There is something sinister about the silence that follows a mental health diagnosis. It is not the silence of clarity or calm. It is the thick, stifling quiet of distance—of jobs that do not call back, of friends who pull away, of churches that lean in with pity or lean out in judgment. It is the look that flashes across a nurse’s face when they notice your intake form includes “bipolar disorder,” or the discomfort that creeps into a conversation once you mention having been hospitalized. That silence is not just awkward. It is a wall. And behind that wall live too many of us who know what it is like to not only suffer from a mental health condition but to carry the unbearable weight of what it means to be labeled because of it.
I am passionate about eliminating the stigma that shadows every step of a person’s journey with mental health—not just because I have lived through that shadow, but because I have watched others be swallowed by it. There is no part of the human mental health experience that stigma does not touch. From the reluctance to seek help, to the dismissiveness of medical providers, to the exclusionary policies of employers, to the whispered shame that still surrounds therapy, medication, and psychiatric care. If mental illness is a diagnosis, then stigma is the secondary condition—a social disease with consequences just as deadly.
My personal relationship with mental health has not been simple. It has been written in ER admission forms, whispered to psychiatrists, and shouted through breakdowns no one saw but me. I have been diagnosed, misdiagnosed, overmedicated, and at times, completely dismissed. I have lived through depression so deep that I forgot how my own voice sounded. I have lived with anxiety so consuming that it felt like fire in my lungs and static in my head. I have been locked in psychiatric units where the curtains never opened and the clocks were hidden, and I have walked out of those units more ashamed than when I walked in—not because I was ill, but because I was treated like I was something less than human for being unwell.
The irony is that diagnosis should be a beginning. But in America, for far too many people, it is the beginning of something else: the quiet severing of ties to opportunity, inclusion, and dignity.
When we talk about mental health, we often use the word “awareness” as if being aware is enough. But awareness without accountability is just decoration. It is what allows companies to post green ribbons on social media in May for Mental Health Awareness Month while quietly firing employees who ask for time off to manage their conditions. It is what lets families whisper, “we support you,” while still telling their kids not to date someone who has a mental illness. It is what allows even well-meaning physicians to overpathologize Black and Brown patients, to underdiagnose trauma in men, or to dismiss the psychiatric symptoms of women as “hormonal.”
Awareness must become action. And action starts with telling the truth. So here is mine.
I have lived with multiple mental health diagnoses, including severe depression, anxiety, and complex PTSD. I have been suicidal more times than I care to count. I have had days where getting out of bed was a victory. I have used medication to stabilize myself and then been shamed for it by people who claimed I “was not strong enough” to heal on my own. I have had friends fade away. I have seen therapists who saved my life and others who made me question whether my life was worth saving. I have been told not to “scare off employers” by putting my story online. And I have done it anyway.
Because the truth needs a witness. And people deserve more than silence.
Organizations like the National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI) have worked for decades to change the national narrative. Their campaign, “You Are Not Alone,” was not just a tagline—it was a lifeline. Mental Health America (MHA) has pushed for equitable access to care, while their 2025 campaign, “Turning Awareness into Action,” makes it clear that performative support is no longer enough. According to the Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration (SAMHSA), nearly 1 in 5 U.S. adults live with a mental illness, and 1 in 20 live with a serious mental illness (SMI). That is over 58 million people—yet less than half of them receive consistent care each year. And an even smaller number report feeling supported in their communities.
Iowa, where I live, is no exception. In fact, Iowa ranks among the lowest in the country for mental health care availability, with some of the fewest psychiatric beds per capita in the nation. Rural residents are disproportionately impacted, often having to travel hours for care—if care is available at all. For those who are low-income, formerly incarcerated, disabled, or LGBTQIA+, the hurdles multiply. And yet we keep expecting people to jump them in silence.
Mental health stigma does not float in the abstract—it attaches itself to identities. It tightens around the necks of those who are already marginalized. Black and Indigenous individuals are more likely to be diagnosed with schizophrenia and less likely to be offered therapy. Latinx populations face disproportionate access barriers due to language, immigration status, and cultural mistrust of institutional systems. Asian Americans, often perceived as the “model minority,” are conditioned by cultural norms to repress emotional suffering. The data shows it all. According to MHA’s 2024 report, over 60 percent of youth identifying as LGBTQ+ reported major depressive episodes in the past year. Nearly 40 percent of transgender adults have considered suicide within the last twelve months.
And still—despite knowing all this—we often speak of stigma as if it is only about “being judged.” It is not. It is about being systemically excluded, over-policed, misdiagnosed, under-treated, and told over and over again that your experience is less valid than someone’s opinion of your experience.
Faith communities are often no better. I have been in churches that told people their depression was “just a lack of faith.” I have heard pastors blame suicidality on demonic possession. In these environments, mental illness is treated as a spiritual failure rather than a medical reality. The pressure to “pray it away” or to “claim healing” can lead people to abandon treatment, avoid therapy, or suffer in silence. While some progressive congregations are beginning to shift their approach, the fact remains that for many, religion has been both a source of comfort and a crucible of shame.
Mental health stigma affects families too—especially families where generational trauma, poverty, or cultural silence have been passed down as survival tools. In many households, seeking therapy is seen as airing dirty laundry. Medication is viewed as weakness. Admitting you need help feels like betrayal. It is no coincidence that so many of us were raised in homes where no one ever said the words “mental health,” even as we watched our parents self-medicate with alcohol, explode in rage, or disappear into depression.
It was not that they did not struggle. It was that no one gave them the language to name it.
Today, we have that language—but we still lack the societal courage to use it without penalty.
Some would argue that stigma is just a matter of opinion or perception, but that is not true. Stigma kills. It kills by delay, by shame, by invisibility. According to the CDC, suicide is the second leading cause of death for individuals aged 10–34 in the U.S., and stigma is one of the greatest predictors of whether someone will reach out for help. People internalize the shame. They believe the world when it tells them they are broken. They stop trying. Or they are never given the chance to try at all.
Incarceration is another frontier where mental illness and stigma collide with devastating consequences. According to the Bureau of Justice Statistics, more than half of all people incarcerated in U.S. prisons and jails have a diagnosed mental illness. Yet these institutions are not designed for care—they are designed for control. And stigma fuels that machine. It allows society to write people off as dangerous, unstable, or unworthy instead of recognizing them as untreated, unsupported, and often deeply traumatized human beings.
The Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA) was supposed to provide legal protection for people with mental illness. But enforcement is inconsistent and knowledge about rights is rare. Many individuals with psychiatric disabilities never request accommodations at school or work because they fear backlash. And often, their fears are justified.
I speak up about all of this not because I enjoy reliving my pain, but because I know what it means to live with a secret that is not yours to carry alone. I speak because I remember the first time someone said “me too” and how it made me feel like maybe I was not beyond help. I speak because young people are watching, and I want them to know that asking for help is not weak—it is wise. I speak because there are still too many funerals being held for people who never got the chance to be seen beyond their struggle.
We need to start teaching people that mental health is health. Full stop. It deserves the same respect, funding, and urgency as heart disease, cancer, or diabetes. We need providers who are trauma-informed, culturally competent, and trained to recognize their own biases. We need legislation that protects not just access to care, but the dignity of those who seek it. And we need communities—faith communities, schools, workplaces—that stop using prayer, productivity, or positivity as substitutes for real support.
We need to retire the idea that mental health is some personal failing or weakness to be overcome through grit alone. Because the truth is, healing is not linear. It is messy, nonlinear, and often invisible. There are no parades for people who survive another panic attack or make it to their therapy appointment on a hard day. But maybe there should be.
And if not parades, then at least honesty. At least grace. At least a world where you do not have to lie on a job application, or hide your meds when someone comes over, or justify why you are in group therapy for the third time this year. At least a world where you are not defined by the worst day you ever had, but by the courage it took to keep going anyway.
Healing is never about perfection. It is about participation—about showing up, even if it is messy and imperfect. My journey has included dark chapters: addiction, incarceration, amputation, and suicidal ideation. But it has also included extraordinary triumphs: reconciliation with my son, reentry with dignity, friendships that honor the whole of me, and a career that allows me to speak for those still silenced. I do not speak because I have conquered stigma. I speak because I carry it—and I refuse to carry it quietly.
Stigma is not some abstract concept. It is policy. It is pay gaps. It is untrained police officers responding to psychiatric calls. It is insurance companies refusing to cover therapy. It is your uncle rolling his eyes at antidepressants. It is silence at the dinner table. It is headlines that sensationalize violence and link it to mental illness without context. It is shame dressed up as caution. It is every lie we let live because the truth feels too heavy.
But we were made for heavy truths. We were made for honesty that heals. And so I tell mine.
You are not broken. You are not weak. You are not alone.
You are someone whose story deserves to be heard in full—not just the diagnosis, but the dreams. Not just the symptoms, but the soul. Not just the suffering, but the survival.
Speak. Scream if you must. Write it down. Paint it. Dance it. Share it. Tell it wrong until you can tell it right. But do not let stigma steal your voice. You survived the illness. You can survive the judgment, too. And maybe, just maybe, together, we can change the way the world listens.
