I entered my first mental health space out of survival, not choice.

It was late in high school. My essays had turned grim—soaked with suicidal undertones that, to me, felt like casual honesty but to others flagged danger. My English teacher, Ms. Singh, stepped in. I will never forget her. She quite literally saved my life. She saw what I was writing and didn’t give me an option: I was going to the guidance counselor. And from that moment forward, I was mandated to attend weekly counseling sessions.

At the time, I didn’t think it was “that serious.” I wasn’t convinced I needed help, and the thought of being sent to counseling left me feeling exposed. Weak. Caught needing help—something I had always been taught to avoid at all costs. Still, I went. And during those sessions, I mostly found myself ranting about what my home life looked like—things I had never really voiced out loud to anyone before.

Looking back now, I see the complexity of that space. On the one hand, it gave me a sliver of something I desperately needed: attention, care, a listening ear. On the other hand, it was a space built on assumptions that didn’t fit my world. And that is where the invisibility began.

Welcomed, but Not Understood

My guidance counselor was warm, no doubt about that. I felt seen—at least superficially. I was someone to listen to, a student with a file, a name that had been flagged as “at risk.” In that sense, I mattered. But being seen is not the same as being understood.

I quickly grew an unhealthy attachment to her. In many ways, she became a kind of maternal figure for me—a role I had long been starving for. I began reading a book a week because she once told me she wished her children read as much as I did. I wanted so badly to be the child she would be proud of. It wasn’t just about therapy anymore; it was about belonging—about chasing the approval and care I so rarely felt at home.

Yet, beneath the warmth, the cultural gaps were impossible to ignore. I remember her suggesting, “Maybe try talking to your parents,” or, “Have you tried saying no?” Anyone raised in an immigrant household knows those phrases are not just useless—they can be laughable. They reveal a fundamental misunderstanding of the power dynamics at play. Of the weight of respectability, of cultural expectation, of filial obedience. I was being offered solutions built for a different kind of household—a different kind of reality.

The Weight of Cultural Translation

In every mental health space I’ve entered since, I’ve had to navigate this same terrain:
the constant work of translating myself.

It started with the small things. Having to explain where I was from because no one had heard of my country. Watching people fumble over my last name—or worse, hearing them butcher it and laugh as if my name was a joke. Over time, you learn to brace yourself for the ways your very existence will be misunderstood before you even open your mouth.

Even the language of mainstream mental health felt alien to me. It is largely built through a white lens. It doesn’t reflect the nuances of being Black, African, an immigrant, a child of diaspora. The frameworks are not built for us. The assumptions are not built for us. And too often, the therapists themselves are not prepared to see us fully.

In those spaces, I didn’t feel outright invisible—but I did feel out of place. Like I had entered a room where the conversations weren’t meant for me. Where I could only participate if I learned how to speak a language that wasn’t my own.

Shrinking to Survive

This disconnect took a toll. I began to shrink myself, to minimize my own pain in order to fit the space. Was it cultural conditioning? Trauma? Probably both. But I caught myself downplaying my struggles because I didn’t believe they would be understood anyway.

And then there’s the issue of high-functioning depression—a trap I fell into deeply. I was still going to school. Still getting good grades. Still doing the things I was “supposed” to do. And so I thought: Maybe I’m being dramatic. Maybe I’m taking up space meant for someone who’s worse off than me. I had this internal mantra: “As long as my schoolwork isn’t affected, I’m fine.”

It wasn’t true, of course. But it was how I coped. Because what was the point of seeking help in spaces that didn’t seem ready to meet me where I was?

The Exhaustion of Conforming

What pained me most was the realization that in order to truly “fit” in many mental health spaces, I would have to conform to a Western framework of healing. I would have to package my pain in ways that were palatable, understandable to white clinicians. I would have to flatten the complex intersections of race, culture, gender, trauma, and survival that shaped my experience.

It was exhausting. And it reinforced the lie that maybe my pain wasn’t valid. That maybe I didn’t belong in these spaces after all.

A Shifting Perspective

Thankfully, my perspective has changed. Through education, through community, through my own healing work, I’ve come to understand that not being okay is okay—and that intersectionality matters more than most of these spaces are willing to admit.

I now see clearly that the mental health spaces I accessed in the past lacked intersectionality in their analyses. They didn’t know how to hold space for someone at the crossroads of being Black, African, immigrant, traumatized, and highly functioning. And when systems lack that understanding, they unintentionally perpetuate harm.

We have made progress—slowly. There is more conversation now about intersectionality, about cultural humility, about trauma-informed care. But there is still a long way to go.

What I Wish Mental Health Spaces Knew

If I could speak directly to those shaping mental health spaces, I would say this:
Educate yourselves. Not just about symptoms and diagnoses, but about cultures. About how different demographics carry pain, express emotion, survive trauma. About how different it is to live in a world where your existence itself is politicized.

Intersectionality is not a buzzword. It is a powerful lens. In Indigenous thought, there is a concept called Two-Eyed Seeing—the ability to honor both Indigenous and Western ways of knowing. Mental health spaces need to cultivate this kind of vision. They need to stop forcing people to conform and start meeting them where they are.

To Those Who Feel Invisible Now

And to anyone reading this who feels invisible in therapy, I want to say:
Your discouragement is real.
Your pain is real.
Your exhaustion is real.
It is not “in your head.” It is not a failure on your part. It is the product of years—generations—of survival-based living. You are carrying burdens that were never meant to be carried alone.

And if your therapist cannot hold your intersectionality—leave them. Keep searching. The right person will honor your full humanity, not just your symptoms. You do not have to shrink to survive. You deserve to be seen, fully, as you are.

You deserve a space where you are not invisible.
And I promise you: those spaces exist.
They are worth seeking.
And you are worth the journey to find them.