Black men suffer from depression, too. We just don’t talk about it nearly as much as we should.
Black men take on the same battles that tens of millions of Americans wrestle with everyday. The only difference is that most of us suffer in silence.
Most of us have been told things (often by other Black people) such as “Black people don’t go to therapy” or “depression is for white people.” Neither of these things is remotely true—depression doesn’t discriminate. In fact, according to Mental Health America, approximately 7 million Black Americans are suffering from depression at this very moment.
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I’m one of them, and have been battling depression most of my life.
From an early age I knew there was something different about me. Whether it was the undiagnosed panic attacks that forced me to sit in my school’s hallway with my head between my legs as a small child or the night terrors that made me terrified to fall asleep, I recognized that I was experiencing things that my friends weren’t.
Like many children struggling with an undiagnosed mental illness, I didn’t know how to explain what I was feeling—or that I couldn’t control it. My teachers didn’t appreciate my need to sit in the hallway until the sensory overload was over, so I was labeled “problematic” and repeatedly reprimanded in front of my classmates.
In my mind, I was a terrible child for causing trouble while my mother—who was going to law school while simultaneously trying to put me through private school—did the best she could. It broke my heart to see her so desperate to help me, even though she couldn’t help what she didn’t yet understand.
My mother instilled in me at an early age that I was a Black boy in an unsympathetic white world (as many Black mothers do for their sons). Empathy would rarely be on the menu. So I needed to be tough, to be stoic, to never let my guard down. I couldn’t let my classmates, my friends, or even the adults around me see a hint of vulnerability.
It was then that I first learned how lonely it can be to suffer in silence.
Black men leave the house every day not knowing whether they will make it home, for myriad reasons. Black men are often viewed as threatening, aggressive, and sometimes less than human—depending on where we live and who we interact with. Black men carry around trauma every day, and that trauma is often compartmentalized or suppressed until the proverbial balloon fills up and pops.
So I did what most Black males do when grappling with mental health challenges, I stopped talking about it. I stopped leaving the classroom. I kept it all inside. Some days it worked and some days it didn’t, but over time the frequency of my attacks appeared to dissipate. I wondered whether I had actually managed to will my suffering away, by merely refusing to acknowledge it.
Once I got to college I realized that, no, I hadn’t “beaten” depression.
Midway through my freshman year I began suffering from mood swings. Some days my roommates had to force me to leave our apartment, which had begun to resemble a dark cave, while other days I was the life of the party, feeling on top of the world. Every day was a roll of the dice as to how I would feel emotionally.
But just as I had for most of my life, I tucked my emotions away and tried to distract myself. As my depression worsened, I didn’t have anyone to lean on (or at least wouldn’t allow myself the option). There was the occasional obligatory check-in from my parents, or momentary concern when I ignored most of their calls—but if I’m being objectively honest, we had been conditioned to not discuss our emotions, which was a behavioral pattern that I was all too comfortable perpetuating.
“Everybody gets sad occasionally,” I told myself. And so, everyday I put a smile on my face and added some charm to my voice, just so that I could convince myself and everyone around me that I was ok. But this wasn't just garden variety sadness—this was severe and dangerous.
I wasn't ok. Not even close.
My low moods led me to sleep for days, snap at my friends, and make experiencing joy all but impossible. Trying to maintain some semblance of normality, so that I didn’t feel so broken, drove me to exhaustion.
On my 20th birthday, I wrestled with the notion of taking my own life. I've never spoken those words aloud until now. (This will shock even the people closest to me, for which I’m sorry—but it’s true.) The next morning, I rationalized it all away by telling my roommates it was just a bad night of partying, but deep down I knew that I had gotten dangerously close to the line.
Once the worst had passed, I felt weak and embarrassed. I tried to numb the pain. No one could know about this. And I promised myself I wouldn’t allow myself to sink so deeply into the emotional abyss again. I had to find a new way to cope.
As I grew into adulthood, I got better at “managing” my depression, but I still wasn’t ready to ask for help. This is like trying to fix a car if you’re not a mechanic. You’ll have better results working with a pro.
But even through all this lonesome, inward despondence, I grew into what would appear by most measures to be a successful young adult. I had a national political column, I regularly appeared on television, and I passed the New York Bar. Not bad for a kid who could barely sit in class. But before I could enjoy the fruits of my labor, the lows of depression came back with a vengeance.
The pain become so all-encompassing that in my late twenties I finally decided it was time to see a therapist. I needed to talk. I needed to understand myself. I needed to ensure that what happened in college never happened again.
When I told a close family member that I was in therapy, he was incredulous: “What do you need to go to a therapist for?” The more I tried to explain it, the less he appeared to understand. I didn’t fare much better when I broached the topic with a second family member. He simply replied: “Just pray on it. You don’t need that stuff.”
I opened up, made myself vulnerable, and was dismissed like a door-to-door salesman by people in my own family and community. It was mortifying. I felt unheard. The loneliness was overwhelming. So I eventually stopped going.
The idea that we should struggle with depression without any of the proper tools or resources isn’t just wrongheaded, it’s inhumane. Black people absolutely “need that stuff,” and I was about to find out exactly why.
In late October 2020, while on a work trip in Florida, my life was upended—and with it, my emotional stability.
My phone rang. It was 5 a.m., a time when it’s very rare you’re about to hear good news. It was my grandmother, telling me I needed to come home. My grandfather didn’t have much time left. To this day it feels like an out of body experience, so much did I worship my grandfather.
And so began the worst two weeks of my life.
My grandfather’s death brought with it a level of sadness that enveloped me whole. Publicly, I held it together for my family (and if I’m being honest, for myself). Privately, I was obliterated inside.
After the funeral, I rarely left my apartment, almost never saw friends or family, and wasn’t likely to answer the phone. This went on for months.
This was the psychological equivalent of drowning, without a life preserver, unable to find my way out of the current. I didn’t want my family or my friends to know how bad my lows had gotten. I didn’t even want to admit to myself that I no longer was able to just push the pain away.
So in the middle of the night, after accepting that not only was I not getting better, but in fact I was getting worse, I finally sat down at my computer and began searching for a Black therapist—a personal preference, as I felt more comfortable opening up to someone who could relate to my life experience and understand the nuances of being Black in America.
This time around, therapy was much more effective. It afforded me another chance at a happy life. It wasn’t easy, though. Therapy can be frustrating as hell just as often as it can be illuminating. But I learned healthier ways to cope, and it forced me to address the root causes of my suffering.
Unpacking my abandonment issues and feelings of inadequacy was no walk in the park, but it was a down payment for future happiness. If it didn’t provide “the answers,” it at least helped me understand what were “the questions”—and to identify and isolate the lies I was being told by the villain of depression.
And yet, even now, the prospect of going public with my depression and admitting that I’m one of those 7 million Black Americans is terrifying.
Did I just set my career on fire? What will my friends think? What will my coworkers think? What will they say behind my back?
I won’t pretend that it doesn’t make me want to shrink away and hide. But I can’t. Too many people are going through exactly what I went through. And being blessed enough to have survived, I feel called to use the modest platform I have to speak up and share my story. There’s no glory in suffering in silence.
As a culture, Black people need to do better communicating about mental health. That means empathizing with (and not shaming) other Black people who admit they’re struggling and need support. It means promoting the value of mental health treatment and the virtue of engaging with therapists, so that we each may learn healthy coping mechanisms.
The idea that therapy makes you “sensitive” or “weak” is completely backwards. If anything, it’s a sign of becoming a well-adjusted adult. Everyone could stand to have someone to talk to—we all suffer, we all have doubts. Friends and family are, too often, not enough. Mental health professionals, like all health care professionals, are equipped with tools and training that lay people simply don’t possess.
We don’t shame people when they get cancer, so why should we treat depression as a failure?
Praying the pain away or “being a man” or being “proud” isn’t a treatment plan, it’s emotional malpractice. It’s time to break the cycle. We can show the next generation of young Black men (and women) that addressing your mental health isn’t weakness, it’s strength and maturity.
Going to therapy didn’t magically cure me overnight. There is no silver bullet. But what I’ve learned is that no one can take on life all by themselves. We’re all still a work in progress. I have good days and tougher days, but I no longer worry about what’s coming next. I'm still learning ways to better communicate and not compartmentalize my pain, but most importantly, I’m learning healthy ways to cope and deal with life’s challenges head on. At the end of the day, the goal is progress, not perfection. No one is perfect.
If you’re struggling with your mental health, I want you to know that you’re not weak, you’re not unlovable, and you’re not alone. You’re a warrior who fights a battle every day that few ever see. I see you. I’ve been where you are. I asked for help and so can you. Don’t just do it for yourself, do it for the people you love and who love you back. You are worth saving.
It’s time to end the stigma: Black men suffer from depression, too. But that’s not the end of the story.
Black men go to therapy, too.
