By Imani Powell

Human bondage still exists in this day and age, and it’s wrapped in a box called Child Protective Services (CPS). As a Black woman, and in an effort to stand firm in my values and protect my 14-month-old son’s health and well-being, I had to learn the terrors of the medical system through firsthand experience. I hope this story will be the last of its kind. 

Early March 2025, I took my son to a hospital in a different zip code (Newark, NJ) than our own (Union, NJ), a city with a significantly higher Black population and lower median income than our neighborhood. I chose this hospital for its consistency and ease, and because we had an appointment there, naively thinking they might be better equipped to handle our care, given their demographics. I was deeply mistaken. 

My concern was my son’s electrolytes and fluid intake. Our doctor agreed and sent us to the ER. There, the ER attending flagged his weight, dismissing my explanation that prior weight readings had been incorrectly documented. We were admitted on a Monday due to a virus, and, or so I thought, to monitor and replenish his electrolytes. 

By Thursday, my son was taken off the IV and required no medication, yet discharge was denied. The inpatient attending expressed concern about his weight loss between February and March, stating that breastfeeding would not be enough. Although my son was also eating solid foods, he said he was not comfortable sending us home.

For context, this is the explanation I verbally stated to both the ER attending and the pediatric inpatient attendant.

Early February of 2025, my son visited the ER at a sister hospital in Livingston, NJ. The first documented weight was taken while he was wearing his jacket, clothes, and boots. The second weight I requested was entered correctly; they entered it into the system 4.4 pounds higher than his actual weight. The third weight I requested, due to their clerical error, was the correct and final weight entered into the system. All weights were documented on the same date in the electronic system without any notes or context. These three weights are what the ER attending at the hospital in Newark, NJ, used as a reference, specifically the weight that was 4.4lbs higher than the actual weight. 

“That phone call not only represents the bias within the medical system, but the miseducation and misunderstanding of Black bodies…”

These details and context were not enough visually in their shared system or verbally with my presence. Even after I agreed to pediatrician check-ups and nutritional guidance, he declared, “I’m still not comfortable, and I’m calling CPS.” 

My world stopped. I entered what felt like a medical prison. We were told that leaving would have severe consequences, despite having no medical reason to hold us. My friends and family rallied as we remained hospitalized for days. Doctors set impossible expectations, constantly moving the goalposts. They imposed bizarre dietary restrictions for weight gain: no water, breastmilk, fruit, or vegetables – only high-fat foods like butter and noodles. My son, they threatened, would receive a feeding tube if he didn’t meet their arbitrary weight goals. 

On Saturday, I demanded answers from the head attending. She alluded to lab results and my alleged uninsured status, though my son’s insurance was active on the day he was admitted. Then, shockingly, she revealed multiple doctors disliked my “tone” when asking about my son’s health, stating that they felt as if they were “under interrogation.” She assumed I had no money and minimized CPS involvement, claiming “90 percent of the kids are fine” and “if I don’t have drugs in my house, the case should be closed within 1-2 weeks.” She even called CPS a “good resource.” 

Here are the real numbers. The American Journal of Public Health showed that by age 18, more than half of Black children (53.0 percent) will experience a child protective services investigation, far exceeding the national average of 37.4 percent, marking a disproportionate and early point of system involvement.

These inequities compound over time. According to the Center for the Study of Social Policy, Black children are more likely to be removed from their families, remain longer in foster care, and face poorer outcomes, with 1 in 41 experiencing termination of parental rights, more than double the rate of the general population. These are the numbers people don’t talk about enough, and the truth is that race and color matter. They always have. 

I was appalled. This had nothing to do with my son’s well-being. My cousin, who has worked with youth in urban areas for decades, interjected, explaining the devastating impact of mandated CPS reports on Black and Brown children. I added that I professionally work with Black children in foster and adoptive care. The doctor’s demeanor shifted immediately. Shocked, she began apologizing as my cousin and I detailed our credentials, degrees, experience, and deep understanding of the harm this inflicts on Black families. 

“I am going to call the caseworker this weekend and tell her that the hospital has no problem with you, and they should close the case. It was a great misunderstanding,” she stated. She noted in her clinical notes that night that we would be released the next day, before even rechecking his weight. We were discharged on Sunday. My son had, in fact, exceeded their weight goal, and the doctor, in a final absurdity, told me to slow down his feeding to avoid obesity. 

As a new mother, I am trying to do the very best for my son. My first and only son. After my son and I survived a placenta abruption during my pregnancy, both of us losing liters of blood combined, and a month-long stay in the NICU to save his life, I could not imagine yet another moment of me possibly losing my son. I cried on the phone with my cousin. I was at a loss about what I was supposed to do, especially when I knew they could’ve taken my son away from me at any moment.

My brother, a doctor himself, drove up from Maryland to support me because none of this made sense to him either. I couldn’t bear to leave my son alone with the staff out of fear they would take him, even when I went to use the bathroom. I prayed, I sought guidance, and I called my family, midwife, and friends to come visit. I had all the support anyone could want, and still, the end result of that experience and the continued result all led back to trauma. 

The residuals of that single phone call to Child Protective Services (DCF) have made me question every decision, every potential judgment. The reality is that no zip code in America will truly welcome Black bodies who choose “alternative” methods of care if they don’t align with what the system dictates. Black bodies who choose to breastfeed for extended periods and seek midwives, doulas, and holistic doctors to guide them have increasingly become problematic for medical systems, which favor Western medicine.

However, studies show the success and survival rates of Black women and their children when they have doulas and midwives. That phone call not only represents the bias within the medical system, but the miseducation and misunderstanding of Black bodies who choose to seek medical advice outside of the hospital, and that is a problem. 

Medical policy and mandated reporting must be addressed and updated. These processes need to reflect current standards for healthy growth in Black children, acknowledging individual needs beyond a narrow, often racially biased, range.

Patients and families, especially those of African descent, need in-person advocates and protections within medical spaces. Doulas have done this work for centuries; I believe it needs to expand to every Black family encountering the medical system. The destruction of the Black family should not be the first line of attack. This is, and remains, a fundamental problem. 

This is not everyone’s experience, and we hope that will be true for more families, so we must keep in mind the people in the medical system who are uplifting and supportive. This may not be your story, and you may feel the work of CPS and the medical system is justified based on your understanding and your experiences. Your truth is still important, and we want to hear the positive stories so we can continue to learn about how the system impacts families. Sadly, this experience is all too familiar to too many families, and we are imploring immediate change. 

I know my story may be similar to ones you know or have experienced yourself. I declare to all choosing differently, choosing their culture, and choosing to break generational curses: change is coming, and your voice matters. Ashe. 

Join the Movement for Equitable Healthcare 

Bias and discrimination are deeply embedded in our healthcare system, and Black women disproportionately suffer. We must collectively: 

• Advocate for Policy Change: Demand that medical institutions revise policies and mandated reporting guidelines to be culturally competent and adaptable to diverse parenting practices. 
• Empower Patients: Promote the availability of free or low-cost patient advocates in all medical settings, especially for Black families, whose voices are respected by healthcare professionals. 
• Visit The Village Consulting: https://www.thevillageconsulting.org/ or email story@thevillageconsulting.org to share your story so we can uplift, support, and/or be a listening ear for you. 
• Utilize Incredible Resources for Support: Movement For Family Power, Elephant Circle, JMac For Families, Black Mothers March (Operation Stop CPS), If/When/How: Lawyers for Reproductive Justice 

Your experience is crucial to driving this change.  If you have a story like mine, we want to hear it, honor it, and support you. Put it in the comments.

Imani Powell is the founder of The Village Consulting, where she partners with healthcare organizations’ systems to advance equity through culturally competent education and advocacy. With a background as both a scientist and entrepreneur, she designs training and consulting programs that bridge science, culture, and identity, equipping caregivers and institutions to better serve Black children and families.