Faith, Grief, and Healing: Building a Voice for Black Women’s Health

Exploring the intersections of spirituality, loss, and resilience in the pursuit of holistic well-being

When I look back at my journey, I see how much of it has been about waiting—not standing still but waiting on God’s timing. Over the last several years, I have had to sit, reflect, and trust that even the seasons of delay and uncertainty were part of preparation. This waiting has been active: creating my own lane, noticing the people God has placed around me, and learning from each step. Now, as I enter my final semester at the University of Cincinnati, I see how this timing has shaped me into a woman ready to heal and advocate—not just for myself, but for the women in my community.

My education has given me the language to understand systemic injustice, but my lived experiences have given me the conviction to fight it. Every day I ask myself: Do I want to pursue a Master’s in Public Health to strengthen my knowledge, or do I want to become a Physician Assistant, putting myself directly in the field? Both paths are meaningful. Both reflect a desire to close gaps in our healthcare system. Yet the question that weighs heavier than degrees or titles is: Where am I most needed?

I often imagine what it would mean for a young Black woman to walk into her doctor’s office and see a provider who looks like her, who not only understands her medical needs but her cultural reality as well. Too often, I search for that same reflection and come up empty. Representation matters in healthcare—not just for comfort, but for survival. I want to be that brown girl in the office who listens and advocates fiercely for African American women in systems that too often diminish them.

But my calling extends beyond clinic walls. As I near graduation, I’ve realized I don’t want to spend my life working “under the Man.” Instead, I want to build a voice and a platform for women who are overlooked, underpaid, and undervalued. I want to fight for mothers in my community who are losing jobs, struggling to provide, and carrying the invisible weight of inequities. This conviction comes not only from study, but from my own scars.

Two years ago, I experienced a miscarriage that altered the course of my life. It was a physical trauma, but also a rupture in my sense of self. My body felt as though it had turned against me. Miscarriage is often shrouded in silence, and I lived in that silence too long. Since June 30, 2023, I haven’t held a regular job—not from lack of will, but because my body and spirit needed space to heal. At first, I felt ashamed of this gap. Over time, I saw it differently. That season was not wasted. It was waiting, listening, and learning to honor grief instead of rushing past it.

In the African American community, conversations about reproductive loss are rare. Too many women grieve quietly, carrying pain that is never acknowledged. That silence is its own harm. Studying reproductive and community health has shown me how critical it is to break that silence not just for myself, but for others who have felt invisible in their pain. I believe storytelling is a form of care. By sharing my experience, I create space for others to heal. Education gives me frameworks for understanding disparities, but my story gives me a reason to never stop fighting.

This fight has taken other forms, too. At the Dayton VA Medical Center, where I last held a full-time job, I experienced discrimination during pregnancy. I was not given the accommodations I needed to continue working. For two years, I have been building a case to advocate for myself. It has been exhausting but also empowering. I have learned what it means to stand against systems larger than myself. If I can advocate for myself, I can advocate for women in my community who feel silenced or powerless.

These experiences—education, miscarriage, discrimination—are not separate stories. They are threads in the same tapestry. They have prepared me to bridge lived experience with professional expertise, to combine faith with public health, and to step into the world not just as a student or provider, but as a voice for justice.

I have been blessed with opportunities that affirm this calling. Through the Elizabeth Yox Scholarship with Dayton Right to Life, I’ve served as a summer intern, expanding my knowledge and community connections. At Kettering College, where I am pursuing certification as a Community Health Worker, I am learning to meet people where they are—to bridge healthcare systems and the communities they overlook. This work is rooted in West Dayton, Ohio, where maternal health disparities are not abstract statistics but lived realities for my neighbors, friends, and family.

So, when I reflect on God’s timing, I see how it has been shaping me all along. The delays that frustrated me, the heartbreaks that nearly crushed me, the long nights balancing motherhood, school, and grief—all of it was molding me into someone who doesn’t just dream about change but creates it.

I do not yet know whether my next step will be graduate school or clinical practice. What I do know is this: my mission is to advocate for African American women in healthcare and beyond. I want to fight for mothers navigating invisible grief, for workers facing discrimination, and for young women who deserve to see themselves reflected in their providers.

Waiting has taught me patience, but also power. I no longer see waiting as wasted time. It has been my training ground, preparing me to be a mother, a student, a community health worker, and above all, an advocate ready to serve.

Thank you for creating space for voices like mine, and for giving me the chance to share not only my story, but also my vision for collective healing and justice.

Sincerely,
Tia Jones