We Can’t Heal What We Refuse to Talk About: Mental Health, Faith, and Finding My Voice as a Black Woman in HIV Advocacy

by Audrianna Marzette, MS, Program Specialist, Center for HIV Treatment, Leadership, and Community Engagement

Growing up in the South, we didn’t talk about depression. We prayed about it. We went to church. We kept working. We smiled when people asked how we were doing. If you were struggling, you kept it to yourself because that’s what strong Black women did. At least that’s what I believed. It wasn’t until I moved to Cheyenne, Wyoming, in my early 30s that I experienced loneliness and depression for the first time.

On paper, everything looked fine. I had a job. I was healthy. I had a roof over my head. But inside, life felt heavy. The COVID-19 pandemic had changed everything. Human interaction disappeared almost overnight, and Wyoming’s long, cold winters—with months of gray skies and early sunsets—only magnified the isolation. At the same time, my partner was pursuing his Ph.D. at Colorado State University and quietly struggling with his own mental health. I didn’t know what was happening. I just knew he wasn’t himself. He seemed distant, moody, and unhappy, and I didn’t understand why. Eventually, I wasn’t myself either.

What many people didn’t know was that I had become very good at pretending. I could spend the day laughing with coworkers, making jokes, checking on everyone else, and then go home feeling completely empty. One day, just hours after making everyone around me smile, I found myself sitting alone, wondering how life had become so heavy. That’s the thing about depression. It doesn’t always look like someone crying in the corner. Sometimes it looks like the strongest person in the room. The one who’s still showing up.  The one who’s still helping everyone else. The one who says, “I’m fine.” Looking back, I realize I wasn’t just lonely—I was disconnected. Disconnected from community. Disconnected from purpose. Disconnected from myself.

People often ask what helped me find my way back. The answer isn’t simple. Yes, my faith carried me. Prayer gave me hope when I couldn’t find it on my own. But healing didn’t happen in isolation. Community saved me.

I started volunteering. I became a Certified Nursing Assistant and began providing in-home care to older adults. Caring for others reminded me that I still had purpose. It also reminded me that everyone is carrying something we can’t always see. The more I served, the more I healed.

Today, when I think about mental health, I think less about diagnoses and more about connection. Sometimes the best medicine isn’t having all the answers. Sometimes it’s someone asking, “How are you really doing?” As Black women, we’re often celebrated for being resilient. We are caregivers. Professionals. Mothers. Daughters. Sisters. Aunties. Advocates. We carry families, workplaces, churches, and communities on our backs. But somewhere along the way, many of us learned that strength meant silence. It doesn’t. Strength is asking for help. Strength is resting. Strength is setting boundaries. Strength is admitting that you’re not okay.

Mental health deserves the same attention we give our physical health. That belief is one of the reasons I became so passionate about HIV advocacy. My journey became deeply personal after losing my uncle, who lived with HIV in silence for more than 20 years. Later, a close college friend disclosed his HIV status to me after a serious accident. He refused my help because he was afraid, I might cut myself on broken glass. That moment broke my heart. Even in a crisis, stigma was louder than trust. Those experiences changed me. They taught me that silence doesn’t protect us, it isolates us. Whether we’re talking about HIV, depression, anxiety, or trauma, healing begins when people feel safe enough to tell their stories.

That’s why I support campaigns like Let’s Stop HIV Together. That’s why I believe conversations about PrEP, mental health, and healthy aging must become normal in our communities. And that’s why I continue to advocate for spaces where Black women, older adults, and people living with HIV feel seen, heard, and valued.

This month, as we recognize National Minority Mental Health Awareness Month, I want to challenge my sisters, and honestly, myself, to choose ourselves a little more often. If work feels overwhelming, step away from your desk. Take a walk. Call someone you trust. Pray. Turn on your favorite song and dance around the house. Who cares if you have rhythm? Move anyway. Laugh anyway. Rest anyway. And if today isn’t a good day, remember that tomorrow can be. Sometimes a good day begins with one conversation. Sometimes it begins with one prayer. Sometimes it begins with one person reminding you that you don’t have to carry everything alone.

Because the truth I’ve learned is this: More good days don’t happen because life gets easier. They happen because we choose to face life together.