Planting Seeds and Tearing Down Stigma: A Personal Reflection on Minority Mental Health

Planting Seeds and Tearing Down Stigma in Appalachia: A Personal Reflection on Minority Mental Health

I was born and raised in Morgan County, Ohio—a place that shaped me, challenged me, and still holds my roots. I come from a family that gave everything so I could have enough. We grew up poor, though I didn’t realize it at the time. There was always food on the table, clothes for school, and a roof over our heads. It wasn’t until I was older that I understood the quiet sacrifices my mother and grandmother made for us- going without medicine, stitching up worn clothes instead of buying new ones, skipping meals to make sure we were full. That’s the kind of love that doesn’t make the headlines, but it forms the foundation of everything I am.

Growing up in a mixed-race family in rural Appalachia, I was no stranger to discrimination. From grade school through high school, I faced racism head-on. It lit a fire in me—a desire to stand up, to speak out, to make a difference. I dreamed of becoming a civil rights attorney. I even earned a scholarship to Denison University. But life has a way of rewriting our scripts. The year I graduated high school, I lost both my mother and great-grandmother. Overnight, I went from college-bound teenager to family provider for our fixed-income household.

I worked in factories, commuting three hours round-trip each day for years—chasing small raises, chasing stability. But I never let go of the dream of doing more. Eventually, a job offered tuition reimbursement, and I made a bold move: I enrolled in the police academy. My grandfather had been one of the first Black sheriff’s deputies in Morgan County, and I believed I could follow in his footsteps—changing the relationship between law enforcement and my community from within.

I passed the exams. I graduated. But when it came time to get hired, the doors in my own county stayed shut. Still, I refused to give up. I found another way forward. I started college at Ohio University Zanesville and spent several years taking classes. My family used to joke that I’d been in school long enough to become a doctor. I told them I would be—just not the kind that prescribes medicine.

Eventually, I became a professor, a counselor, a director, associate dean, and an advocate for justice for all. I created programs for at-risk youth. I taught courses in counseling, family studies, and career development. I’ve sat across from young people who had no roadmap for success, who’d been told they weren’t worth much. And I helped them build new paths—one decision, one conversation, one second chance at a time. I also had the honor of becoming a father of two beautiful, caring, and loving daughters that share the same passion for others.

Through all of this, my mission has been clear: to lift others up, especially those our systems have historically left behind. And that brings me to the heart of this reflection—July, Minority Mental Health Awareness Month.

This month matters. It shines a necessary light on the disparities that persist in mental health access and treatment for communities of Color—and for those of us in rural United States. I know these disparities firsthand. I’ve lived them. I’ve counseled others through them. I’ve seen the damage stigma does. In many underserved communities, including the one I come from, seeking help is viewed as weakness and extremely taboo. Mental health struggles are kept quiet, “handled in the family”—which usually means ignored. I was told to man-up. Told to stop acting weak. Told to be tough, no matter what I was feeling.

But silence is not strength. Bottling it up doesn’t heal you—it hardens you.

And this is not unique to communities of Color. It’s just as prevalent in white, working-class Appalachian families where pride, tradition, and survival have taught generations to bury their struggles, mental and physical. There’s this deep-rooted belief that pain is private. That outsiders can’t be trusted. That if you’re struggling, you’re failing.

As a licensed mental health and rehabilitation counselor and a man who’s spent his entire life navigating these cultural expectations, I’m here to say: that mindset is hurting us.

It hurts the young men in my classes who are ashamed to cry. It hurts the mothers who stay silent about postpartum depression. It hurts the students who show up at my door, exhausted from carrying pain and trauma they don’t know how to name.

That’s why culturally competent care matters. That’s why empathy matters.

We need more counselors who understand where we come from—who listen first and show interest in various experiences, who don’t judge, who get that sometimes you’ve got to tell a story before you can name the feeling. Storytelling is how we pass wisdom in Appalachia. It’s how we teach. It’s how we survive. It’s how we move forward. And too often, our mental health systems are so focused on checklists and diagnoses that they forget to just sit down and listen. You want to help someone heal? Start there.

I’ve also learned that people are more willing to trust mental health professionals when they see themselves reflected in the room. That “mirror image” effect matters. Representation matters. If we want more people of Color, more Appalachian folks, more men to seek help, we need to show them that help looks like them too.

I’ve worked with international students who told me that where they’re from—Japan, for instance—mental health support is taboo. They were never allowed to talk about feelings. They were told to go to a medical doctor if they felt “off.” And yet, here in the U.S., they finally felt safe enough to ask for help. Why? Because someone made the effort to understand them, to create space for their stories, beliefs, and experiences.

Creating those spaces is what Minority Mental Health Month should be about. Not just raising awareness, but moving us toward action—toward reforming the systems, expanding access, improving representation, and most importantly, listening.

I’ve seen firsthand what happens when people feel heard. I’ve told students I was proud of them—and watched them break down in tears, because no one had ever said that to them before. Words matter. Safe spaces matter. Human connection matters. And yes, men cry. Yes, strong people struggle. And yes, healing takes more than duct tape and pride—it takes empathy, understanding, and work.

So, what can you do?

You can be an ally. Not just in name, but in presence. Show up. Learn. Listen. Advocate. Ask people to tell you their stories and hold space for those truths. Advocate for better policies. Support diverse hiring. Challenge stigma when you hear it, especially in your own circles. And if you’re struggling, know that asking for help is one of the bravest things you can do.

I’ve lived this. I’ve taught it. I’ve counseled through it. And I’m still learning every day. Because ultimately, this work is about planting seeds. I may not see every one grow—but I plant them anyway. With hope. With love. With the unshakable belief that we can do better for the next generation.

Let that be our legacy.

—Tony Mayle