Author
We must learn there is more to mental health than being diagnosed with a mental health
condition but simply being mentally healthy. Growing up, I didn’t have the language for
what I was feeling. My household, like many Black homes, leaned on faith to carry us
through pain, but rarely named the pain out loud. Mental health wasn’t something we
talked about, not seriously. If it came up at school, it was only in the context of suicide
prevention posters or quick units in health class. Never anything deeper. Nothing that felt
like it applied to me. Both of my parents are veterans, and while their service left visible
and invisible wounds, neither ever had access to the kind of mental health support they
truly needed. Diagnoses were ignored, suppressed, or prayed away. That silence became
part of our everyday life, part of mine. It wasn’t until I went through my own struggles that
I began to ask questions, do research, and eventually begin my own recovery journey. And
I’m not alone.
Mental health has long been a complex and scarce topic in BIPOC communities, shaped by
intergenerational trauma, cultural stigmas, and systemic inequities. Historically, mental
health conditions were often seen as a weakness or moral failing, with many BIPOC
individuals taught to suffer in silence due to fear of being misunderstood, judged, or
further marginalized. In “Sticks and Stones May Break Bones, But Racism Breaks Spirits,”
Archibald et al. (2023) link racial discrimination directly to psychological harm in BIPOC
adolescents, exposing how external prejudice compounds internal distress. Meanwhile,
Springfield’s meta-analysis on stigma reduction (2023) reveals that traditional anti-stigma
interventions often fall short for BIPOC populations, as they rarely account for
intersectionality. Media portrayals have played a double-edged role; as To et al. (2023)
note in “Tearing It All Down?”, BIPOC young adults often feel misrepresented or
underrepresented, leading them to either reject dominant media narratives or seek out
alternative voices that resonate with their lived realities.
Yet, progress is happening. Across the country, many BIPOC youth are beginning to
challenge the norms we were raised with. We’re creating space to talk openly and
honestly about what mental health actually looks like in our communities. But we’re also
learning that it’s not just about personal healing; it’s about confronting the external forces
that weigh us down. The book “Mental Health Considerationsfor Black, Indigenous, and
People of Color” (2021) points to an evolution: increased advocacy, the rise of BIPOC
mental health professionals, and grassroots efforts tailored to unique cultural needs.
Today’s mental health conversation in BIPOC spaces is not just about healing the
individual, but also about dismantling oppressive systems that perpetuate harm. The path
forward lies in unlearning internalized stigma, investing in culturally grounded care, and
amplifying authentic BIPOC voices across media and institutions. These shifts signify not
only resilience, but a collective rewriting of what mental wellness means across
generations and cultures.
Research shows that racism, discrimination, and cultural invisibility aren’t just stressors,
they’re health hazards. The emotional weight of being judged, misunderstood, or targeted
doesn’t just fade; it builds. And for many of us, it starts early. Even well-meaning mental
health campaigns can miss the mark. The traditional stigma-reduction strategies often
don’t work for BIPOC populations because they ignore the layered realities we live in
where race, culture, and mental wellness intersect in complicated ways. And when we
don’t see ourselves in media portrayals or worse, we see distorted, stereotypical versions
of ourselves. It’s no wonder we turn away from those conversations. More BIPOC
therapists and mental health advocates are rising, and grassroots programs are beginning
to reflect the nuance and care we’ve always needed. At organizations like NAMI Metro
Suburban, where I now work in the education department, I see firsthand how powerful it
can be to create a space where people feel seen, heard, and supported, not judged.
The truth is, I’m still on my recovery journey. I’m still learning. Still figuring out what
healing looks like for me. But I’m learning that talking and sharing matters. Reclaiming our
narratives and making space for messy, complex emotions is a form of resistance. A form
of self-love. So, here’s my call to anyone reading this: Don’t wait for permission to talk
about what’s hurting you. Your story matters. Your healing matters. Seek out spaces
where you don’t have to explain your identity just to be believed. And if you can’t find
those spaces don’t be afraid to be the first, know that others like you are building them
right now on campuses, in community centers, on social media, in everyday conversations.
Mental wellness in BIPOC communities isn’t just about surviving. It’s about reshaping
what thriving looks like together.
References
To, S. B., Gray, J., Jain, P., Porter, J. H., & Comello, M. L. G. (2023). Advocating, Unlearning,
Tearing It All Down? How BIPOC Young Adults with Mental Health Concerns Perceive
and Engage with the Media. Health Communication, 39(12), 2871–2883.
https://doi.org/10.1080/10410236.2023.2290882
Springfield, J. M. (2023). The efficacy of mental health stigma and discrimination reduction
initiatives among BIPOC: A meta-analysis of outcome studies.
Archibald, C., Takamasa, E. J., Fraser, A. M., Metcalf, M. W., Rogers, A. A., & Bean, R. A.
(2024). Sticks and Stones May Break Bones, But Racism Breaks Spirits: Discrimination and
BIPOC Adolescent Mental Health. Youth & Society, 57(2), 304-329.
https://doi.org/10.1177/0044118X241266887 (Original work published 2025)
Hingwe, Swapna (2021). Mental health considerations for Black, Indigenous, and People
of Color: Trends, barriers, and recommendations for collegiate mental health. pp 85-96
