For decades, conversations about suicide prevention in America have focused on broad messaging meant to reach everyone. But “everyone” has rarely meant us. Black communities have been left out of the narrative—our struggles minimized, our pain overlooked, and our mental health treated as an afterthought. That’s no longer acceptable, especially when the numbers are telling a devastating story.

According to the CDC, in 2021, suicide was the third leading cause of death for Black youth ages 10 to 24. A JAMA study revealed that Black adolescents had the largest increase in suicide attempts of any racial group over the past two decades. Among Black men, suicide rates have climbed steadily, with research showing they’re less likely to seek professional help or receive adequate mental health care. These numbers are alarming, but the headlines that rocked our culture put real faces to this crisis: actor Lee Thompson Young, model and Miss USA Cheslie Kryst, and beloved DJ and dancer Stephen “tWitch” Boss all died by suicide, shocking fans and reminding us that pain often hides behind smiles, achievements, and fame.

Cultural stigma runs deep in Black communities when it comes to mental health. Many of us were raised to “pray it away,” to push through pain in silence, or to see therapy as something “other people” do. That narrative, combined with systemic barriers to care, creates a deadly mix: Black people are less likely to be diagnosed or treated for depression, even though we experience disproportionate stress from racism, economic inequality, and generational trauma.

Mental health care also doesn’t always feel safe for us. A shortage of Black therapists, cultural bias in clinical settings, and high costs all make it harder for Black folks to find care they can trust. When suicide prevention campaigns fail to address these realities, they miss the very people most at risk.

Suicide prevention efforts that truly serve Black communities must start with representation—not just in ads or outreach campaigns, but in the actual care system. Culturally competent therapy, community-based mental health programs, and spaces designed for us can save lives. Initiatives like Black Men Heal, Therapy for Black Girls, and The Loveland Foundation have already proven that when resources are tailored to our culture and experiences, more people seek help.

We also need messaging that resonates with our reality. Telling a Black teen who’s dealing with racism at school, family stress, and a lack of safe spaces to “just talk to someone” without acknowledging those layers doesn’t work. Suicide prevention must meet people where they are—with empathy, cultural understanding, and solutions that feel accessible.

Talking openly about suicide is one of the most powerful tools we have. Every time a Black celebrity, athlete, or community leader shares their mental health struggles, it chips away at stigma. From Kid Cudi opening up about depression to Simone Biles prioritizing her mental health on the world stage, these moments remind us that strength isn’t just about endurance—it’s also about vulnerability.

But this can’t just be on celebrities. Black families, churches, and community spaces have to make room for these conversations. The barbershop and beauty salon, long-standing hubs of cultural connection, can also become spaces of healing.

Suicide prevention in Black communities isn’t just about “raising awareness”—it’s about building a system that sees us, protects us, and empowers us to heal. That means funding culturally competent mental health programs, increasing access to affordable therapy, and dismantling the shame that keeps too many of us silent.

This Suicide Prevention Month, let’s remember that Black mental health is Black health. If we want to save lives, prevention efforts must center our stories, our pain, and our solutions.

If you or someone you love is struggling, you are not alone. Call or text 988, or chat via 988lifeline.org to reach the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline.