When I was in middle school in St. Louis, another cheer mom told my mother that therapy was “white people shit.” My mom, a social worker who has gone to therapy for most of my life, was furious, and I understood why. I grew up seeing how much healing can happen when Black families talk honestly about mental health. But I also saw the opposite: the shame, dismissal and silence that keep so many in my community from getting help. 

That stigma isn’t just annoying — it’s dangerous.  

The attitude that therapy is unnecessary, embarrassing or “not for us” is still common in Black communities, and research backs it up. The National Alliance on Mental Illness reports that structural racism, lack of access and cultural stigma all play a role in keeping Black Americans out of treatment, and the CDC reports between 2018 and 2023 that the suicide rate for Black youth has increased by 25.5%. 

I saw those barriers everywhere growing up: at school, in my family and even in the way kids policed each other’s emotions. Mental health stigma persists in Black communities, but openness, empathy and conversation can break the cycle. What I’ve learned is this: stigma around mental health in Black communities isn’t just cultural — it’s generational, and it keeps too many of us suffering in silence. 

Looking back at middle school, I remember how my classmates were teased. People would say things like, “You wanna be emo so bad.” When a girl cried, some kids would cackle, and that would become the inside joke for the next week. 

There was one girl I’ll always remember. She was one of the tougher girls who often hung out with the boys, and they treated her like one of them. She once told me that I smiled too much and that it wasn’t cute.  

One day, she walked in with a little blue teddy bear wearing a Crayola sweater. The boys she called her friends took it from her and played monkey in the middle while she begged them to stop. In seconds, one of the toughest girls I knew broke down crying. Later in the hallway, she told me, “no one’s ever talked to me like this before.” It was the first time I realized how much pressure Black kids feel to hide softness. Not too long after, I had other classmates come to me after every conversation I had sworn not to tell.  

She acted tough because that’s what people expected from her. It seemed like it was the only way she felt she could be. But there is a bigger issue we need to discuss: the idea that struggling with mental health means you are weak. 

I have an aunt who is seven years older than me. When we were kids, she achieved a lot: she won many awards in school, attended special dinners and took part in piano and dance. However, underneath her happy and successful image, she struggled with feelings of anxiety and depression. As we got older, she shared how these feelings sometimes took over her life. Despite this, she often brushed them aside by reminding herself that she had reasons to be happy: she was doing well in school, had a home and was better off than many girls her age. (For example, she wasn’t pregnant and didn’t have a bad boyfriend.)  

When I began to open up about my own mental health, we found comfort in one another. She pushed my grandparents for help, and I’ll never forget how her face lit up when she found a therapist she really liked. She’s been thriving ever since. 

Communication is essential. I appreciate that my mother has been open and clear with me about getting the help I needed. There were times when she fell into a mindset she dislikes. I remember in my senior year of high school, I became depressed and overwhelmed. When I told my mother I needed to take a mental health day, she said something like, “suck it up, welcome to the real world!” I was really upset. Was she right? I often feared that, and I felt ashamed of discussing my mental health with extended family. Instead of letting these feelings eat at me, I told my mother, “I feel like you weren’t listening to me.” This led to a conversation about how she could better support me. Because of this openness, we have grown closer and learned how to help each other. I have also found ways to support my loved ones. 

We must allow vulnerability in our homes, our schools and our community. If we don’t allow open, honest conversations on our well-being, we risk losing those who matter. It’s time to push back against the stigma by talking openly. There is no weakness with vulnerability, but weakness in forcing silence.  

Copy edited by Matt Brady