How Stigma, Therapy, and Dogs Impact My Mental Health Journey

This May marked my first Mental Health Awareness Month as a dog mom, and it feels like the right time to reflect on the ways my dog has truly changed my life. But first, some background— 

I started going to therapy in sixth grade. It was my first year in private school, and my grandparents, whom I lived with for a while, had just moved to a different state. There were a lot of changes taking place that I didn’t feel prepared for, but I didn’t know how to talk about that feeling. I just felt bad. All the time. I couldn’t figure out how all the other students seemed to make friends and relax so easily, or why everyone seemed so smiley except for me. When I started randomly and silently crying in class, teachers recommended that I go see the school counselor, and my relationship with talk therapy began.

In this photo, I’m trying to smile my way through a breakdown during the summer after my freshman year of high school, 2011.

The talking made me feel less strange. And although the sadness didn’t go away altogether, I still found comfort in the fact that this professional was telling me that what I felt wasn’t weird, and I wasn’t alone. After that counselor was laid off, I asked my mom to find me an out-of-school therapist, and then came a litany of therapists that weren’t the right fit but were all we could afford with our insurance. 

My relationships with therapists in high school were unfulfilling. I still didn’t have enough vocabulary to accurately explain what I needed. I recommend therapy to everyone (literally everyone— I’ve never met a person that I don’t think would benefit from therapy) but I also acknowledge that access to quality care is hard to come by for a lot of people. Racism and classism have the power to damage a person’s mental health and then on top of that, keep them from getting the help that they need. The National Alliance on Mental Illness shared that only one third of Black folks over 18 who need mental health services actually receive that care.

When It Comes to Mental Health, Race Should Not Be a Barrier To Achieving Personal Peace

Part of what keeps Black folks out of therapy is the persistent stigma in the Black community that associates mental illness with weakness. I don’t know how many times I’ve heard that “therapy is for white people,” and that I just need to pray my depression away or that it’s a phase that I’ll grow out of. I can’t entirely blame us. Black people have been attacked from so many angles that it’s not surprising that parents would teach their children to be exceptionally tough— no room for weakness. 

I found a lot of comfort in extracurriculars (this photo is from right before I performed in a poetry show), but I still felt really isolated.

I spent summers down South with my grandparents and when I’d sleep until the evening, they’d lightheartedly call me lazy. At that point, I still didn’t know that excessive sleep was a symptom of depression so I just believed them.

I can’t help but think of how much better we’d feel as a community if we had more room to be soft and vulnerable without worrying about how that softness might be used against us in society. Black folks deserve personal peace, and we deserve to use every available tool to help us achieve that peace.

In college, I connected with Benjamin*, a therapist in my school’s counseling and psychological services office. I worked with Benjamin for over two 2 years because he was great at affirmation, which is what I needed at the time. I was still having the same issues of struggling to connect with my peers, and the added stress of college exacerbated the symptoms of my depression and anxiety. 

On weekends, I would stay in bed for 16 hours at a time. I worked myself to exhaustion by taking on leadership roles in way too many extracurricular activities. With consistent therapy and exercise, I felt like I was managing at least, and few other people noticed that anything was wrong because I appeared social because of all of the groups I was in and I was performing really well in school. I had my routines and I was on track to graduate, so even though I still didn’t feel happy, I thought I was doing well enough.

The Ups and Downs of My Mental Health Journey Through Higher Education  

Poetry helped me express myself, but it didn't necessarily help me connect with people.

But when I started grad school in 2018, those same routines suddenly weren’t enough. I had just crossed the finish line of grad school, and yet I felt like I had gotten nowhere. I moved back to my home state for school, and was facing yet another “first day of school.” I didn’t have friends yet, I didn’t have a school ID yet so I couldn’t use the gym, and the waitlist for mental health services was long. I fell back into old habits: sleeping until the sun went down, eating once a day, and getting absolutely nothing done. 

When I did finally get an appointment in the mental health office, I told the office that I had no preferences for the race and gender of my therapist but they still paired me with an older Black woman. She and I didn’t get along at all, and I later found out that this woman had a history of making her Black patients quit therapy. I was lucky to even get an appointment within 2 weeks, as I knew many other grad students who waited for months to be matched with someone. 

Here’s my puffy-faced smile after a long night and a lot of tears.

I put in a request for a new therapist and we got along a bit better. She was the first person to write me a prescription for an antidepressant. At first I was hesitant about becoming dependent on medicine to function, but my old methods were not working so eventually I decided to try something new.

Things turned around immediately. Again, I got lucky because a lot of people have to try many different combinations of meds before they find the mix that works best for them, but my one little pill continues to work wonders for me. The very first weekend that I used my medicine, I started getting out of bed in the morning. I found the energy to cook myself a meal. It was a serious game-changer for me; I was feeling like my best self again. Even better, actually. For the first time in a long time, I was feeling consistently happy. 

How the Quarantine and My Pandemic Puppy Impacted My Mental Health  

But then— 2020. That year really laid me out. Again, my routines were interrupted. I came to Philly to visit my partner for spring break, and was suddenly barred from returning to campus. I was living out of a suitcase for 3 months. Gyms were closed. And I went from being in a long-distance relationship to sharing a one-bedroom apartment in Philly overnight. 

I was privileged enough not to be directly impacted by the pandemic (no one in my immediate family got sick). I still felt sadder, like I was out of control of my life and scrambling for new solutions. I started sleeping late again, skipping meals, and lacking motivation to exercise and complete assignments. I felt like I was losing all that progress I had made years ago.

All of the staples of my depression conflicted with being a great dog mom, and I was determined to be the best dog mom Ginger could ever ask for.  (Photo credit: Chelby Elam)

Like many others, I spent a lot of 2020 just trying to stay afloat. Then, in the fall, my partner and I decided that we could use a bit more energy in the house, and we were stable enough to bring a dog into the family, so we adopted Ginger. I’m so glad we did. 

Adopting a puppy required me to make new routines and foster healthy habits. I couldn’t sleep past noon because I had to take her out to pee. I couldn’t leave the apartment a mess because she needed space to play safely. I got more exercise because she needed at least two 45-minute walks per day. Feeding and cleaning her reminded me to feed and clean myself. I made friends with the other dog parents I ran into every day. All of the staples of my depression conflicted with being a great dog mom, and I was determined to be the best dog mom Ginger could ever ask for. 

I’m still determined. Ginger brings the best out of me. As long as I’m taking care of her, I feel like I’m accomplishing something. I don’t feel out of control or lost. She makes me feel responsible, loving, and loved. Our relationship, as well as sharing our journey online for other first-time dog parents, gives me a sense of purpose. That could be a lot of pressure to put on a dog, but Ginger doesn’t seem to mind whining until I get out of bed or dragging me all the way to her favorite park. I think we both love snuggling on the couch after a long day of working on the couch. Plus, she’s very well-compensated for her work (shoutout to jerky)! I’m not entirely dependent on her, but she makes a great addition to all of the other strategies I use to make me feel stable and content. 

I’m no longer chronically depressed. Anxiety and stress are still persistent problems, but I feel more equipped than ever to combat the bouts of anxiety that do pop up. Mental health journeys are so individual, and everyone’s timeline is different. All I can  say is that if you’re struggling with your mental health, I hope you find the thing(s) that bring you peace. You deserve joy and love, and I’m rooting for you from across the internet. 

Editors Note: If you would like to donate to the Loveland Foundation Therapy Fund to help Black women and girls, click here.

*Note: The name of Kassidi’s therapist was changed for the purposes of this article.