Breaking the Silence: Honoring My Brother and Fighting the Stigma of Mental Illness in the Black Community

Three years ago, I lost my brother to suicide. I’ve tried to write about him many times over the years, but each time I stopped, unsure of how to express the weight of his loss while struggling with how much of his story was mine to share. In reflecting, I realized my hesitation stemmed from the same stigma that keeps so many silent around mental health, the same silence which may have prevented my brother from seeking help and, ultimately, contributed to his passing.

Mental illness and suicide are often hushed topics in the Black community. For generations, we’ve been taught to keep it private, to “toughen up” or “pray it away,” but ultimately carry the weight alone. In my family, we avoided the conversation, even when we may have sensed something was wrong. When we learned that my brother passed, the first instinct was to “get our stories straight” about how he died, as if we had to conceal the truth. For even in death, the need to protect his privacy felt ingrained. But honoring who he was includes telling a complete story, even the difficult parts. My brother deserves to be remembered not only for his brilliance but also for his struggles. Further, he deserves to be part of a broader conversation about mental health that demands our attention. 

Suicide rates are disproportionately high among all age groups and genders within the Black American population, and have only increased, highlighting the urgent need for more awareness and support. My brother’s death is a reminder that the shame and silence surrounding mental illness and suicide must be broken. This was reinforced for me when I trained as a presenter for L.E.T.S (Listening, Empathy, Trust, Support) Save Lives: An Introduction to Suicide Prevention for Black and African American Communities, an initiative by the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention (AFSP), specifically focused on reshaping the conversation around mental health and suicide in the Black community. The program provides the tools to have open and honest conversations that challenge stigma and encourage support. 

After my brother passed, I felt a deep need to turn my grief into action. I considered starting a program to increase the number of Black mental health practitioners, knowing how critical cultural and racial representation is for those seeking help. However, I didn’t know where to begin, so I started my advocacy by volunteering with AFSP. I initially believed I would need to take more time after my brother’s death before getting involved in suicide prevention, hoping the grief would subside and I’d feel “ready.” But I’ve come to realize that grief doesn’t follow a timetable, and waiting for the right moment will only mean more silence. The milestones, his first birthday after passing, the first year, the second, have come and gone, each one bringing a wave of sorrow. And yet, those moments have also strengthened my resolve.

My brother meant the world to me. When I was around five, and he was just one, I saved him from being struck by our family van. The pride I felt in protecting him was something I carried with me throughout our lives, always feeling that deep bond and responsibility to look out for him. As we grew older, that protective instinct never faded. That’s why it breaks my heart to know that, in the end, I couldn’t save him from the battle he fought within, a battle I would’ve given anything to help him fight. The weight of that loss is something that drives me to ensure that others get the support and understanding they need before it’s too late. 

My brother died by suicide, but I refuse to say he “committed” suicide. You commit a crime, like murder or a robbery. But suicide isn’t a crime, it’s the tragic outcome of a battle lost to mental illness. My brother died because depression took over. He died by losing hope. He died by being unable to see the profound impact he had on so many lives, including mine. And it’s devastating because I know that pain all too well. I’ve struggled with suicidal ideation, and grieving a loss like this from the perspective of someone who’s lived with those same thoughts carries a bitter irony. I never knew he felt that way, even though I struggled with similar feelings. 

We need to change how we speak about suicide and mental illness, starting with simple shifts in language. We need to create spaces where vulnerability isn’t met with shame but with empathy, understanding, and support, and that’s why L.E.T.S is so important. It provides a blueprint for how we should approach these conversations in our community. The program includes a 90-minute presentation that explores how culture and history have shaped Black mental health and encourages deeper conversations about pain, support, and healing. Most meaningful, it’s created by and for the Black community and grounded in lived experience.

I remember researching and presenting on suicide in elementary school. The topic felt important to explore, but my interest caught the school’s attention, and they contacted my parents. At the time, I didn’t understand their reaction, but looking back, I think my early interest in the topic was the beginning of my desire to shed light on an issue I would later face more personally. Yet, despite the school’s concern, research shows that talking about suicide does not cause harm, it can save lives.

My brother’s death brought my journey with mental health full circle, except now, it’s not just about me. It’s about him and everyone who struggles in silence, afraid of being judged, ignored, or misunderstood.

I will always wish that my brother had found the support he needed, but I know that his story can help others find hope. And if sharing my own experiences, along with his, can prevent even one person from feeling alone in their struggle, then that’s a legacy I’m proud to carry forward.

The Black community deserves better mental health support. We deserve to be heard, to be understood, and to heal without judgment. By speaking openly about my brother’s life and his death, I hope to be part of the change that erases the stigma. And if we all begin to open these conversations — with Listening, Empathy, Trust, and Support — we can make that change happen.

Learn more about L.E.T.S (Listening, Empathy, Trust, Support) Save Lives: An Introduction to Suicide Prevention for Black and African American Communities.

If you or someone you know is struggling or in crisis, help is available. Call or text 988 or chat 988lifeline.org. Veterans, press 1 when calling. You can also visit our Get Help webpage to learn about more resources.