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I first had suicidal thoughts when I was 8 years old due to bullying at school. I repressed these feelings but wanted to kill myself until I was 14 because I continued to be bullied and had imposter syndrome. I would hurt myself and pull out my hair to ease the pain, but my mother found out and told me, “Only white people act like that.”

I pretended to be OK with my family because they also told me, “You’re a young black girl who’s going to end up in child services because the system is racist against people like us.” When my middle, elementary, and high school approached me about therapy, my family refused. A meeting was set up with my grandmother and mother to talk about mental health options, but they refused. When I got home, I was yelled at and berated by my family for “giving the school the impression that something was damn wrong at home.”

Even when I was briefly assigned to a therapist at a health center when I was 14, the therapist, a black woman, told me, “You’re a black girl. They’re going to lock you into the system and label you as crazy and aggressive.”

I know more stories like this, and I know there are other Black girls out there, too. Our schools need to know this: We are not as strong as you think. We are only strong because we have been forced to bear the burden of systemic stereotypes, unresolved trauma, and our own emotional needs. That’s why schools need to address the obvious: their lack of mental health support and how that impacts Black girls.

Our problems start at home because our families fear that the school system perpetuates racism through a lack of cultural connections, and schools exacerbate this fear through budget cuts to mental health services and by criminalizing black girls. As a result, the stereotype of the strong black woman is forced upon us from a young age. Instead of making us feel empowered, this only leads to unique, internalized pain, depression, and anxiety.

As early as age two, your black daughter is often treated as if she were five. At age ten, she’s treated as if she were 15. By the time we’re even aware of our own existence, the world has already treated us as adults. This means that society views black girls as less innocent compared to their white peers. People often believe that black girls ages five to 14 need less care, protection, support, and comfort than white girls of the same age. Once we learn to go to the bathroom on our own, parents and authority figures believe we’re independent enough to manage our own emotions. Because we’re expected to know better—by parents, teachers, and even the justice system—we’re also more likely to be punished more harshly: A whopping 37.2% of black girls are arrested at school, compared to 30.2% of white girls.

Black people are generally less likely to seek help from professionals than white people, and that’s true for teenagers too. Black communities also have fewer resources. And historically, there’s a Eurocentric influence on therapy. As a result, many Black families feel like therapy isn’t for us—and when kids aren’t encouraged to seek treatment by their families, they can develop unhealthy coping mechanisms: issues like cruelty, bullying others, aggression, and emotional dysregulation. NYU conducted a study of 227 Black women and found that depression in them manifests itself as insomnia, irritability, and self-criticism. Irritability is a big factor in the “angry black woman.” Yet society expects them to be strong. No wonder they’re less likely to seek treatment.

Now imagine having to regulate your own emotions and existence and foster your independence to avoid further social and systemic discrimination. This is what happens to Black women who mature early. They mature into the “strong Black woman” stereotype, portraying themselves as strong, independent women, capable of mothering without a father, handling multiple jobs, and taking on caring roles in the community, all without getting angry, crying, or having other strong emotional reactions. The story behind the “strong Black woman” is a long one—every experience a Black woman has stems from a coping mechanism that was required to keep not only herself but her family alive during slavery. However, this burden of strength only causes too many women—possibly some in your family and community—to internalize their pain.

I know firsthand that mental health issues get worse and affect other people if left unaddressed. I lost a friend in fifth grade because her mother was worried I was influencing her with my ideas about suicide and self-harm. Eight years later, my best friend told me that other classmates in elementary school were afraid of me and found my frequent talk about death terrifying. They thought I was a witch. I can understand why they were worried. To counteract bullying and the fear of being seen as weak, I began having aggressive outbursts toward my classmates in fifth grade, sitting under desks to control my emotions, and even threatening classmates who I felt had caused me emotional harm. My coping mechanisms have followed me since then, into my teen years.

In ninth grade, I had an argument with my mom for asking my school in Brooklyn for help. This was during COVID. My mom eventually agreed but began to question me about what was said during the meetings because she was within earshot of the conversations. Returning to school in 10th grade saved me, however. After years of my family denying me help from my elementary, middle, and high school, I finally received help from my high school’s mental health department. I met with two counselors weekly to improve my anger and anxiety management. For the first time, an adult finally understood me without instilling fear of social consequences. Because of the confidentiality of the services, I was able to discuss my problems in a healthy way.

Unfortunately, the office cut back on services just as I was beginning to see improvements. This not only exacerbated my mental health issues, but also those of my classmates who also depended on the office’s help. At some point during the first semester of 12th grade, I collapsed on the stairs because I couldn’t find a doctor.

During the second semester of 12th grade, I finally got the help I needed from counselors at my school. Whether I wanted to gossip and vent or have emotional outbursts, I had a community of counselors who supported me and knew how hard it is to be a Black teenage girl. My school noticed this and gave me an award for advocating for my mental wellbeing and persevering in it—even when the odds were against me.

Unfortunately, this is not the case for many black girls in New York City and across America.

So here’s what needs to be done: Given the deep-rooted fear African American families have about trusting the health care system, Black girls can benefit from counselors who incorporate racial socialization into trauma-focused cognitive behavioral therapy. This means using counseling and providers who focus on African American cultures, attitudes and values, and cultural competency to help Black girls navigate the discrimination and historical trauma we continue to endure as a community.

For schools to improve their mental health services, they must recognize how Black girls are treated and how they experience the world. Schools must implement racially socialized mental health services by hiring staff who share the culture of their students or are willing to understand a student’s background. Black girls are far behind in mental health care in their schools, and the Black community must catch up. Our community must work together to break down mental health barriers that prevent its members from seeking help. It is critical that educational institutions support efforts to break down harmful stereotypes imposed on young Black girls by their families and schools.

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