Track 07: Remember Who You Are

A reflection on Black Gay Men’s Mental Health

Trigger Warning:

This post contains discussions of depression, suicide, and suicidal ideation. Please take care of yourself while reading. If you are in crisis, you can call or text the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline at 988.

In 2020, I tried to end it all.

I’ve always been transparent about that day. I’ve spoken on it. I reimagined it on my album. I’ve even posted about it publicly, not for attention, but because I believe in my testimony being a light for others going through similar storms. August of 2020 was already heavy. We were in the thick of a pandemic. People were dying from COVID and at the hands of the police. Finances were tight. The air was tense with police brutality and anti-Blackness. And as a community organizer, I was constantly in the storm, trying to create change while quietly falling apart inside.

But what I don’t talk about often is what tipped me over the edge that day.

Hubby and I had a disagreement. We’re both Type A, two strong minds, and two strong hearts. And when things get heated, it’s easy for emotion to lead the way and say things that sting. It wasn’t the argument by itself that broke me. It was the argument on top of everything else I’d already been carrying. The depression. The suicidal ideation that comes and goes with the medications. The pressure to be strong, hold it all down, and never crumble. It caught up to me.

And I erupted.

I started telling myself that my husband and mom would be better off without me. That maybe I was just a burden. I left the house that day with every intention of ending my life. I was ready to step into traffic, to disappear. But in the midst of all the tension between us, my husband saw me. He felt something was off and chased after me, literally saving my life.

The interlude I created for Testimony, “Remember Who You Are,” is my way of honoring that moment. There was no divine voice from the sky. It was my husband’s love, his presence, his refusal to let me go. He didn’t just stop me. He reminded me I was worth saving.

After that, I did some soul searching. I had to start living for me, not just to make my husband proud, or to not disappoint my parents, or to show up for the community. But for me. I began therapy. Some of it helped. I unpacked childhood trauma, abandonment issues, and self-worth struggles. But I kept bumping into walls.

I didn’t feel comfortable talking about racism or the weight of the political climate with my white therapists. And with my Black male therapist, I didn’t feel safe bringing up my gay marriage or struggles. There was always a hesitation or something holding me back.

Right before my father passed, I found a therapist I truly connected with that worked at my agency. She helped me prepare emotionally for the loss of my dad. I finally felt safe talking about almost everything. But soon after he passed, she left the agency. And since then, I haven’t found another therapist.

That’s the thing no one talks about. How hard it is to find a space that sees all of you. Not just the depressed version. Not just the high-functioning achiever. But the Black, gay, vulnerable, whole version. I’m still looking.

And I know I’m not the only one.

According to the CDC, suicide is a leading cause of death for Black men between the ages of 15 and 34. Studies also show that we are less likely to receive mental health care, and when we do, the care we receive is often not culturally competent or affirming. Depression, anxiety, PTSD, it’s all there in the mix of it all. But the help? The safe space? That’s harder to come by.

And that’s just the starting line.

Now add being gay or bi. Add being in a world where your sexuality is weaponized in your church, your fraternity, in your community, and fetishized by the very people who claim to celebrate Pride. Add years of hiding, shrinking, being talked about in third person when you’re right there in the room at the barbershop. Add having to code-switch not just to survive in white spaces, but to stay physically safe around your own people.

It’s like carrying a weight you can never set down. Like trying to run a race while holding your breath.

Imagine waking up with depression, but having to put on your “strong Black man” armor before you leave the house. Imagine that same weight being doubled because if you let your guard down too much, you might be called soft or worse.

Now imagine joining a mental health group that was built for Black men, thinking you’ll finally be understood, and then you see someone that was affirming others speaking down on homosexuality and calling it a mental illness. The energy shifts. You go from being a brother to being a target. A punchline. A problem.

You start to wonder if they care about Black men’s mental health, or just the straight ones.

This is the part where most people check out. It’s too complicated. Too uncomfortable. Too layered. But this is the reality for so many of us. We live at the intersection of two identities that carry their own pain, their own erasure. And when you sit at that intersection long enough, you start to believe maybe there’s no safe place at all but to bottle it up.

But we deserve one. We need one. Not just a table to sit at, but a space that was built with us in mind.

The hard truth is, for many of us, home never really felt like home.

We were raised on Sunday sermons and Southern respectability. Taught to sit up straight, say “yes ma’am,” and never bring shame to the family name. But there’s a silence that creeps in when you’re a little too soft. A little too expressive. A little too much. It starts as jokes and joanin’. Then it turns to distance. Side-eyes. Shame. Love with an asterisk and conditions apply.

And so we learn to perform.

To quiet our voices. To force ourselves to date or be interested in girls we may or may not be attracted to. To overachieve, thinking maybe if we’re smart enough, successful enough, strong enough, we’ll earn the love that should’ve been unconditional from the start.

And still, it’s not enough.

We walk into rooms full of our own people and still feel like strangers. We hear “protect Black men” but wonder if that includes us. We’re told to bring our whole selves, but only if those selves fit a certain mold. Only if we leave the gay stuff at the door. Only if we don’t make anyone uncomfortable.

And when we finally escape to the LGBTQ+ community, hoping for refuge, we’re hit with another kind of rejection. Racism doesn’t vanish just because someone’s waving a rainbow flag. It just shows up in glittery tones with jock straps and fetishization. In preferences masked as “types.” In bars where our music isn’t played unless it’s for twerking. In dating apps where “no fats, no fems, no Blacks” is still treated like a personality trait.

So we hide again or we overcompensate or we shapeshift. Just to be seen. Just to be loved.

At some point, the question becomes, do we ever get to belong anywhere fully?

For many Black gay men, the answer has been no. Not in church, family, or even in the movements we help build. And that rejection, layered on top of trauma, grief, and depression, can feel like a slow burn. Like we’re constantly being asked to closet pieces of ourselves just to be allowed in the room.

But we’re not broken. We’re not confused. We’re not asking for permission to exist.

We’re asking for space to be.

But healing is complicated when you have to explain your humanity before the session even starts. When the therapist looks like you but won’t acknowledge your queerness. Or when they accept your sexuality but flinch every time you bring up race or the realities of being Black in America.

That’s been my experience more times than I can count.

Finding someone who can hold all of your identities without judgment is rare, but not impossible.

If you’re ready to start therapy, look for providers who are culturally competent and identity affirming. Therapists who won’t flinch when you talk about race, or your partner, or the fears that come with simply existing. Sites like Psychology Today, Inclusive Therapists, or Therapy for Black Men allow you to filter by race, gender, sexuality, and more. Use those tools. Ask questions before you commit. See if they create space for all of you. And if the first therapist isn’t the right fit, that doesn’t mean healing isn’t possible. Sometimes the process starts with finding community. A group chat that feels like home. A friend who holds space without trying to fix you. A conversation where you don’t have to explain the intersection. You just get to be.

But even community can be tricky when people don’t know how to show up.

Sometimes the check-ins come a little too late. Sometimes folks rush in with advice when all you needed was someone to sit beside you in the silence. Other times, they only come around when you’re visibly struggling, not realizing how much that pattern reinforces the idea that you’re only worthy of love when you’re broken.

If you love someone who deals with depression, anxiety, or any kind of mental health challenge, especially someone who also carries the weight of being Black and gay, please hear this: showing up isn’t about saving us. It’s not about fixing us. It’s about consistency. About presence. About asking, How can I support you right now? and then actually listening to the answer.

Check in even when we’re smiling. Especially then.

Don’t disappear after the storm passes. Don’t wait until we’re in crisis to call. Show us that we matter when we’re quiet, when we’re healing, when we’re just existing. Let your love be loud, but not overwhelming. Let your care be steady, not reactive. Let your space be safe enough to feel ok to be vulnerable with you.

Sometimes it’s not the grand gestures that keep us going. It’s the text that says, “Thinking of you.” The friend who doesn’t get weird when you say, “I’m not okay.” The partner who notices the shift in your energy and chooses patience instead of pressure.

We don’t need perfect. We need real.

I almost left this world because I forgot I mattered. I believed I was a burden. I thought the people I loved would be better off without me.

But that day, my husband reminded me of my worth without saying much at all. He saw something shift and didn’t let me go. And somewhere in that moment, something cracked open.

That crack became the seed.

That seed grew into the words I now carry when the shadows creep in:

Remember who you are.

So if you’re reading this and you’re tired, hurting, or unsure if anyone sees you, I want you to hear it too. You are not alone. You are not too far gone. You are not too much.

You are worthy of rest.

Worthy of peace.

Worthy of Black joy.

Worthy of being here.

Remember who you are.