What if the bravest thing you could do was let someone see you struggling?
In a culture that demands Black men be invincible, choosing to be vulnerable isn’t weakness — it’s warfare. It’s a radical act of resistance against every message that told you to suffer silently, carry it alone, and never let them see you sweat. Healing in public is a power move. And it might just save your life.
The Private Pain
We’ve mastered the art of compartmentalization. Pain stays locked away. Struggle stays hidden. Healing — if it happens at all — happens in isolation, like something shameful that needs to be kept secret. One brother shared in a workshop: “I was having panic attacks in my car before work. Full-on couldn’t breathe, chest tight, thought I was dying. Did this for months. Didn’t tell anyone — not my wife, not my boys, nobody. Because what would they think of me?” This is the prison of privacy. We think we’re protecting ourselves by hiding our struggles, but we’re actually just suffering alone while everyone else suffers alone too, each of us convinced we’re the only one falling apart.
The Stigma
Let’s be real: There’s deep stigma around mental health in Black communities. And it’s not unfounded suspicion —it’s rooted in historical trauma. We’ve been studied, pathologized, experimented on, and institutionalized. Therapy was used as a tool of oppression. Medication was used as control. So when we say “I don’t trust therapy,” what we’re really saying is “I don’t trust systems that have historically harmed us.” That’s valid. But here’s what we’re exploring in ICBM: What if healing didn’t have to happen in those systems? What if community-based healing — brothers (and sisters) holding brothers (and sisters) accountable, visible vulnerability, collective support — could be just as transformative?
The Power of Witness
Something shifts when you stop hiding your struggle. When you say to someone you trust: “I’m not okay. I need help. I’m struggling.” And instead of rejection, you receive recognition: “Me too, brother. Me too.” In our workshops, we call it “breaking the silence.” And it’s contagious in the best way. When one man shares his battle with depression, three others admit they’ve been there too. When someone talks about his fear of failing his children, half the room nods. When a brother cries about missing his father — both grieving the relationship they had and mourning the one they never got — it creates permission for everyone else to grieve theirs too. This is healing in public: letting your struggle be seen so others know they’re not alone in theirs.
The Community Container
Black men have always healed in community — barbershops, basketball courts, church fellowships, porches, cyphers. We just didn’t call it healing. We called it brotherhood or fellowship. But somewhere along the way, even those spaces became performance spaces. Where we competed over who was doing best instead of who could be most real. Where vulnerability became liability.
ICBM is about reclaiming and redefining those community spaces. Creating intentional circles where:
Struggle isn’t shameful — it’s shared
Vulnerability isn’t weakness — it’s wisdom
Asking for help isn’t failure — it’s faith in your brothers to hold you down
One participant described it as “the room I didn’t know I needed”— a space where he could take the mask off, set the armor down, and just be human.
What It Looks Like
Healing in public doesn’t mean posting your trauma on social media (though if that’s healing for you, do you). It means:
Choosing Your Circle
Find a few men you trust and getting real with them. Get real with each other. Not just surface talk — actual truth about what you’re carrying
Showing Up Messy
Letting people see you in process, not just in perfection. Coming to the group and say “I’m struggling this week” instead of “I’m good.”
Receiving Support
Now here’s the hard part — actually letting people help. Accepting the check-in text. Saying yes when someone offers to sit with you. Believing you deserve support.
Paying It Forward
When you’ve been held through something hard, you hold someone else. The healing becomes circular, not just individual.
The Risk and Reward
Yes, yes, there’s risk. Being vulnerable means, you could be hurt. Sharing your struggle means someone could weaponize it. Opening up means you might be disappointed. But you also have to consider the risk of not doing it: isolation, deterioration, the slow erosion of self that comes from carrying everything alone. In our workshops, men consistently say the same thing: “I wish I’d done this years ago. I didn’t know how much I needed this until I had it.”
The Cultural Shift
When high-profile Black men — athletes, artists, leaders — started talking about therapy and mental health, something shifted. It created permission. It normalized what had been taboo. But it can’t just be celebrities doing the work. It has to be us — in our families, our neighborhoods, our circles. Having the conversations. Modeling the vulnerability. Creating the spaces where healing isn’t hidden. Because the next generation is watching. And they need to see that it’s possible to be strong and struggling, powerful and in process, masculine and in therapy.
The Truth
Healing in public is a power move because it disrupts every system that profits from your silence. It challenges every narrative that demands your indestructibility. It refuses the isolation that keeps us weak while pretending to keep us strong. Your vulnerability gives other people permission to be vulnerable. Your healing creates space for someone else’s healing. Your courage to be seen in struggle might be exactly what saves someone who’s suffering in silence. This is how we break generational cycles. This is how we build healthier communities. This is how we redefine what strength actually means. Not by being invincible. But by being brave enough to be human in front of each other. That’s the power move: choosing healing over hiding, community over isolation, wholeness over the performance of being fine. And brother, you deserve that. We all do. Craft what has yet to exist. It’s the ICBM way.
Suggested Reading: “The Invisible Ache: Black Men Identifying Their Pain and Reclaiming Their Power” by Courtney B. Vance and Dr. Robin L. Smith
Date posted: November 26, 2025
Author: Fredrick Bush