“Untitled” by Micah Witte, 2026
Sameerah
Upper Right Corner
I’m part of the African American diaspora. I’m a patient, a community advocate, and a trauma trainer focused on health and well-being. My life has been shaped by experiences within the health care system that have at times felt exhausting, dismissive, and deeply personal. My story seen fully as a human being. It’s not only about illness or medical treatment—it’s about dignity, voice, and the need to be seen fully as a human being.
During my early prenatal care while living with multiple sclerosis (MS), I experienced interactions with medical staff that were distressing and overwhelming. As a young, married Black woman, my pregnancy was often treated as a medical problem rather than a natural process. Providers focused on risk and intervention from the very beginning. I was prescribed medications intended to terminate pregnancy before the diagnostic testing I’d requested was completed. I remember feeling unheard, dismissed, and powerless in decisions that affected my body and my future.
My experiences with pregnancy and loss were traumatic and stayed with me throughout my adult life. Over the years, I continued to encounter health care environments where my voice didn’t feel valued. At age 35, while experiencing significant pain from MS flare-ups, I called for medical support and was told that people with MS don’t feel pain. That statement contradicted both medical understanding and my lived experience. I am now 72 years old, and I still find myself reflecting on how often Black patients must advocate to be believed when describing our own bodies and experiences.
When I enter health care spaces, I often feel cautious. Trust is not automatic—it’s something that must be earned through listening, empathy, and respect. I believe health care providers should meet patients where they are. They should strengthen communication skills, ask meaningful questions, acknowledge lived experience, and adapt how they gather information so that patients and providers can move forward together, even in difficult circumstances.
Mental health conversations are often limited in our communities, yet the barriers are clear: cost, stigma, lack of providers of color, and distrust of systems that have historically failed us. For me, being healthy means having the freedom to live as I choose—physically, emotionally, and spiritually.
If my health care experiences were visualized, I’d want to see integrated, unbiased, and inclusive images that are ageless and ability-free. I imagine systems that are accessible and affordable, where everyone is treated with dignity. When I think about Black health, I think about the ongoing mental crisis caused by lack of empathy from systems that often treat Black people as invisible or expendable—valued only when it benefits others.
The message I want the world to hear is simple: Black people are valuable and deserve humane care from qualified professionals who are properly trained and willing to listen.
Healing, to me, is represented by gold and green. I imagine healthy babies who grow into healthy adults, free from trauma. I imagine generations that are able to live fully without carrying the burden of being unseen or unheard.
Black health means a profound and complete state of well-being. It’s deep, resilient, and expansive. It moves through people and environments without limitation.
Black health is pure as black silk.
Marlene
Lower Middle
I’m a Black woman whose understanding of health has been shaped by personal experiences within the health care system. My perspective comes from navigating spaces where I have sometimes felt dismissed, misunderstood, and unseen. My story reflects not only individual moments, but also broader patterns that affect how many Black individuals experience care.
One of my most recent experiences occurred on August 26, 2025, while I was jogging in a park in Minneapolis. During my second lap, I suddenly felt dizzy and nauseated, and fell to my knees.
I crawled to my car and called my daughter because I didn’t feel safe driving. When she arrived, my symptoms had worsened to include a severe headache, dizziness, and nausea.
At the hospital, I didn’t feel that my concerns were fully acknowledged. Instead of focusing first on my symptoms, staff questioned me about alcohol and tobacco use and whether I had previously visited the hospital. My daughter and I explained that I don’t drink or smoke and that this was my first visit, but our responses appeared to be met with doubt. As my daughter attempted to explain what had happened, a nurse began removing my clothing roughly, ignoring my request to do so myself. When I expressed discomfort with how I was being handled, I was referred to the psychiatry ward.
During my hospital stay, I continued to feel dismissed. Some health care providers wore scented products that triggered my allergies, despite explaining my history of anaphylaxis. My concerns were not adequately addressed, which contributed to feelings of isolation and a lack of support during a time when I needed care the most.
Because of experiences like this, my trust in the health care system is low—about 2.5 on a scale of 1 to 5. I believe having more Black health care providers would improve understanding and comfort for many patients. Representation matters. Cultural understanding matters. Feeling heard matters.
When I think about being healthy, I think beyond the absence of illness. Health includes managing stress, maintaining proper nutrition, staying physically active, and nurturing spiritual well-being. My relationship with God plays an important role in supporting my physical, mental, and emotional strength.
If my health care experiences were represented visually, the image would show skeptical and uncaring faces of providers who appear to ignore me while engaging comfortably with colleagues. The imagery would reflect the feeling of being unheard or minimized—a visual representation of medical neglect where symptoms and concerns are dismissed or mocked.
When I think about Black health, I think about the physical, mental, and social well-being of Black individuals and communities. I also think about the disparities that continue to exist due to systemic racism, social injustice, and environmental barriers. These challenges create gaps in access to care, quality treatment, and health outcomes. Addressing these inequities is necessary to build a more just and equitable health care system.
Healing in the Black community is deeply connected to culture, resilience, and spiritual renewal.
I think of symbols such as the Sankofa bird; libation ceremonies; Africentric wellness circles; and the colors purple, yellow, blue, and Pan-African hues. I think of community gatherings that affirm identity, connections to nature that represent growth, and ancestral ties that remind us that healing is both collective and deeply rooted in history.
Black health means improving outcomes through culturally responsive care. It means health care providers must understand and respect cultural values, lived experiences, and historical context in order to provide meaningful and effective support.
The experience I’ve shared is only one of many. Over the years, I’ve encountered numerous situations that have left me feeling anxious, frustrated, and distrustful. Yet I continue to believe that change is possible when systems listen, learn, and commit to equitable care for all.
Talaia
Featured Lower Right Corner
My experiences with the health care system have been complex, shaped by both resilience and frustration. As a Black woman, I’ve often felt that my concerns or opinions were dismissed, overlooked, or questioned as if I do not know my own body. That feeling of being unheard creates a barrier to trust, and over time it can make even routine medical visits feel emotionally heavy.
Too often, assumptions are made about Black health before conversations even begin. There can be an underlying expectation that we lack insurance, that we won’t follow through with care, or that our health challenges stem from stereotypes about lifestyle. These assumptions can limit the options presented to us, influence the level of urgency in treatment, and ultimately affect outcomes. I believe respectful care begins with removing bias and recognizing that Black patients deserve the same thorough attention, compassion, and opportunity for treatment as anyone else.
When I think about health, I think about living a full life according to my own expectations—being well enough to pursue goals, care for family, and experience joy. Health is not simply the absence of illness. It’s the presence of dignity, agency, and trust in the systems meant to support us.
Some of my most profound health care experiences are tied to the births of my children. If these experiences were visualized, I imagine a black-and-white film with brief but powerful glimpses of color. The color would represent the moments of triumph—despite complications, fear, and feeling unseen at times by medical staff. I endured a doctor refusing to induce labor when necessary, and one of my children was born with complications involving the bowel in the feeding tube. During another c-section, anesthesia was not properly administered, and I could feel the incision beginning. These moments are difficult to revisit, yet they also highlight the strength required to advocate for oneself in spaces where trust should already exist.
When I think about Black health, emotions such as anger, rage, and sorrow come to mind.
These emotions stem from historical and ongoing inequities that continue to influence care today. Yet there is also perseverance. The symbol that best represents healing in the Black community is the infinity symbol, because in spite of systemic challenges, we continue to endure, adapt, and move forward.
Mental health is another important aspect of wellness, yet conversations about it don’t always happen frequently in families or communities. Barriers such as cost, stigma, lack of providers of color, cultural expectations, and distrust of the medical system all contribute to gaps in care.
These barriers reinforce the need for representation and culturally responsive services that acknowledge lived experiences.
Ultimately, I believe the world needs to hear that we are human. Health should not be divided into “Black health” or “White health”—it should simply be health. Equitable care means recognizing shared humanity while also addressing the unique disparities that affect different communities.
Black health, to me, means safe and sincere health practices for Black people. It means being listened to, believed, and treated with the same level of commitment and compassion that every patient deserves.
Even within challenge, we persist. We continue to seek wellness, advocate for ourselves, and create pathways toward better outcomes for future generations.
Linda
Featured Upper Middle
My experiences with health care have been mixed. Overall, I would describe them as neutral, but there have been times when I felt dismissed or unheard. For more than 30 years, I saw the same female doctor for my annual physicals. Over time, I began to feel like the visits had become routine in a way that didn’t feel personal or attentive. She often entered the room focused on typing into her computer while speaking with me, which made me feel like I was simply another item to check off a list. In 2024, I made the decision to switch providers because I wanted care that felt more thoughtful and engaged.
I feel comfortable advocating for myself in medical settings, but that doesn’t mean the process always feels easy. When I go to the doctor or hospital, I often feel a mix of emotions—safe, anxious, and hopeful. I do believe that race can impact the quality of care received, and representation matters to me. I would feel more supported if my provider looked at me when speaking, shared my values around health care, and demonstrated an understanding of my needs as a woman.
Mental health is not frequently discussed in my family or community, but I recognize how important it is. There are many barriers that prevent Black individuals from seeking mental health support, including cost, stigma, lack of providers of color, distrust of the medical system, cultural expectations, lack of awareness, and access issues. To me, being healthy means having balance—good health of the body, mind, and spirit.
If my health care experiences were represented visually, the image would show me walking toward a medical building, looking up at the sky, wondering what challenges I might face that day. I would be thinking about whether the doctor has taken the time to understand my medical history before my appointment. I imagine myself opening the door and walking through white hallways toward the elevator, eventually reaching the waiting area to be called. This image reflects both preparation and uncertainty.
When I think about Black health, I feel sadness, anger, and grief. Too many African Americans experience poor health outcomes such as obesity, diabetes, heart disease, and cancer. Some of these challenges are influenced by personal choices, but many are connected to larger issues such as limited access to healthy foods, safe exercise spaces, quality health care, housing stability, and economic opportunity. These disparities must change.
Healing in the Black community looks like unity and progress. I imagine groups of Black individuals walking upward together, holding hands, smiling, and supporting one another in good health. Colors that represent healing to me include purple, black, gray, orange, yellow, and light green.
Black health means thriving mentally, physically, and spiritually without disparities related to health care access, nutritious food, housing, or employment opportunities. It means living in a world where equity in health is not an aspiration but a reality.
Taira
Featured Upper Left Corner
My experiences with health care feel slightly above neutral, though at times they’re simply neutral. I was fortunate to find a primary care doctor, but after losing my therapist, finding another mental health provider has been difficult. The search for someone who truly understands both my personal needs and the broader experiences of the Black community has been challenging. Too often, people work in communities they do not fully understand, and that disconnect can make it harder to receive care that feels informed and culturally aware.
Over time, I have become more comfortable advocating for myself in medical spaces. Watching my mother manage her illnesses taught me the importance of speaking up, asking questions, doing research, and seeking second opinions. I’ve also noticed ongoing conversations about how Black people’s pain is sometimes not taken as seriously as the pain of others. There can be a harmful assumption that we are somehow more tolerant of pain, which can delay urgency in diagnosis or treatment, whether the concern is physical or internal.
When I visit my primary care provider, I generally feel safe because there is an established relationship and a sense of familiarity. However, visiting urgent care or the emergency room can feel more anxiety-provoking because there is no relationship or history with the provider. My level of trust in the health care system is moderate. Representation matters, and I believe we need more Black doctors and health care professionals in positions of influence and decision-making to help improve outcomes and create systems that better serve our communities.
Mental health plays a central role in my definition of being healthy. A healthy mind is the starting point for everything else. When my mental health is stable, I am better able to take care of my body and manage daily responsibilities. When I’m not in a good mental space, even simple tasks like brushing my teeth or taking care of myself can feel overwhelming. The better I feel mentally, the better I’m able to function in every other area of my life.
When I think about Black health, I feel a sense of apprehension and uncertainty. I sometimes question whether the diagnosis is accurate, whether enough research has been done, and whether the care being provided is truly aligned with my needs. There’s often lingering doubt about whether the right steps are being taken.
Healing in the Black community is reflected in strong relationships, family connection, and the ability to support one another. Seeing Black families together, maintaining bonds, and building strong communities represents health to me. Black health means being valued equally and having the opportunity to experience true well-being—not just financially, but mentally, emotionally, and physically. It means having the ability to fully engage with the world and live without barriers that prevent us from thriving.
Ginger
Featured Lower Left Corner
My experiences with health care have at times felt somewhat negative, shaped by moments where I felt dismissed or misunderstood. There were situations serious enough that I had to file formal complaints and advocate strongly for safe and appropriate care. In one instance, a prescribed diabetes treatment plan could have caused significant harm, and I had to challenge the diagnosis and request removal of the physician. Experiences like this have made it clear to me how important it is to speak up and advocate for yourself in medical settings.
I’m very comfortable advocating for my health because I have learned that my voice matters.
However, there is still discomfort and mistrust when navigating health care spaces. I believe that having more doctors of color would lead to better understanding of conditions that disproportionately affect Black communities and would create a stronger sense of trust between patients and providers. Representation matters, especially when it helps providers better understand culturally connected health patterns and experiences.
My trust in the health care system is moderate. Historically, before standardized medicine, many relied on herbal approaches and community knowledge to maintain health. Today, I believe there is still room for improvement in how Black patients are treated, understood, and supported. Seeing more Black physicians in practice would help foster greater respect and cultural awareness in health care spaces.
Mental health has not always been openly discussed in my family or community. Often, the expectation was simply to persevere and keep going. However, being healthy means more than just surviving. To me, health means being able to serve as a pillar in the community and share wisdom with future generations. If health is compromised too early, opportunities to guide and uplift others may be lost.
If my health care experiences were represented visually, the image would resemble an abstract painting—something like a Jackson Pollock piece—layered, complex, and not always easy to interpret. When I think about Black health, I feel sadness knowing that too many people lose their health before they are able to reach their full potential. There’s a deep need for the world to recognize the humanity and value of Black individuals and to provide care that reflects respect and equity.
Healing in the Black community is symbolized by shades of green—representing growth, renewal, and restoration. To me, Black health means wealth—not only financially, but in wisdom, longevity, dignity, and the ability to contribute meaningfully to family and community.