Growing up as a Black girl, I never thought the words ‘anxiety’ or ‘depression’ could apply to me. In fact, I didn’t think these were things experienced by any Black girls or women. The idea of caring for your mental health felt alien to me because it went against the ‘strong Black woman’ stereotype I had so deeply internalised.

I had been taught that Black women were strong. Black girls were strong. I remember talking with my friends and agreeing that experiencing depression and anxiety or going through therapy wasn’t for us, because these things made you ‘weak’. We had seen the women in our community suffer in silence and tackle the most difficult obstacles without ever once complaining about mental struggles. To us, that was resilience, and that was what we looked up to.

My friends and I weren’t alone in these beliefs. Black women have been told that this is what we are supposed to do. We are told to put our own needs and mental health aside in order to uplift others. We’re taught we that have to maintain a strong front, no matter how much it hurts to do so. 

I held onto this mindset until, due to stress from an overwhelming course load at university, I had a breakdown. I never considered therapy as something ‘for me’, until the burden of expectation to succeed made it impossible for me to function.

When I met my therapist, all the stress and pressure I had been facing crashed down around me. That was the day I accepted that I could no longer be a ‘strong Black woman’… and the day I realised that was OK.

This moment gave me time to look back and realise just how many years I had spent forcing myself to keep up the harmful archetype of a strong Black woman. Once I stopped doing that, I felt free.

I wish all Black women could experience this freedom.

The truth is, too many Black women do not know that it’s OK to not be strong; it’s OK to let others carry the load for them. The ‘strong Black woman’ trope, and the pressure to live up to this, harms us all. I know that first-hand: years of holding in my emotions caused my anxiety and depression to worsen. 

It wasn’t until I was 22 that I was diagnosed with anxiety and depression. Many Black women are misdiagnosed or not diagnosed at all, which can lead to our conditions going untreated. This is an issue that starts early, with racism affecting how Black children’s mental health issues are viewed. According to the Child Mind Insititute in the US, Black children are more likely to be diagnosed with behavioural disorders rather than mood and other mental disorders. In the same study, Dr Heather Bernstein notes that Black children are seen as defiant when they refuse to participate or misbehave in class, whereas white children with the same symptoms are diagnosed with depression. There’s a damaging assumption that Black children misbehave and are disobedient by default, rather than dealing with mental health issues that deserve treatment. 

A lack of mental health awareness within our community makes getting a diagnosis and treatment even harder. Somehow, Black communities have been convinced that mental health issues are unique to ‘white people’, and when someone Black is going through a mental health crisis, all too often this is seen as a cause for shame. This view is all the more troubling when you consider that Black women exhibit higher rates of depression than white women. 

What makes things worse is that while being taught to neglect our own health, Black women are encouraged to care for and carry the load of others. Cast your mind back to the Black Lives Matter marches, which saw Black women front and centre when speaking out and putting themselves on the front line, often while navigating trauma. In my experience, Black women have always been expected to fit the role of a protector, speaker and activist. 

Where does our mental wellbeing fit into this? If we’re busy being there for everyone else, who is there for us? If Black women are pushed to be strong – by society at large and our own communities – where’s the space for us to have moments of vulnerability?

To me, the answer lies in sharing our experiences with other Black women, and those who are willing to listen and learn. And more importantly, we need to embrace reaching out and asking for help. Too many of us don’t feel like this is an option, but I’m here to say it is. I’ve been through it and found that help is there; when we’re brave enough to speak out, people do listen. And if we share our stories, we open up space for other Black women to do the same, to seek help and to care for themselves. 

It’s only through doing this that I accepted a simple fact: I do not have to be strong. I’ve learned that refusing to fall into the ‘strong Black woman’ archetype is not a weakness. Taking care of yourself and putting your health first is not weak. 

In a world that tells Black women how we must act, and what makes us acceptable or not, choosing ourselves over expectation is the bravest, strongest thing we can do.

Frame Of Mind is Stylist’s home for all things mental health and the mind. From expert advice on the small changes you can make to improve your wellbeing to first-person essays and features on topics ranging from autism to antidepressants, we’ll be exploring mental health in all its forms. You can check out the series home page to get started.

Images: courtesy of Avery Oliver