We know what hurts us, and we know what heals us

By Floyd Taliaferro

July is Minority Mental Health Awareness Month—a time to recognize the unique mental health challenges Black communities face and to call for real, meaningful change. This month reminds us that mental health is not just an individual struggle but a community issue rooted in history, culture and systems of care that often fail us.

In Baltimore, the crisis is painfully personal. According to The Washington Post, nearly 1 in 5 people fatally shot by police in the U.S. were experiencing a mental health crisis. Here, those numbers are not abstract; they represent our neighbors, our family, our friends. I have met too many families who lost loved ones–not because they were violent but because they were vulnerable. And vulnerability in our city is often met with bullets.

During the month of June, in West Baltimore, our community lost Bilal “BJ” Abdullah, a well-known Arabber, who was shot and killed by police. Shortly after, a man in a mental health crisis died after being restrained by officers near the Upton Metro station. In another heartbreaking loss, 70-year-old Pytorcarcha Clark-Brooks died when police responded to a mental health emergency. She was reportedly holding a knife, but no mental health professional was present to help deescalate.

Ms. Clark-Brooks could have been my aunt. The young man lost in Upton could have been a boy I used to mentor. The mother I met recently, crying in her car because her son hasn’t been the same since his friend was shot, could have been me. We see the cost of untreated mental illness every day. We see the fear in people’s eyes when they call for help, worried they will be arrested or worse.

What happened to Ms. Clark-Brooks is not an outlier. It is a pattern. Here in Baltimore, too many of us have learned that if you’re poor and in pain, the system treats you like a problem, not a patient.

We live with a mental health infrastructure that wasn’t built for us, doesn’t speak our language and doesn’t understand our grief. According to the National Alliance on Mental Illness, Black adults are 20 percent more likely to experience serious psychological distress yet far less likely to receive proper care. Many face barriers like long waitlists, lack of insurance, stigma or simply the absence of providers who understand their lived experience.

But this isn’t just about race or economics. It is about how our systems treat people who are suffering—from elders to teens, returning citizens to new parents, those experiencing homelessness to those navigating high-pressure careers. Mental health challenges do not discriminate, but the response often does.

We see it when police are dispatched to crises that should be met with care. We see it in neighborhoods saturated with trauma but starved of resources. And we see it in the faces of those left behind after violence that could have been prevented.

I’m not writing this from an office tower or behind a podium. I’m writing as someone who is from here, who works here, who hurts here.

Minority Mental Health Awareness Month reminds us that our pain is real. But more importantly, so is our power. We know what hurts us and we know what heals us. We just need this city to choose healing with us.

Because the next call for help should never end in tragedy. Awareness without action is hollow.

Maryland must fund mobile crisis teams that can respond 24/7 without police. The city must invest in neighborhood-based mental health clinics with culturally informed practitioners. Our state must continue efforts to divert people with mental illness away from jails and emergency rooms and into long-term care.

We must also speak openly in our homes, churches and schools about the pain we’ve carried for generations.

These aren’t isolated tragedies. They are everyday realities for too many Baltimoreans, across generations and neighborhoods. If this city is serious about equity, healing and public safety, then mental health must be treated not as an afterthought but as a matter of life and death.

According to the National Alliance on Mental Illness, only 1 in 3 Black adults with mental illness receives treatment. Stigma, misdiagnosis and systemic racism are all barriers but so is geography. In many parts of Baltimore, culturally competent care is out of reach. Waitlists stretch for months. Transportation is a hurdle. Trusted providers who understand Black life are scarce.

But the consequences are not just clinical; they are fatal. In many cities, Black people are more likely to be killed in these encounters even when family members are the ones calling for help.

Baltimore is no exception. These tragedies demand a better system and a new set of priorities.

The U.S. Department of Health and Human Services notes that suicide is now the third leading cause of death for Black youth ages 15 to 24. While violence is often framed as a public safety issue, it is also a public health issue. When trauma becomes normalized, so does hopelessness, and hopelessness kills.

Baltimore has made progress. Homicides are down significantly. In April, the city recorded just five homicides—the lowest since 1970. Initiatives like the Group Violence Reduction Strategy and Safe Streets have contributed to reductions of 23 to 45 percent in homicides and non-fatal shootings in key neighborhoods.

But progress in statistics does not always translate to healing on the ground. Each shooting reopens wounds for entire blocks. When these traumatic experiences go unacknowledged or untreated, they compound and pass silently from parent to child.

There is hope. But it begins with listening.

We urge Baltimore’s leaders—not just this month but every month—to invest in mental health with the same urgency as policing and infrastructure. Support local organizations doing this work. Ensure that every resident, regardless of ZIP code, has access to care that affirms who they are and honors what they’ve been through.

Healing is possible. But it takes commitment and care.

The opinions expressed in this commentary are those of the writer and not necessarily those of the AFRO.