I recently read an eye-opening book called Legacy by Uché Blackstock, a physician who deeply examines the intersection of race and healthcare. In the book, she shares the heartbreaking story of her mother, who died from a preventable disease simply because she didn’t receive the proper care. This story struck a nerve for me because it echoed so many of the concerns I’ve always had about the way Black women, in particular, are treated in medical facilities.
This book affirmed what I’ve long believed—that Black women are often neglected or mistreated in healthcare settings due to racism. There’s this pervasive, harmful assumption that Black women can endure more pain than others, as if we’re some sort of mutants. This belief is rooted in a deeply racist history that continues to affect how we are treated today. It makes me wonder: is data itself reinforcing these biases?
I’ve noticed that when I read about health disparities, especially regarding Black women, the data always seems to highlight that Black women are more likely to suffer from nearly every health issue compared to white women. But here’s the problem: these reports often fail to explain why. They don’t delve into how systemic racism, unequal access to care, and the biases of healthcare professionals contribute to these disparities. Instead, it can feel like the data is simply saying, “Black women are sicker, period,” without exploring the systemic reasons behind those numbers.
This omission is damaging. It paints an incomplete and misleading picture that seems to imply there’s something inherently wrong with Black women’s health, rather than focusing on the structures and biases that are causing these outcomes. Data without context can easily turn into a weapon that reinforces harmful stereotypes. Instead of showing that Black women are underserved, mistreated, or ignored in medical settings, the numbers make it seem as though we’re destined to suffer more, as if that’s just the way things are.
What’s even more troubling is how this data is often used to justify further mistreatment. Medical professionals may see these statistics and unconsciously (or consciously) treat Black women differently, assuming that we are somehow biologically predisposed to suffering or disease. This is why Black women are less likely to have our pain taken seriously, less likely to receive timely diagnoses, and less likely to receive proper treatment. It’s a vicious cycle where the data perpetuates the very disparities it’s supposed to highlight.
For example, the maternal mortality rate among Black women is shockingly higher than that of white women. But instead of this sparking an urgent conversation about how racism in healthcare is failing Black mothers, it’s often presented as just another statistic in a sea of grim data. What’s missing is the acknowledgment that Black women are dying because they’re not being cared for properly, not because of some inherent flaw or vulnerability.
We need to start asking the right questions about this data: Why are Black women more likely to die during childbirth? Why are we more likely to suffer from chronic illnesses? Why are we so often misdiagnosed or dismissed in medical settings? The answer is not in our biology, but in the way society—and the healthcare system—treats us.
This skewed portrayal of Black women in health data reinforces the notion that we are somehow different, almost inhuman, in our capacity to endure suffering. It’s dehumanizing and dangerous. And it’s not just the medical field where this happens—it’s everywhere in society. In criminal justice, education, employment—data is often weaponized against Black people, reinforcing stereotypes without addressing the underlying systemic issues.
This needs to change. Data is powerful, but it can also be harmful when used without the right context. It’s time for healthcare professionals, researchers, and policymakers to look beyond the numbers and start addressing the root causes of these disparities. The conversation should not just be about how Black women are disproportionately affected by illness, but about why that is happening and what can be done to fix it.
We deserve to be seen as fully human, deserving of care, respect, and dignity. We deserve healthcare that recognizes our pain, that treats us with the same urgency and care as anyone else. And we deserve data that doesn’t reduce us to numbers but instead shines a light on the systemic issues that need to be dismantled.