Not All Skinfolk Are Kinfolk

I wish I could say that all communities of color support one another—lifting each other up, not seeing each other as competition. But that wouldn’t be the truth. Many of us are simply trying to survive, fighting for our voices to be heard, for a chance to thrive in spaces that weren’t built for us.

So why bring this up?

Recently, another community of birthworkers launched a program that was deeply inspired by our life’s work. Yes—our work. They sat with us on multiple occasions, discouraged us from continuing, and actively kept our voices out of the very spaces they now occupy. At every meeting where we presented our vision, the founder of this program was present. We extended our hands in collaboration. They shut the door in our faces. It wasn’t until others began to validate our work that they reached back out.

After their dismissiveness, the unnecessary pushback, the rudeness—we left them on read.

Now, they are being uplifted. And while I won’t name names—because that’s not the point—I will name what it feels like: heartbreaking and discouraging. To watch someone gather our data over time, idea by idea, and get compensated for work that originated from us. From the very people they silenced. From the very spaces they denied us access to—repeatedly.

I was enraged. A natural, human response.

Sure, I could’ve blasted them. Called them out. Fought back publicly. But I’ve learned that anything built on survival energy eventually burns out. And if there’s one thing I trust, it’s that karma always brings things to light—one way or another. Some battles are best left to the ancestors.

And that brings me to this:

Competition among communities of color is a direct result of colonial oppression. Any leader who steals from another out of fear is not a leader—they are a threat. They have deep unlearning to do, and their actions put our people at risk.

In that moment, I had two choices: create chaos and call them out—despite their backing from major movements and publications—or sit and observe. I chose the latter. Why? Because I knew that anything built from fear and scarcity is not sustainable. And while our life’s work was stolen, it cannot be replicated.

We’re already fighting to dismantle whiteness in the birthwork world. We’re constantly pushing back against the cultural appropriation and exploitation of our practices—white-led trainings offering belly binding, steaming, hip closing—without a single ounce of cultural understanding. They mimic the rituals but miss the soul. The heart. The lineage.

And now this. Watching our own people mimic and monetize our sacred work—it cuts deep. Especially when that work was born out of dreams to support our families, to create generational wealth, to heal. And yet, we don’t stop. Maybe it’s the Capricorn in me—when it comes to my coin and my family, I don’t play.

But here’s what I want to say loud and clear:
If doulas of color are constantly watching our own backs, fearing our primxs instead of supporting them, how will we ever build anything sustainable?

I am not your competition. You are not mine.

We cannot teach decolonial and culturally rooted care while being afraid of someone else’s success. We cannot steal, manipulate, lie, and call it community. That is not safety. That is harm. That is colonization wearing a different mask.

I remember texting my best friend, tears streaming, voice shaking:
“What’s the point if we’re fighting our own? We already deal with this from white doulas. Why would one of our own make it even harder?”

And after I cried, screamed, cursed her name—I remembered something powerful:
The show must go on. Not out of competition. Out of courage.

If someone sees me as a threat and chooses to imitate me, just know—
imitation is a form of flattery, and a bruja always gets the last laugh.

Con amor,
JM