I spent much of my last pregnancy on bed rest—and full of questions no one seemed willing to answer.

Most days, I lay still in our bed in Nashville, legs stretched out before me as the walls seemed to inch closer with every passing hour. Outside sounds became a lifeline: the early-morning calls of robins, the low hum of a lawn mower, the gentle chime of an ice cream truck rolling down the street. I clung to those sounds like proof of the world that existed even if I couldn’t see it.

From bed, I managed the invisible labor of holding a family’s life together. I ordered groceries and set up doctors’ appointments, scheduled childcare and cleaning help, tried to be a good partner while my spouse juggled his own care and that of our 4-year-old daughter, Lily. I ran my storytelling agency from a distance, stretching myself thin across time zones and contracts. I had spent the past seven years building ROSIE, but even with all my intentions, even with my own leadership, I couldn’t afford to give myself the paid leave I needed.

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In the evenings, Lily would climb into bed beside me, curling her small body next to mine. She drew pictures of us—me always in bed. She saw through the thin veil of my optimism. I tried to be cheerful, to keep everything from unraveling. But I was not OK.

Every day that I stayed in bed would provide my baby more time to grow. And every day away from working at full capacity strained our finances, our momentum as a family, and our peace of mind. Time felt both precious and punishing.

This wasn’t my first time on bed rest. Years earlier, while pregnant with Lily, I had been given the same order. A short cervix, they told me. That experience was frightening, but I had a doctor who took me seriously, who heard my fear and offered care that felt was anchored in respect.

This time, there was no such comfort. From the very beginning, I had to advocate—loudly, repeatedly, desperately. I flagged my medical history, named my risks, asked for the kind of monitoring that could make a difference. But too often, I was met with blank stares or quiet dismissal. My concerns were minimized. My charts were misread. Critical treatments were skipped. I was hospitalized for preventable complications, and at one point, my ob-gyn simply forgot I was on bed rest at all.

There is a particular kind of fear that sets in when you realize no one is coming to catch you. And so, I stopped waiting. I focused on staying still—on keeping my baby safe—while everything else piled up around me.

The truth is, I wasn’t alone in this. I was one of far too many.

In the US, Black women are three to four times more likely to die from pregnancy-related causes than white women. And while the data is most severe for Black women, the disparities ripple across communities of color. As a brown woman, I saw firsthand how our pain is too often minimized, our warnings brushed aside, our care delayed. One night, I couldn’t take it anymore. I wrote a post in a local mom’s Facebook group. I poured out everything—my anger at being dismissed, my fear of not making it, the guilt of parenting from bed. I didn’t know what I was asking for. I just needed someone to hear me.

The next morning, a woman I’d never met messaged me. She was organizing a meal train for our family. Within hours, it was live. Within days, it was full.

And then—something I’ll never forget—people began showing up.

Strangers left steaming dishes on our doorstep. They brought snacks for Lily, notes tucked into grocery bags, healing teas and fresh soups, candles and vitamins and comfort. Women I didn’t know dropped off meals with handwritten notes that read, We’re thinking of you. You’ve got this.

I cried each time the doorbell rang. Not from sadness, but from something far more rare: the feeling of being deeply, tenderly held.

This is what mutual aid looks like—not a hashtag, not a buzzword, but real people choosing to care for one another when the system refuses to.

This kind of care is not new. It’s how we’ve always survived. Before there were social programs, there were aunties and neighbors, church ladies and cousins, doulas and friends. Because in this country, only 27 percent of workers have access to paid family leave, and one in four mothers returns to work within just two weeks of giving birth. Because bed rest isn’t covered. Because healing isn’t honored, and rest isn’t protected.

Today, when I think back to those weeks, what I remember most is not the fear; it’s the love. The love that showed up with food, with comfort, with no expectations. The love that carried my family through one of our most challenging experiences. That care didn’t just keep us afloat. It restored me. It gave me back a sense of worth I didn’t even realize I’d lost.

That same spirit—the instinct to step in when the system steps back—is at the heart of something powerful unfolding on Saturday: “Popping Up for Paid Leave.” Organized by Paid Leave for All and MomsRising, and powered by more than 50 brands, we’re gathering in cities across the country to offer free services, healing gifts, and support to mothers and caregivers.

This collective action is mutual aid—a reflection of what’s possible when people decide to show up anyway. When policies fall short, we don’t wait. We build the care ourselves.

And for me, it’s personal. It brings me right back to those quiet, desperate days—when kindness showed up unannounced on my doorstep. This campaign carries that same love forward. It’s a way of saying: We remember. We see you. And you don’t have to do this alone.

Because while policy fails and programs fall short, we are not powerless. We are the net. We are the soft landing. We are the reason someone makes it through. So let’s keep showing up. Let’s build the world we need, one act of care at a time—not because it’s easy, but because it’s ours.

Love—shared freely, quietly, consistently—has always been what carries us through.