Mom & Me MD: Concierge Newborn & Postpartum Care

Mom & Me MD: Concierge Newborn & Postpartum Care Board-certified Pediatrician. In-home/virtual newborn & postpartum care. Life coach for Nicu moms.

It was an urgent cesarean.Late decelerations.Variables.The kind of call that shifts the energy in a room instantly.When ...
03/06/2026

It was an urgent cesarean.

Late decelerations.
Variables.

The kind of call that shifts the energy in a room instantly.

When I walked into the OR, mom was already on the table — blinking back tears, breathing shallow, visibly afraid.

So before I did anything else, I introduced myself and asked one question:
“Are you scared?”

She nodded.

I told her the truth.
“We’re here with you.”

I explained what we knew:
Her baby had been moving well.
The OB wasn’t worried in that moment.
Movement was a good sign.

Then I asked his name.
And just like that, the room softened.

She told me her biggest fear wasn’t the surgery.
It was losing the golden hour she had imagined.

Skin-to-skin.
The first quiet moments.
The beginning she had pictured.

So I stepped aside and spoke with the OB.
I asked if we could prioritize skin-to-skin if baby was stable.
He immediately said yes.

And when Baby J was born, we stabilized him, talked mom through every step at the warmer…

…and then placed him on her chest.

In the middle of the monitors.
The bright OR lights.
The urgency of the moment.

There they were.

Dad took pictures.
I took pictures.
Mom smiled through tears.

Then she whispered something to her baby that stopped me.
“I’m sorry… I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

That’s when language matters most.

So I told her:
“You didn’t do anything wrong.
You didn’t cause this.
You did your best — and he’s here. You’re here.
That’s how we move forward.”

She laughed when I joked that if anyone needed to explain themselves, it was Baby J for all that movement in there.

But the message landed.

Motherhood didn’t begin in guilt.
It began in connection.

This is The Unwritten Practice™.

Not just changing outcomes.
But protecting meaning.

Not just moving quickly.
But humanizing care.

Not grand gestures.
But small, intentional moments that help families reclaim what matters when plans change.

Clinical excellence is expected.

But presence.
Advocacy.
Language.

That’s where trust is built.
And that night, it mattered.





Individually, the findings were reassuring.Stacked together, they felt overwhelming.A first-time mom.Her first 48 hours....
03/05/2026

Individually, the findings were reassuring.
Stacked together, they felt overwhelming.

A first-time mom.
Her first 48 hours.

IVF pregnancy. A long road to get here. A history of anxiety. Both parents hopeful — but understandably on edge.

Her baby boy was stable.

But the information started stacking.

A sacral dimple on exam.
Jaundice the next morning.
A hearing screen that didn’t pass.

Each one common.
Each one usually reassuring.

But together?

They landed heavy.

I watched her nervous system shift in real time.

“Is he okay?”
“Did I do something wrong?”
“I just wanted one thing to go smoothly.”

Nothing catastrophic had happened medically.

But emotionally, everything felt fragile.

So I slowed the moment down.

Because the first 48 hours after birth are not just medical.

They are neurological.
Hormonal.
Psychological.

And small pieces of information can suddenly feel very big.

Not because parents are overreacting.

But because this may be their first encounter with something we’ve seen hundreds of times.

What is routine for us
can feel life-altering for them.

The first 48 hours aren’t just about stabilizing a newborn.

They’re about stabilizing a family.

The First 48 shapes trust.
And trust shapes everything that follows in the Unwritten Practice™.





This week wasn’t a “day in the life.”It was a week in the weight of it.I didn’t just manage:• prematurity• infection• RS...
03/01/2026

This week wasn’t a “day in the life.”

It was a week in the weight of it.

I didn’t just manage:

• prematurity
• infection
• RSV
• NAS
• early discharges
• extended stays

I managed:

• hope
• disappointment
• fear
• breastfeeding challenges
• babies who stayed
• babies who went home
• mothers questioning themselves
• fathers holding it together
• the first 48 hours that shape everything

Some babies went home in 24 hours.
Some were here when I arrived — and will still be here when I leave.

I told a family their baby has to stay in the NICU.

I held a mother grieving the breastfeeding journey she imagined.

I steadied another who broke down — overwhelmed by feeding, caring, and surviving the first 48 hours… and everything that comes after.

I smiled in public.
I cried at my hotel in private.
I said, “I’m sorry you’re going through this.”

And then —

A mom whom I connected with weeks ago sent me a video of her baby smiling and cooing.

She didn’t know I needed that.

But I did.

This isn’t what I thought medicine would be when I signed up.

It’s heavier.
It’s holier.
It’s more human than I ever imagined.

And I know now —

I was created for it.

This is the work.

This is the part of medicine you don’t see in a highlight reel.

But it’s the part that matters most.💜

Valentine’s Day… NICU edition 💗Roses are red.Violets are blue.If you’ve ever celebrated a 20-gram weight gain like it wa...
02/13/2026

Valentine’s Day… NICU edition 💗

Roses are red.
Violets are blue.
If you’ve ever celebrated a 20-gram weight gain like it was a first birthday… this one’s for you.❤️

The NICU turns you into someone who knows oxygen settings before baby shoes.

Who can silence a monitor like a pro.
Who washes their hands ten times before whispering, “I love you.”

And when discharge day finally comes?
It’s exciting.
It’s anxious.
It’s “wait… are we really doing this?” all at once.😩🥰

That’s the part people don’t talk about enough —
Going home isn’t the end of the journey.
It’s the next chapter.⏭️

Tiny steps.
One breath.
One feed.
One milestone at a time.

If you’re a NICU parent, which slide felt the most real? Drop the number below 👇🏽

what else would you add?

And if you know a NICU family, send this to them. Let them feel seen today.💜💚

Inspired by my pediatric colleague and fellow NICU mama 🤍






The baby was stable.The plan was appropriate.From a medical standpoint, everything was going well.And yet—the questions ...
02/09/2026

The baby was stable.
The plan was appropriate.
From a medical standpoint, everything was going well.

And yet—the questions felt out of place.

“Can the baby come to the room?”
“When will the circumcision be done?”

Early in my career, I might have focused on the disconnect.
Didn’t we explain the plan clearly enough?

But with time, I learned something important:

These weren’t misunderstanding questions.
They were grief questions.

When a baby is admitted to the NICU, families aren’t just adjusting to new information—they’re mourning the birth they imagined.

Skin-to-skin.
A baby in the room.
Familiar milestones.

Instead, they’re met with monitors, machines, and uncertainty—often before they’ve had time to name what they’ve lost.

So I stopped answering only the question in front of me.
And started acknowledging what hadn’t been said.

“I know this isn’t how you imagined meeting your baby—and it’s okay to grieve that. When your baby is stronger, we’ll move toward the moments you’re hoping for.”

The plan didn’t change.
But the trust did.

This moment didn’t require a new protocol.
It required awareness, language, and psychological safety.

We train extensively for medical instability.
But we rarely train for the emotional disorientation that comes when life doesn’t unfold as planned.

This is the part of care that lives between the words.

And it’s the part I’m committed to teaching—and protecting.

The baby was stable.The plan was appropriate.From a medical standpoint, everything was going well.And yet—the questions ...
02/09/2026

The baby was stable.
The plan was appropriate.
From a medical standpoint, everything was going well.

And yet—the questions felt out of place.

“Can the baby come to the room?”
“When will the circumcision be done?”

Early in my career, I might have focused on the disconnect.
Didn’t we explain the plan clearly enough?

But with time, I learned something important:

These weren’t misunderstanding questions.
They were grief questions.

When a baby is admitted to the NICU, families aren’t just adjusting to new information—they’re mourning the birth they imagined.
Skin-to-skin.
A baby in the room.
Familiar milestones.

Instead, they’re met with monitors, machines, and uncertainty—often before they’ve had time to name what they’ve lost.

So I stopped answering only the question in front of me.
And started acknowledging what hadn’t been said.

“I know this isn’t how you imagined meeting your baby—and it’s okay to grieve that. When your baby is stronger, we’ll move toward the moments you’re hoping for.”

The plan didn’t change.
But the trust did.

This moment didn’t require a new protocol.
It required awareness, language, and psychological safety.

We train extensively for medical instability.
But we rarely train for the emotional disorientation that comes when life doesn’t unfold as planned.

This is the part of care that lives between the words.
And it’s the part I’m committed to teaching—and protecting.

Today, on National Black Women Physicians Day, I’m taking a moment to pause.I am honored to be a Black physician.And esp...
02/08/2026

Today, on National Black Women Physicians Day, I’m taking a moment to pause.

I am honored to be a Black physician.
And especially honored to be a Black woman physician.

I am the first physician in my immediate family—a privilege I do not take lightly.

Every step into medicine has carried both opportunity and responsibility.

Responsibility to understand what is at stake when families place their trust in me.
Responsibility to lead with humility, not assumption.
Responsibility to remember that access, understanding, and safety are not experienced equally by everyone.

The experiences that shaped me—personally and professionally—have deepened my compassion, sharpened my awareness, expanded my curiosity, and anchored me in humanism in the care I provide.

I know what it means to be seen.
And I know what it means when people are not.

That is why connection matters to me.
Why language matters.
Why presence matters.

I don’t take this white coat, this calling, or this privilege lightly.

I was asked to speak with a family who had a premature baby, and someone mentioned, almost in passing, that he was a “li...
02/08/2026

I was asked to speak with a family who had a premature baby, and someone mentioned, almost in passing, that he was a “little white boy.”

“Sure,” I said.

But the implication wasn’t lost on me.

The “wimpy white boy” narrative had surfaced—again.

I first heard that phrase as a fellow.
As a Black woman physician, I knew I wasn’t going to repeat it—but I did ask why it was being said.

“Well… white preemie males often need oxygen.”

It was said casually. Like it was just something everyone knows.

I’ve also seen the narrative flip.

When a preemie is a Black girl, I’ve watched relief wash over the room.
“They’re feisty,” someone once said.

At the time, I didn’t fully understand what I do now:

Labels shape how we prepare.
Bias shapes how we respond.

Those we label as “strong,” we tend to worry about less.
Those we label as “fragile,” we rush to protect.

But here’s the part that matters:

The white male preemie I was asked to consult on?
He did not need any respiratory support.

What he did need was what every preemie needs:
• close temperature monitoring
• glucose checks
• feeding support
• thoughtful education for his family
• a team prepared for the full spectrum of possibility

Because all preemies are vulnerable—regardless of race or gender.

And I’ll add this, gently:

I don’t believe bias is 100% preventable.
The goal isn’t to be “bias-free.” The goal is to be impact-aware—to notice how our assumptions shape our attention, our urgency, and sometimes our care.

So I try to practice this every day:
Meet the baby in front of me.
Assess clinically.
Prepare fully—every time.

If you’re in healthcare, here’s a reflection question worth sitting with:
What assumptions do you notice yourself making quickly—and how might they be shaping the care you deliver?

I love the work that I do.I love caring for NICU families—walking with them through some of their hardest and holiest mo...
02/03/2026

I love the work that I do.
I love caring for NICU families—walking with them through some of their hardest and holiest moments.
I love traveling to different hospitals, meeting new teams, and showing up where I’m needed.

From the bedside… to the isolette… to building Tiny Steps NICU Grad Care—this work is deeply personal and purpose-filled for me. 💗🩺

Wheels up. ✈️
Still rooted in compassion.
Always anchored in hope. 💚

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Fayetteville, GA
30214

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