The price tag of Black motherhood isn’t just about dollars and cents, but about dreams deferred and choices no one should have to make.
When I started researching the financial reality of maternal care for Black women, I thought I’d only find stories about mounting medical bills and insurance claims (because yes, we know healthcare is extremely expensive), but instead what I found were women putting their entire lives on hold: postponing homeownership, passing up career opportunities, taking on second jobs, and going into debt—all for the chance to become mothers.
And while I haven’t entered this chapter in my life just yet, to see how it’s impacted so many, has even put my own future into perspective.
For Black women especially, the path to motherhood is well-documented on how disparities in healthcare quality and access impact us. What’s discussed less often is how these medical challenges intertwine with financial ones, often draining savings, derailing careers, and reshaping futures.
Take fertility treatments, for example. Recent research from Maven’s “Beyond the Bill” report highlights just how financially devastating this journey can be. Women are spending tens of thousands of dollars out-of-pocket, often unprepared for costs that weren’t explained upfront. Many report taking on extra work just to afford care, while others find themselves cutting back on everything from travel to education to make ends meet.
The numbers from Maven’s research tell a story that’s hard to ignore, and we shouldn’t because they are staggering. A third of women report spending between $50,000 and $100,000 out-of-pocket on fertility care alone—amounts that exceed many families’ annual income. Nearly half felt blindsided by unexpected costs, suggesting a troubling lack of transparency in the healthcare system. Perhaps most shocking, 62% of women weren’t adequately informed about medication costs before beginning treatment, leaving them scrambling to cover expenses they never anticipated.
This financial strain doesn’t exist in a vacuum. Black women already earn significantly less than their white counterparts—about 66 cents for every dollar earned by white, non-Hispanic men. We’re already playing catch-up when it comes to building wealth and financial security, but when you add the extraordinary costs of fertility and maternal care to this equation, the math becomes impossible.
The personal sacrifices revealed in Maven’s research show just how far women will go to afford care. Eighty-three percent cut back on expenses, giving up not just luxuries but core elements of life satisfaction like personal hobbies and social outings. Nearly half postponed buying a home—a figure that rises to 66% among Gen Z women, suggesting that younger generations are facing these financial barriers even earlier in their lives.
The quiet crisis happening in workplaces deserves special attention. Many women hide their fertility journeys from employers, fearing judgment or discrimination. Some turn down promotions or new opportunities because they can’t reconcile work demands with treatment schedules, while others leave jobs entirely in search of better benefits, recognizing that the right employer support can make all the difference.
Maven’s findings confirm what many have experienced: 44% of women turned down career advancement opportunities due to their fertility journey, and 27% report their career growth suffered directly. When we consider the existing workplace barriers Black women face, these additional setbacks compound an already unequal situation. Meanwhile, more than half of women across generations have left jobs specifically to find better fertility benefits—a striking referendum on how essential this support has become.
Younger generations of Black women seem to be approaching these challenges differently. They’re more likely to discuss their fertility journeys openly with colleagues and more willing to change jobs to secure better benefits. This transparency might eventually drive broader changes in workplace policies, but the immediate financial burden still falls heavily on individual women and families.
And these financial pressures don’t end once a child is conceived. The costs continue through pregnancy, childbirth, and beyond. Black women, who face higher rates of pregnancy complications and maternal mortality, often need additional medical care that comes with additional costs. The financial stress itself can contribute to poor health outcomes, creating a dangerous cycle.
When financial constraints force women to delay or discontinue prenatal care, when they can’t afford to take adequate maternity leave, when childcare costs consume an unsustainable portion of their income—these aren’t just economic problems. They’re maternal health problems. And for Black women, they’re matters of life and death.
While yes, Black Maternal Health Month may be over, we still need to expand the conversation beyond medical care alone, because the tax on Black motherhood is beyond ridiculous. Addressing the maternal health crisis means addressing its economic dimensions too and pushing for insurance reforms that cover fertility treatments, for workplace policies that support women through pregnancy and parenthood, for childcare solutions that don’t bankrupt families.
Because the fact of the matter is, no woman should have to choose between financial security and motherhood or work two jobs just to afford prenatal care. Or more importantly, have to put her entire life on hold to bring new life into the world.
Sadly, that’s the reality for many of us. And while I won’t let it discourage me from one day embarking on the journey to motherhood, I know too well that it will deter many others. The cost of care is too high and Black women have been paying it for far too long.
