well) and both carried our babies to term. And over the years, we watched each other’s children grow through pictures and posts.

But I never forgot what brought us together.

Two Black women in a white space, looking for community, and instead, finding each other.

That experience lives in my body to this day.

And now, in 2025, I see the echoes of that experience everywhere.

Black women are still dismissed.

Still silenced.

Still left to care for one another when the room goes quiet.

We are watching Black maternal mortality remain the highest in the nation. Black infants die at double the rate of white infants. Our pain is minimized. Our competence questioned. Our lives disregarded.

And still, we show up. We organize. We vote.

Ninety-two percent of Black women voted for Kamala Harris. For progress. For dignity. For life.

And yet she was met with condescension, ridicule, and eventually, erasure.

We give everything and are still told we are too much, too loud, too angry.

Or worse, we are completely ignored.

So I have to ask:

Can Black women ever truly find community in white women?

Not just in theory. But in real, vulnerable, hard moments.

Can we be fully seen and fully supported without shrinking ourselves or bracing for harm?

If your answer is yes, what are you doing—what are you willing to do—to make that true?

Because we cannot keep surviving in rooms that never saw us as part of the foundation.

We deserve more than that. We always have.