In order to improve maternal health, we have to focus on

Host: The hospital courtyard was bathed in a dim amber glow, the kind that falls when the sun is neither fully gone nor truly here — that quiet threshold between night and mercy. The rain had just ended, leaving puddles that mirrored the neon signs of the emergency ward, each reflection trembling with unseen weight.

Jeeny stood near the entrance, her hands wrapped around a paper cup of cooling coffee. Jack leaned against the railing, coat collar raised, a faint curl of smoke rising from his cigarette. The sound of distant sirens was soft, almost tired, as if the city itself had grown weary of its own emergencies.

Jeeny: “Leana Wen once said, ‘In order to improve maternal health, we have to focus on improving all women’s health and access to care — not just during labor and delivery, but before and after pregnancy, and throughout our lives.’”
She looked up, her eyes dark with quiet fire. “It’s not just a quote. It’s the truth we keep ignoring.”

Jack: “You mean the truth we can’t afford,” he said, exhaling smoke that spiraled toward the wet sky. “You make it sound simple — fix women’s health, fix society. But systems don’t change because of compassion, Jeeny. They change when it costs too much not to.”

Host: A nurse passed, her shoes splashing through puddles, a clipboard pressed tight to her chest. Her face was pale, the weariness of twelve-hour shifts etched like faint scars across her expression. Behind her, the muffled cry of a newborn rose, brief and sacred, before being swallowed by the hum of the hospital’s fluorescent heart.

Jeeny: “And that’s exactly the problem, Jack. We’ve turned care into currency. We only invest in women’s health when there’s a baby involved — when her pain becomes someone else’s future. Before and after that, she’s invisible.”

Jack: “Invisible, or complicated?” He stubbed out his cigarette, his voice low but firm. “You talk about access to care like it’s a switch someone forgot to flip. But the truth is, health systems are built for efficiency, not empathy. You can’t overhaul that with ideals.”

Jeeny: “Then what’s the alternative? Let women keep dying in silence because it’s ‘inefficient’ to save them? Look at the data, Jack. The U.S. has one of the highest maternal mortality rates in the developed world — and Black women die at three times the rate of white women. That’s not inefficiency. That’s neglect — engineered neglect.”

Host: Her voice had a sharpness that cut through the night, but beneath it, there was a tremor, the kind that comes from caring too deeply for too long. Jack looked away, watching the rainwater ripple under the streetlamp.

Jack: “I’m not defending it. I’m just saying the root’s deeper. You can build clinics, fund programs — but until culture changes, nothing holds. Half the world still sees women’s pain as exaggeration. A man complains of chest pain, he’s a patient. A woman complains, she’s ‘hormonal.’ How do you fix that with policy?”

Jeeny: “You start by believing her. That’s where every revolution begins — with listening. Medicine has always listened to men’s bodies and women’s wombs, but never their lives. We treat pregnancy like an isolated event instead of part of a woman’s continuum.”

Host: The air thickened with silence, the kind that fills hallways after bad news. A doctor in a white coat hurried past, eyes hollow, a chart in his hand. The doors swung open briefly, letting out the sound of monitors, beeping, steady — fragile testaments to the edge between survival and loss.

Jack: “You sound like you want to rewrite the whole system — from birth control to birthing rooms.”

Jeeny: “Why not? You can’t heal a wound halfway, Jack. Women’s health isn’t a department; it’s a foundation. We act like caring for her during pregnancy is charity, when it’s survival. Her health before conception determines the child’s chance of life. Her recovery after birth determines the next generation’s stability. It’s all connected — body to body, life to life.”

Jack: “You talk like society owes women eternal care.”

Jeeny: “It does.”

Host: The words hung between them, solid as stone, soft as truth. A gust of wind swept through, carrying the smell of wet concrete and antiseptic. Jack’s jaw tightened.

Jack: “You know, my mother was a nurse,” he said quietly. “Worked in the maternity ward for thirty years. She used to come home with blood on her shoes. Told me once — ‘Jack, birth isn’t a miracle. It’s a battlefield.’”

Jeeny: “She was right.”

Jack: “She also said — ‘No one remembers the soldiers after the war.’”

Jeeny: “That’s exactly what I mean,” Jeeny whispered. “Women are the soldiers, Jack. They go through battle after battle — in body, in silence — and we call it natural.”

Host: The rain began again, light, steady, sliding down the glass doors of the ward. Inside, a mother’s voice was heard — soft, exhausted, singing to a newborn. Jeeny listened, her eyes glistening in the half-light.

Jeeny: “Do you know the tragedy, Jack? We celebrate the birth but ignore the mother who nearly broke bringing it. We post pictures of the baby and forget the woman whose body tore itself to make it happen. We say, ‘She’s fine,’ when she’s actually bleeding inside — not just physically, but emotionally. That’s not care. That’s cultural amnesia.”

Jack: “And yet, Jeeny, not everyone can afford to remember. You can’t tell a country drowning in debt to expand its empathy. Systems require resources.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe empathy should be our greatest resource. Maybe we’ve miscalculated what wealth actually is. Health isn’t a privilege — it’s a human right. And women have been paying interest on that right since history began.”

Host: The rain fell harder now, drumming on the metal awning above them. Jack’s face was wet, though not entirely from the rain. He looked at Jeeny — her coat soaked, her hair clinging to her face, her eyes unwavering.

Jack: “You really think compassion can rebuild a healthcare system?”

Jeeny: “No,” she said. “But it can remind us why we built one in the first place.”

Host: A moment passed — long, tender, raw. Then a nurse stepped outside, lighting a cigarette, nodding briefly to them. Her hands trembled. She looked too young to be this tired.

Jack watched her, then turned back to Jeeny. “You know, maybe Leana Wen was right. Maybe we can’t fix maternal health until we stop treating women’s health as a chapter and start treating it as the whole book.”

Jeeny: “Exactly,” she said softly. “Because the story of women’s health is the story of humanity’s health. One cannot thrive while the other bleeds.”

Host: The rain began to ease, the sky clearing into a faint silver haze. Through the hospital’s window, they could see the silhouette of a mother holding her child — fragile, radiant, infinite.

Jack: “It’s strange,” he murmured, “how the smallest bodies demand the biggest truths.”

Jeeny: “And the greatest strength often comes from the ones who were never given permission to rest.”

Host: The rain stopped completely now. The world felt washed, renewed, as though the night itself had been listening. Jack and Jeeny stood, silent, their breath visible in the cool air, their hearts heavy but aligned.

They walked away from the hospital, their footsteps echoing through the wet pavement. Behind them, the ward lights glowed, like stars in human form — symbols of life, struggle, and the quiet, enduring faith that every heartbeat, if protected, carries the rhythm of the world.