Warning: This story contains mentions of self-harm.

The early days of COVID-19 were difficult for Zaid Baig.

Even though he’d felt unhappy long before the pandemic, the 23-year old Carleton University student said he found himself lonelier than ever. Online school felt unreal, he couldn’t see his friends anymore, his daily routine was upended.

“It kind of feels like a BlackMirror episodes,” he remembered.

It all came to a breaking point during the first lockdown.

“The isolation really created this whole idea in my head that things are not going to get better,” he said.

“And because of that, I tried to harm myself.”

He went to the ER where he spoke with the on-call psychiatrist.

Baig said after that, he realized he needed long-term mental health help. Like many youth, particularly the Black, Indigenous and people of color (BIPOC) community, he didn’t know where to begin.

From the cultural stigma of finding someone to talk to who understands your background, he says BIPOC youth face unique obstacles to getting mental health help and is sharing their experiences to help others.

‘It’s just taboo’

Drayton Mulindabigwi Jabo, now 21 and at the University of Ottawa, also felt at a loss in the pandemic’s early days.

Back then, Mulindabigwi was in Grade 12 back then and had big plans for graduation and beyond, including a school trip to Costa Rica and applications for pre-medical school.

When everything was suddenly cancelled, Mulindabigwi said he found himself feeling helpless and anxious about his future.

“I felt overwhelmed… it was like a sense of paralysis,” he said.

But Mulindabigiwi, who moved to Canada with his family from Rwanda in 2009, said he chose not to tell his parents about his struggles.

“I didn’t understand it as a problem to be shared,” he said. “It’s just not something that’s brought up.”

He said being a newcomer to Canada meant his parents had to worry about a lot of things — from employment, to housing and more.

“That doesn’t leave space for talks on mental health,” he said. “The cultural perception of mental health is, like, of people being crazy.”

Baig, too, said his immigrant parents never spoke to him about mental health — “it’s just taboo.”

“They would say ‘Just pray more, drink more water, eat healthy,’ but they wouldn’t really address why I’m feeling like this.”

Even after his visit to the emergency room, Baig says his parents remained hesitant about psychotherapy.

“It was really hard for them to believe that a person could go through this… and [I] felt really invalidated.”

A cultural divide

Baig was eventually diagnosed with anxiety and depression and was prescribed medication.

He said although this helped, he faced a new challenge: His therapy appointments left him feeling uneasy.

“I had to explain myself about why I felt certain emotions and where they came from, given the fact that I’m a person of color,” said Baig.

“Like getting approval from my parents and how important that was… to be a good student and not think about having fun. And if you do start to have fun… the guilt that comes with it.”

He said he found himself wishing his therapist was able to understand him.

“The stigma within the South Asian community… it was no news to me,” he said. “But when I was talking to my white therapist, it just seemed like she lived in a different world.”

Baig said he felt increasingly anxious after each appointment and it took a while for him to recover afterwards.

After nearly five months, Baig decided to stop. He said the cultural divide was too wide for him to bridge while grappling with his own mental health.

Lack of access to ‘culturally responsive’ care

According to registered social worker and psychotherapist Bruno Jung-Millen, who specializes in racial minority stress and trauma, BIPOC communities have always faced additional mental health pressure.

Known as “minority stress,” he says it’s the result of being “othered” through societal discrimination based on race, religion, gender and more.

“There’s a lot of pressure as a BIPOC individual to succeed. You need to do more because it feels like there’s always catching up to do to get to the more dominant group,” he said.

Then he said the pandemic “poured gas into a fire pit.”

A sharp increase in racial discrimination paired with social isolation meant he began seeing more requests for his services and more severe client needs.

“We saw, in my practice, BIPOC youth and their families… reaching out and saying ‘We are isolated. We need someone who understands how we feel, without having to explain over and over… we just need someone who can relate to our struggles .'”

To help BIPOC youth with these struggles, Jung-Millen says a “culturally responsive” mental health care approach is needed — rooted in cultural awareness, sensitivity, humility and BIPOC lived experience that “responds to cultural needs” to feel understood and validated — otherwise therapy can do more harm than good

“When the therapist doesn’t understand the youth … it creates another invalidating experience where they feel like they’re not being heard and it solidifies their belief that ‘No one gets me,'” he said.

But, Jung-Millen added that accessing culturally responsive care is difficult because of stigma, a lack of awareness, affordability and just the sheer lack of BIPOC therapists available to meet the rising demand.

Jung-Millen, whose practice is now fully booked, finds himself having to turn people away.

“There’s not enough supply to meet the demand,” he said.

‘It’s OK to share’

After his own struggles with mental health began, Mulindabigwi created an initiative called HealMind — which connects youth with mental health supports, including a QR-coded sticker which links the user with online resources.

“HealMind turned me into a mental health advocate,” said Mulindabigwi, adding it allowed him to broach the subject more freely with his parents and break cultural barriers by educating them in the process.

To date, he has still not sought out the help of a mental health professional. He said it’s partly because he’s worried he won’t find a therapist who understands.

Meanwhile, Baig said instead of therapy, last summer he joined a cricket club near his parents’ house in Mississauga.

“To heal my inner child after I stopped going to therapy, and accepted my cultural identity, I had to find a place, a group of individuals that really allowed me to be myself and not be ashamed of my South Asian identity.” he said.

At the cricket club, Baig said he began to feel more like himself — and got closer to his parents, who started to understand his struggles as he opened up.

He also began posting videos online about his journey with mental health — targeting many South Asian audiences.

“Why I decided to be vocal on TikTok is to simply let more people know that what you’re feeling is normal. It’s OK to have these thoughts. It’s OK to share and be vulnerable because this is actually part of the process,” he said.

Meanwhile, Baig said he was still on the lookout for a therapist — one who, perhaps, looks like him and has been in his shoes.

“[BIPOC] mental health is a real issue that needs to be given attention,” he said.

Need help? Here are some mental health resources: