Opinion: Dear School System: Black Girls Are Not as Strong as You Think We Are

I had my first suicidal ideations at age 8 due to bullying in school. I forced those feelings aside, but I still wanted to kill myself until I was 14 because of continued bullying and imposter syndrome. I self-harmed and pulled my hair out to ease the pain, but my mother found out and she told me: “Only white people act like this.”

With my family, I pretended everything was fine because they also told me, “You’re a young Black girl who will end up in child protective services because the system is racist against people like us.” When my middle, elementary and high school reached out about therapy, my family refused. A meeting was set up with my grandmother and mother to discuss mental health options, but they declined. When I came home, I was met with yelling and I was berated by my family for making “the school think something damn wrong at home.”

Even when I did briefly get a therapist through a health center at age 14, the provider, a Black woman, told me, “You’re a Black girl. They’re going to put you in the system and label you as crazy and aggressive.”

Get stories like these delivered straight to your inbox. Sign up for The 74 Newsletter

I have more stories like these, and I know other Black girls do too. Here’s what our schools need to know: We are not as strong as you think we are. We are strong only because we were forced to carry the weight of systemic stereotypes, unresolved trauma and our own emotional needs. That’s why schools need to address the elephant in the room: their lack of mental health support and how it is affecting Black girls.

Our issues start at home due to our families’ fear of the school system perpetuating racism through lack of cultural connection, and schools worsen this fear through budget cuts to mental health services and by criminalizing Black girls. As a result, the Strong Black Woman stereotype is placed on us at an early age. Rather than making us feel empowered, it only leads to unique internalized pain, depression and anxiety.

As early as age 2, your Black daughter is often treated as if she’s 5. At 10, she is treated like she’s 15. By the time we’re even aware of our own existence, the world has already adultified us. This is where society considers Black girls less innocent compared to their white counterparts. People often believe Black girls ages 5 to 14 need less nurturing, protection, support and comfort than white girls of the same age. By the time we learn how to use the bathroom on our own, parents and authority figures believe we’re independent enough to handle our own emotions. Because we’re expected to know better — by parents, teachers and even the judicial system — we are also more likely to receive harsher punishment, with a whopping 37.2% of Black girls being arrested at school, compared with 30.2% of white girls.

Black people overall are less likely to seek help from professionals than our Caucasian counterparts, and this is true about teens, too . Black communities also have fewer resources. And historically, there’s a Eurocentric influence on therapy. As a result, many Black families feel like therapy isn’t made for us — and when children aren’t encouraged by their families to seek treatment, they can wind up with unhealthy coping mechanisms : problems such as cruelty, bullying others, aggression and emotional dysregulation. NYU conducted a study on 227 black women and found that in them, depression shows up as insomnia, irritability and self-criticism. Irritability is a large factor in the “Angry Black Woman.” Yet, society expects them to be strong. No wonder they’re less likely to seek treatment.

Now, imagine having to regulate your own emotions and existence and foster independence in order to avoid further social and systemic discrimination. This is what happens to Black women who were adultified early on. They mature into the “Strong Black Woman” stereotype, portraying themselves as strong, independent women who are able to achieve motherhood without a father, balance multiple jobs and take up caregiving roles within the community, all without getting angry, crying or having other strong emotional reactions. The history behind the “Strong Black Woman” is extensive — each experience a Black woman faces stems from a coping mechanism required to keep not only themselves alive, but their family during slavery. However, this burden of strength only leads too many women — possibly some in your family and community — to internalize their pain.

I know firsthand how, when mental health struggles aren’t addressed, they get worse and affect other people, too. I lost a friend in fifth grade because her mother worried I’d influence her with my ideas of suicide and self-harm. Eight years later, my best friend told me other students in elementary school had been scared of me and found my frequent talk of death terrifying. They thought I was a witch. I can see why they were worried. To combat bullying and the fear of being seen as weak, I began having aggressive outbursts in fifth grade toward my classmates, I sat under desks to regulate my emotions and even threatened students who I felt had emotionally harmed me. My coping mechanisms have since haunted me into my teenage years.

In ninth grade, I had an altercation with my mother over reaching out to my school in Brooklyn for help. That was during COVID. My mother eventually agreed, but started interrogating me on what was said during sessions, because she was in earshot of the conversations. However, returning to school in person in 10th grade saved me. After years of my family denying help from my elementary, middle, and high school, I finally received help from the mental health office at my high school. I met weekly with two counselors to improve my anger management and anxiety. For the first time, an adult finally understood me without instilling the fear of social implications. Due to the confidentiality of the services, I was able to discuss my issues in a healthy manner.

Unfortunately, just as I was beginning to see improvements, the office cut back its services. This exacerbated not only my mental health struggles, but those of my classmates who also relied on the office for help. At one point in my first semester of 12th grade, I broke down on the staircase when I couldn’t find a provider.

I finally got the help I needed at my school from counselors by the second semester of 12th grade. Whether it was to gossip and vent or when I experienced emotional episodes, I had a community of counselors to support me who knew the struggle of being a Black teen girl. My school noticed and gave me an award for advocating for my mental well-being and persisting to do so — even when the odds were against me.

Unfortunately, this is not the story for many black girls in New York City and across America.

So here’s what needs to be done. Knowing that African-American families have a deep-rooted fear of trusting health systems , Black girls can benefit from counselors incorporating racial socialization into trauma-focused cognitive behavioral therapy. This means implementing counseling and providers centered around African-American cultures, attitudes and values , as well as cultural competence, to help Black girls tackle the discrimination and historical traumas we as a community continue to endure.

For schools to do better at mental health services, they need to recognize how Black girls are treated and how they experience the world. Schools must implement racially socialized mental health services by hiring staff who share the culture of their students or have a willingness to understand a student’s background. Black girls are far behind in receiving mental services in their schools, and the Black community has to catch up. Our community has to work together in destroying mental health barriers that are deterring its members from seeking help. It is vital for learning institutions to aid in the efforts to destroy harmful stereotypes placed on young Black girls through their families and schools.