The Courage to Heal: Breaking Cycles and Building Hope in Minority Ethnic Communities

By Katie Patel, PsyD

I still remember the helicopters circling above my school, their sound vibrating through the walls long before I understood what it meant. I was too young to grasp the fear in the adults’ voices, but I felt it anyway. In the days that followed, I could feel the constant stares and the painful jokes: “Are you going to bomb my house?” That day, of course, was 9/11.  And it became my earliest memory of living in two realities at once: the calm face I showed the world, and the quiet vigilance that settled deep inside me. Identity, fear, and resilience collided—and in that moment, silence felt like the only safe choice.

Ethnic minority communities face interlocking cycles that make mental health challenges harder to recognize and talk about. These cycles aren’t caused by any one person or group—they’re shaped by history, culture, systemic inequities, and lived experience.

Being a person of color, I was constantly reminded—sometimes in small, subtle ways, sometimes in ways that couldn’t be ignored—of all the extra hurdles life might throw in my path, and how they could make simply trying to “succeed” feel that much harder. From an early age, I felt the weight of immigration, assimilation, and the relentless push toward the so-called “American Dream.” Through it all, the lessons were clear: be grateful, endure without complaint, stay private, and be resilient. And for a long time, I carried those lessons like armor—protective, but heavy.

Now, watching ICE raids and changes to immigration policies, I can’t help but reflect on what it really means to be a member of an ethnic minority group. Where do we belong? And how do we make space for our mental health, our dreams, and our voices in a world that often seems determined to test our resilience?

The Cycle of Overburdened Resilience

I was often praised for being “strong” and a “good daughter.” In many ethnic minority communities, this kind of praise is given freely, without realizing the weight it carries. Over time, that praise became another kind of pressure—and another cycle.

I felt I had to be strong for my family. I watched them face constant hurdles, and I learned to minimize my own pain in response. Carrying it all alone never got easier, but somehow, I felt a strange sense of pride in doing so. Meanwhile, my depression, anxiety, and burnout quietly piled up, growing into a mountain I couldn’t climb.

The more overwhelmed I felt, the more convinced I became that I should handle it all on my own. But this cycle was dangerous. My so-called resilience turned into self-silencing. My mental health struggles worsened, which in turn increased the pressure to “be strong.” And just like that, the cycle continued.

The Cycle of Stigma

Mental health stigma is universal. For ethnic minority groups, it shows up in unique, culturally shaped, and often more intense ways. It’s not just  “more stigma”; it’s stigma with different roots, different consequences, and different barriers to healing.

“We must work twice as hard to be taken seriously.”

For a long time, I saw my mental health challenges as a moral failing. These struggles were not openly discussed and were taught to stay within the family. To struggle meant I was bringing shame to my loved ones, that I was weak, that I was failing. The fear wasn’t just judgment — it’s losing dignity, opportunity, and safety in a world filled with preconceived notions. 

Like many in ethnic minority communities, I learned to shield my pain from my family. I became a professional at silence. At first, silence felt like protection. But over time, it only deepened my suffering. My diagnosis and treatment were delayed, and the cycle reinforced the belief that seeking help was shameful. 

Growing up in an Indian household and South Asian-American community, I was taught the value of sacrifice, putting others first, fulfilling my duties, and prioritizing collective well-being over individual needs. These values are beautiful strengths—but they also masked my suffering. Stigma wrapped itself around my identity: “I’m supposed to be strong. I’m not allowed to fall apart.”

The Cycle of Identity Strain

I was diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder when I was 19 years old. An already turbulent age riddled with questions about who I was and where I belonged. That period of self-discovery was complicated by years of learning to code-switch between two cultures. For people from ethnic minority backgrounds, this tension is ongoing. The ongoing negotiation between two worlds creates a cycle that affects self-worth, belonging, and mental well-being. 

You’re always adjusting, always translating yourself, always switching roles. At times, I felt like I didn’t fully belong in either culture. My diagnosis exacerbated that feeling. I was emotionally drained, questioning who I truly was. 

During this time, I learned to withdraw from my family and friends, trying to make sense of my identities in solitude. But isolation reinforced the very fears that had started the cycle in the first place: “Maybe I really don’t fit anywhere.”

Community as a Source of Strength

Healing from my mental health struggles required leaning into my family and intentionally breaking the cycles that many ethnic minority families face. Bridging the collectivistic and individualistic cultures I grew up in meant speaking my truth, sharing my lived experience, not only to heal myself but also to remind my community that it’s okay to struggle. Being “strong” no longer meant hiding, withdrawing, and simply fitting in. It meant being an advocate, proudly sharing my story. 

I feel humbled and grateful to be a part of One Mind’s Lived Experience Community, a collective of diverse individuals sharing their stories to create positive change. Together, we are redefining how we view mental health challenges, empowering people with lived experience, and leading with empathy. This is a community where I feel seen, supported, and like I truly belong. 

When the Cycles Broke

I remember the exact moment I realized something in me had shifted. It was during a family dinner, one of those evenings filled with conversations about recent accomplishments. My mum sensed something and asked gently, “How have you really been doing?” Normally, I would’ve deflected—I’m fine, don’t worry, everything’s okay. But this time, I paused, took a breath, and told the truth. I shared the weight I had been carrying, the exhaustion, fear, and the challenges I was trying to manage. Everyone was silent. It was not a heavy silence, but a spacious one. Everyone was just present with the emotions they could all empathize with. 

In that moment, I realized I had broken something—not myself, but all of these vicious cycles. It made me more human. And instead of shutting down or avoiding these conversations, my family drew closer. When community and vulnerability meet, we can experience a kind of healing rooted not in silence or survival, but in being fully seen.