Editor’s note: The following article is an op-ed, and the views expressed are the author’s own. Read more opinions on theGrio.
I’ll never forget the first time I saw my father cry.
It was quick. Just a flash. A single tear ran down his cheek before he turned his back and pretended nothing happened. I was a kid, but even then I knew. Whatever pain he was carrying, he didn’t feel safe enough to show it. Not to me. Not to the world. Maybe not even to himself.
That moment never left me. And as I grew older, I understood exactly why he hid it. Black men are taught early that vulnerability is dangerous. That makes us look weak, soft, exposed. We’re conditioned to believe that silence is strength, that real men keep it moving, that asking for help is something other people do.
But that silence, that armor we wear is suffocating us.
June is Men’s Mental Health Month, and on this last day of the month, I can’t think of a more urgent time to say this out loud. Black men are in a mental health crisis, and we cannot afford to suffer in silence any longer.
According to the American Psychological Association, Black adults are 20 percent more likely to experience serious psychological distress than white adults, yet less likely to receive treatment. A report by the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services Office of Minority Health found that suicide rates among Black men have been rising steadily over the past decade, with Black youth seeing one of the most alarming increases. A 2021 Rutgers University study revealed that Black men are less likely than any other demographic to seek therapy, even when showing signs of clinical depression.
This is not a coincidence. It’s the result of generations of systemic oppression, racial trauma, economic instability, and cultural stigma. It’s the result of a society that too often dehumanizes us, over-polices us, under-employs us, and yet still expects us to bear it all with a…
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