When Simone Biles bowed out of the all-around gymnastic Olympic competition in Tokyo, her greatness rose astronomically in my eyes, and I didn't think the woman could be any more amazing. Again, as she has done so many times before, Biles soared beyond all expectations.
She admitted, on the biggest athletic stage on the planet, that despite all her physical strength and athletic perfection, her mental health needed attention, right away.
That was some Olympic bravery right there. It had to be hard as hell to do. I wasn't surprised to learn mental health played a role. The woman's been through a lot — sexual assault and just hanging on to that "Greatest of All Time" rung.
I was surprised that she said so.
And while the Olympics wrapped up last week, Biles' decision to tend to her mental health — obviously the right thing to do, since in the end she returned to competition to nail a bronze medal — reverberates in the sports world and in the Black community.
It definitely changed, for the better, how elite athletes will forever care for their mental health.
But less talked about is that Biles' actions also ease the stigma that has kept many Black Americans from seeking help from mental health professionals when pressures and stresses sit you down, fatigued beyond movement.
Sure, there is stigma attached to mental health problems in lots of communities, but it is particularly stifling among Black people. Not that mental health problems are any respecter of people, but because, for the most part, Black folks typically just don't do therapy or counseling.
Yes, that is a thing.
Stress, we figure, like the melanin in our skin, is with us always; it's just the normal swing of life that you shouldn't need help managing, right?
"Seeking mental health care is most often viewed by Black Americans as a weakness, running counter to the survivalist mentality born from systemic oppression and racism," says Ruth C. White, an African American stress management expert based in California. A National Institutes of Health study found that 63% of African Americans equate depression with personal weakness.
Jannette Berkley-Patton, a behavioral psychologist at the University of Missouri-Kansas City, told me that the thinking among some Black folks is "I don't have the luxury to be depressed. That's a luxury only wealthy white men and women can indulge in." And as a result, signs of distressed mental health go ignored, sometimes to the point of physical illness.
Many African Americans fear making families look bad
And then there is this, says Monica T. Williams, a clinical psychologist at the University of Ottawa: "African Americans may be resistant to seek treatment because they fear it may reflect badly on their families — an outward admission of the family's failure to handle problems internally."
I definitely can relate to that. Growing up my parents would often say, "What happens in this house stays in this house." All my friends, from similar Black families, heard the same mantra. It was instilled in us and in our parents and in theirs.
And so it has been generationally that talking about problems with an outsider — a therapist — is viewed as airing "dirty laundry," or worse, "telling your business."
So quiet it is kept, stress, anxiety and depression be damned.
I met with that a year ago as the country erupted in protest against the killing of unarmed Black people after the deaths of George Floyd and Breonna Taylor. At the same time we were saying enough is enough, then-President Donald Trump attacked the movement as violent and unpatriotic and GOP leaders openly became systemic racism deniers. And on and on, in the midst of a pandemic that initially seemed to hit hardest in Black communities.
Phew! A lot of us journalists of color, inundated with and writing about a steady stream of gross, race-related news, felt the same distress.
"Such trauma day in and day out has effects on one's mental health," said Christine Crawford, a psychiatrist at Boston University School of Medicine.
But did I call anyone for help? Nope. I fell right into the statistics and told myself, I got this. Really I should know better. I know about the collective trauma Black Americans experience and the history too.
I found this explanation from Mental Health America: "Despite progress made over the years, racism continues to have an impact on the mental health of Black and African American people. Historical and contemporary instances of negative treatment have led to a distrust of authorities, many of whom are not seen as having the best interest of Black and African Americans in mind."
I hadn't tried to unpack all of this until I watched my girl Simone take on her mental health challenge right before our eyes.
About the same time, a friend who is African American told me she is struggling with debilitating stress brought on by COVID-19 — not that she had contracted the virus, but because of the disruption of life around her that it has caused.
After watching Biles, my friend found her strength to seek help. Suddenly, she told me, she didn't feel so alone. "If Simone don't got this, surely it's OK if I don't," she said.
That's absolutely the reaction Crawford hopes more people will take away from Biles' decision. "I think the impact Simone Biles will have on the way Black Americans deal with mental health will be tremendous," she said. "I hope they see Simone Biles as an example of how this can benefit you. She came back strong."
My friend's strength, my conversations with mental health professionals for this column and Biles' bravery got me thinking that I should do a better job of tending to my own mental health and invite others to follow suit.
I'm still working on making the first phone call, though. It was hard even writing this column, harder than I thought. But at least I'm thinking about it now. Thanks, Simone.
