By Dominic Boston
As a young Black man, this topic is personal to me.
When people discuss mental health, they usually don’t picture someone who looks like me. Instead, Black men are often seen as strong, tough, or able to handle anything life throws at us.
Growing up, I was taught exactly that.
My elders always told me to be strong. If I got hurt, I was told to get back up. If I was upset, I was told not to cry. Showing emotion wasn’t encouraged. It was seen as a weakness.
Looking back now, I realize I wasn’t just being taught how to be a man. I was being conditioned to hide my emotions. I was taught to believe that strength meant staying silent, no matter how much pain I was carrying.
I know my family wasn’t trying to hurt me. They wanted me to survive in a world that has never been easy for Black men. They wanted me to be prepared for life’s challenges.
But somewhere along the way, being strong became confused with pretending everything was okay.
Instead of talking about our feelings, we learned how to bury them. Instead of asking for help, we learned how to deal with everything on our own.
The problem is that emotions don’t disappear just because you ignore them. They stay with you, and eventually, they find another way to come out.
I believe that is the reality for many young Black men today.
We’re expected to carry the weight of our families, our communities, our schools, our work, and our lives without ever breaking down. People admire our strength, but they rarely ask how much it costs to always be strong.
The truth is, many of us are hurting in silence because we’ve spent our entire lives believing that is what real men are supposed to do.
For many Black boys, those lessons start early.
Some grow up in neighborhoods where hearing gunshots or seeing police lights is normal. Others lose friends or family members before they are even old enough to understand why. Some are raised in communities where violence, poverty, and limited opportunities are part of everyday life.
When you’re constantly worried about making it home safely or helping your family make ends meet, you don’t always have time to process your emotions.
You focus on surviving.
Then there is the way society sees us.
Before some people even hear us speak, they have already made assumptions. Many Black men know what it feels like to be watched while shopping, stereotyped because of the clothes they wear, or judged simply because they are Black.
On top of that, many of us grow up having conversations with our parents about how to act if we are ever stopped by the police.
We aren’t taught those lessons because our parents don’t trust us. We are taught them because our parents are afraid of what could happen if someone else doesn’t see our humanity.
Living with that kind of pressure affects your mental health, whether people realize it or not.
Constantly feeling like you have to prove you are not a threat is exhausting. Always feeling like you have to be perfect just to be treated fairly takes a toll.
Those experiences create anxiety, fear, and stress that many young Black men carry every single day, even if they never talk about it.
I also think these experiences help explain why some young Black men feel disconnected from politics and voting.
If you have spent your whole life watching your community struggle no matter who is in office, it is easy to believe that your vote won’t change anything.
You see schools that need more resources, neighborhoods that deserve more investment, and communities asking for change year after year. After a while, some people stop believing anyone is listening.
But I also believe that is exactly why voting matters.
The people we elect make decisions about education, mental health funding, affordable housing, community programs, healthcare, and criminal justice. Those decisions directly affect neighborhoods like mine and families like mine.
If we want things to change, we can’t sit back and expect someone else to make those choices for us.
Our voices matter, and our votes do too.
One of the biggest changes that needs to happen is the way we talk about mental health.
We have to stop teaching young Black boys that crying makes them weak. We have to stop acting like asking for help is something to be embarrassed about.
Real strength isn’t pretending you’re okay when you’re not.
Real strength is being honest enough to say you’re struggling and courageous enough to ask for help.
As I continue growing into the man I want to become, I’m learning that strength and vulnerability can exist at the same time.
I can be determined, hardworking and resilient while still being honest about my emotions. I don’t have to carry everything by myself, and neither does the next generation of young Black men.
It’s time we change the conversation.
Instead of only telling young Black boys to be strong, we should also tell them it’s okay to cry.
It’s okay to talk.
It’s okay to heal.
Because when we create a generation of men who feel safe expressing themselves, we aren’t making them weaker. We are giving them a better chance to live healthier, happier lives.
And that is the kind of strength our communities have needed all along.
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