The Teddy Bear I Didn't Ask For

Guest blog post by Trashaun Powell, Maternal Health Advocate | Preeclampsia Survivor | Storyteller

"I left the hospital with a teddy bear and an empty car seat. What I didn't know then was that the grief I carried would one day become a movement. That teddy bear, once a symbol of everything I didn't get to take home, is now a symbol of everything I fight for."

A story has power—especially when it breaks silence, exposes injustice, and reclaims joy. In the maternal health space, storytelling has become more than a tool—it's a lifeline. For far too long, the voices of Black and brown women and birthing people have been dismissed, minimized, or erased from the narratives shaping healthcare systems. But when we tell our stories—of birth, loss, and survival—we create space for visibility, accountability, and transformation. We humanize the data, challenge the status quo, and remind the world that behind every statistic is a life, a family, a future.

Sharing my story helped me begin to understand what happened to me. It gave me the language to name my experience, the strength to stop blaming myself, and the space to start healing. What I didn't expect was how much I would learn in the process—about myself, my lineage, and the silence that surrounds maternal health in so many families.

In sharing, I discovered that my great-great-grandmother had also experienced eclampsia—something no one had ever talked about. I was angry when I found out. Had I known my own maternal health history, I could have spoken up. I could have informed my care team. But like so many of us, I didn't know what questions to ask. That's part of why I tell my story now—to encourage others to ask the questions we're often too afraid to ask and to make our histories visible, not buried.

In telling, I began to connect—with beautiful, brave women across the country, including the incredible Tatyana Ali. I'll never forget the first time I shared my story publicly in 2015. After I spoke, a couple came up to us and shared that they, too, had experienced loss. Their grief had been so profound they vowed never to try again. But after witnessing me share my story and seeing my second baby in my arms, they told me it gave them hope. They saw that a different outcome was possible.

That's when I realized that storytelling doesn't just heal; it saves lives.

There is so much power in telling your story—because representation matters. The birth experiences that get told and the ones that don’t still shape how maternal care is delivered and which lives are valued. When we speak, we expose systems that have long overlooked us. In doing so, we make space for healing, for truth, and for real change.

Stories help people understand the real risks of preeclampsia. Data supports the story, and policy is moved by it. It separates fact from fiction. These are real stories that happen. But real action happens when a story hits the heart: when a lawmaker sees beyond the statistic, when a provider hears beyond the chart, and when a mother feels less alone in her pain.

Storytelling is a bridge. It connects us to healthcare providers, policymakers, and community partners. It humanizes the crisis. It brings voice to silence and calls out those who need to listen.

There is so much power and healing in sharing your story. I've cried through telling mine—remembering the pain of walking out of the hospital with a teddy bear while others left with babies. My breasts still leaked. My heart was still broken. But God—here I am. Sharing a piece of Mia with you.

At first, sharing may feel impossible. Start by telling your story to yourself. Let the words come. Let the tears fall. Speak them aloud when you're ready—first quietly, then boldly. When the pain softens, and the words come easier, you'll know: you are ready. You are stronger. You are not alone.

Every time we speak our truth, we create a healing space for someone else to feel seen. Every time we listen, we step toward courage—and toward change.

I invite you to do more than remember the statistics—I invite you to remember the stories. The voices. The babies. The mothers. The ones who made it and the ones who didn't. If you're holding a story of your own—whether whispered or roaring inside you—I hope you'll share it. When we speak our truths, we don't just heal—we give someone else permission to do the same.

There is power in that.

There is legacy in that.

There is love in that.

That's how we begin to change everything. Whenever I share Mia's story, I'm reminded that her life still speaks, her story still moves, and her memory is part of the movement.

 

Trashaun Powell is a leading maternal health expert who also serves as an ambassador for the Take 10 for Preeclampsia Research Program under the auspices of the Preeclampsia Foundation. The program is a call to action created by for and about black women geared towards amplifying Black voices in research and seeks to add survivor stories to the Preeclampsia Registry, a living database to researchers around the world.  As an ambassador she speaks to various audiences about preeclampsia and uses her lived experience to motivate women to share their own stories as a vehicle of change in the maternal health space to drive research towards better birthing outcomes for growing families. Trashaun is a strategic philanthropist who raised thousands of dollars for preeclampsia research.