Goal Achieved, LLC

There are some things we talk about openly in our community—and some things we keep tucked away, whisper about, or avoided altogether. Suicide is one of those things. It shows up quietly in Black families, often masked by strength, faith, humor, or silence. It showed up in my family and it stands out not because it is rare, but because it is so often misunderstood, minimized, or treated as something that “doesn’t happen to us.” But it does. And it has.

Growing up, I remember playing the game “Give me five, on the black hand side.” It was playful, familiar, and part of my south side of Chicago cultural……a moment of connection that didn’t need explanation. The “black hand side” was understood. It was ours. Today, I think about how mental health struggles, grief, and suicide also live on that same side—deeply rooted in our lived experiences, our history, and our resilience. These are things we wrestle with quietly, often without language or permission to speak to them aloud.

I lost my son at 19 years old. Years before that, at just 12, he survived an attempt on his life. Those moments changed everything. They forced me to confront the reality that mental health struggles do not discriminate by age, faith, or love. They forced me to see how early pain can take root, how silence can become dangerous, and how desperately our children need spaces where they are seen, heard, and supported without judgment. This is so clear to me.

In the Black community, suicide often shows up differently. It may look like anger instead of sadness. Withdrawal instead of tears. Overachievement instead of rest. Prayer without therapy. Strength without support. We are taught to endure, to push through, to “be strong,” but rarely are we taught how to be vulnerable—or that vulnerability is not weakness. The stigma surrounding mental health keeps too many of us suffering alone, afraid of being labeled, misunderstood, or dismissed.

To challenge that stigma, I believe we must explore our culture—not just our pain, but our power. Our storytelling, our music, our games, our traditions, our collective care. Healing has always lived in our culture. So has honesty. When we create space to talk about mental health in ways that feel familiar and affirming, we make room for healing to happen. We remind one another that asking for help is not a betrayal of our strength—it is an extension of it.

Suicide is something on the Black hand side that many people wrestle with, whether openly or in silence. It is time we stop pretending otherwise. It is time we reach for one another with the same ease we once reached out our hands in play—recognizing that connection, compassion, and care can save lives.

From my heart, from my loss, and from my hope: let us keep talking. Let us keep listening. Let us keep showing up for one another—on the Black hand side, together.