By: Roy Douglas Malonson
September is Suicide Prevention Month, and while the nation highlights the importance of mental health, too often the Black community is left out of the conversation. But the numbers don’t lie—our people are hurting. Suicide rates among African Americans, especially our youth, are rising at a frightening pace. Behind those statistics are families torn apart, lives cut short, and a community that’s been told for generations to keep quiet about pain that runs deep.
We don’t like to talk about mental health. We were raised to “pray it away,” to “be strong,” to keep our business in the family. But silence has become deadly. When our sons and daughters are leaving this world before their time, when our brothers are drowning in depression, when our sisters carry unbearable weight alone, ignoring this issue is no longer an option.
The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) reports that suicide is now the third leading cause of death for Black youth ages 15 to 24. Even more alarming, research published by the Journal of the American Medical Association shows that suicide rates among Black children ages 5 to 12 are nearly twice as high as those of White children in the same age group. From 2018 to 2021, the rate of suicide among Black youth increased by almost 37%, one of the steepest rises of any racial group.
And it’s not just the kids.
Between 2010 and 2020, suicide rates among Black men increased by nearly 30%, while rates among Black women rose by about 20%, according to data from the National Institute of Mental Health. These aren’t just statistics— these are our fathers, our daughters, our cousins, our classmates.
Part of the problem is access. About 20% of Black Americans are more likely to experience serious psychological distress compared to White Americans, yet they are 50% less likely to receive mental health treatment, according to the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services. And when they do seek care, only about 4% of psychologists in the U.S. are Black, which means many patients never see someone who looks like them or understands their lived experience. That lack of cultural connection creates mistrust and discourages people from seeking help again.
Then there’s stigma. In our culture, admitting you need help can be seen as weakness. How many of us have heard, “Man up,” “Don’t cry,” or “You’ll be alright”? Those words may seem small, but they push our pain deeper inside, where it festers. Too often, it explodes in silence— through suicide.
And let’s not forget the church. The Black church has been a cornerstone of our community, a place of strength, faith, and resilience. But sometimes, the message has been that prayer alone is the answer. Prayer is powerful, but prayer without action leaves gaps. God gave us therapists, counselors, doctors, and hotlines for a reason. Faith and professional help can work hand-in-hand to save lives.
So what can we do? First, we have to break the silence. It starts at the dinner table, at barbershops, in beauty salons, in church pews. We need to normalize saying, “I’m not okay,” without shame. Parents must listen to their children—not dismiss them when they talk about being stressed, sad, or overwhelmed. Friends have to check in on each other, not just with “What’s up?” but with real questions like, “How are you really doing?”
Second, we need to demand access. Our tax dollars should fund culturally competent mental health programs in our schools and neighborhoods. We should push for more Black therapists, counselors, and crisis workers who understand the unique challenges we face. Representation saves lives.
Third, we need to spread resources. Too many people don’t even know where to turn when they’re in crisis. The 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline is available nationwide, and it doesn’t cost a dime to call. Community organizations, churches, and schools should plaster that number everywhere—on flyers, social media, and billboards—because one phone call can make the difference between life and death.
And finally, we need to love out loud. We can’t just celebrate our culture, our music, our resilience—we have to care for the souls behind the smiles. Suicide prevention is not just about stopping death. It’s about building a life worth living for every member of our community.
September is Suicide Prevention Month, but this conversation cannot end when the calendar flips to October. Black lives are at stake, and silence is no longer an option. We’ve buried too many young people, too many mothers, too many brothers who thought they had to carry their pain alone.
If you’re reading this, know that you are not weak for needing help. You are not broken. You are not alone. Your life matters, your story matters, and this community needs you here. The silent crisis in Black America doesn’t have to stay silent. But it will take all of us—families, churches, schools, policymakers, and neighbors—to face it head-on. The time to act is now.
If you or someone you know is struggling, dial 988 for the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline. Help is here. Hope is here. And you are not alone.
