I’ve come to believe that silence isn’t always golden, especially the kind that wraps itself around trauma and pain. Sometimes, it’s a weight. Heavy. Suffocating. And far too often, fatal.
I’m a storyteller, a brother, a son, an uncle, a friend, and a proud creative born and raised in Northern Kentucky. But before any of those identities found room to grow within me, I was a young gay Black boy struggling to understand why my chest felt tight when I woke up, why the world felt too loud, and why I often felt like I didn’t belong in it. Back then in the 80s, I didn’t have the language for anxiety or depression. I only knew that I was “different,” and in a place where emotional vulnerability was rarely discussed, let alone encouraged, being different felt like a death sentence.
Growing up in Covington, KY, I learned to wear a mask early on. You know the one where you smile widely, stay busy, achieve, achieve, achieve. In Black households like mine, mental health wasn’t something we talked about around the dinner table. If you were sad, you prayed. If you were anxious, you were told to be strong. And if you ever mentioned feeling like you were “drowning,” you were told to “get over it” because “someone has it worse.”
Don’t get me wrong. My upbringing was full of love, hard work, and trust. But it was also full of silences. As a child who felt too much and didn’t know what to do with all those feelings, I began to internalize a dangerous narrative: that something was wrong with me.
By the time I reached high school in the early 90s, I was already deep in the cycle of perfectionism and people-pleasing. Straight A’s (ish), sports, theatre, extracurriculars, hell, I even sang in my church choir…I did it all. Not because I wanted to, but because I thought doing well would make the gnawing sadness go away. Spoiler alert: it didn’t. It just made the mask heavier. It wasn’t until I had graduated from high school and was away in the US military that I found that writing through my trauma would be what would save me over and over again. In many ways, creativity is how I stay alive. Whether I’m journaling, writing poetry, or working on a novel, storytelling gives shape to what’s unspoken. It turns pain into purpose. It turns silence into sound.
My debut book, Chronicles of a Boy Misunderstood, was born from years of inner wrestling. It’s a series for four fictionalized accounts, yes, but it draws deeply from my journey with identity, mental health, and belonging. When I wrote it, I had no idea the kind of impact it would have. I only knew that I needed to get it out. And then the letters started to come. Young readers told me they saw themselves in the characters I created. Parents shared that the book opened up conversations they didn’t know how to start. Teachers thanking me for putting into words what their students couldn’t. That’s when I realized: vulnerability is a bridge. And when we dare to cross it, we don’t just save ourselves, we invite others to do the same.
As a gay Black man, I’ve had to work hard to untangle myself from generations of silence. The stigma around mental health in communities of color runs deep. It is often rooted in cultural pride, spiritual beliefs, and historical trauma. We’ve been taught to survive, not to heal. But survival is not the same as wellness.
And so, I’ve made it part of my mission to challenge those narratives. As a school board member, I advocate for more accessible mental health resources in schools, especially in underfunded districts. As a creative, I develop stories and platforms that center Black joy and vulnerability. And as a brother and an uncle, I talk to my brothers and their children openly about emotions, letting them know it’s okay to cry, to feel, to ask for help. Because the work of dismantling stigma starts at home. It starts with how we talk to ourselves and our loved ones. It starts with how we respond when someone says, “I’m not okay.”
After all these years, here’s what I’ve learned and what I wish someone had told me when I was younger about what wellness is:
- It’s not a finish line. It’s a daily practice.
- It’s choosing to get out of bed even when it’s hard.
- It’s going to therapy, even when you’d rather not unpack the mess.
- It’s checking in on your strong friends.
- It’s pausing. Breathing. Being still.
- It’s telling the truth.
I dream of a world where Black men and boys can say, “I’m struggling,” without fear of judgment. I dream of classrooms where mental health is woven into the curriculum and not just as a one-off lesson, but as a core value. I dream of communities where barbershops and church pews become safe spaces for healing conversations. I dream of fathers who model softness and of mothers who embrace therapy as a tool, not a threat.
If you’ve made it this far, I want to say thank you for listening. Thank you for bearing witness. Thank you for choosing to be part of this conversation. And if you’re someone currently struggling with depression, anxiety, or thoughts of suicide, I want you to know that your pain is real, you are not broken, and you are not alone. Talk to someone. Call a friend. Text a helpline. Write it out. Walk it out. Cry if you need to. But please…stay. The world needs you. We need your light, your story, your breath. I’m still here. And that means you can be, too.
Breaking the silence around mental health isn’t easy, especially when you’ve been taught that silence is strength. But I’ve come to learn that true strength lies in honesty. In vulnerability. In the community. So here I am. Unmasked and still healing, still learning, still growing. I am also very grateful. Grateful to be part of this movement. Grateful to be alive. And grateful to remind you: it’s okay not to be okay.
Let’s keep the conversation going. Let’s keep showing up for each other. Let’s keep breaking the silence…one brave word at a time.
With creativity,
Kareem (K.A.) Simpson