By Scotty Robinson Jr.

I know both sides of the badge. I’ve been a police officer walking into unpredictable situations, and I’ve been a therapist sitting across from clients in the throes of trauma, depression or psychosis. I’ve worn both uniforms — one stitched with authority, the other stitched with empathy. And it’s from this dual lens that I speak an uncomfortable truth: for people of color, especially Black men, experiencing a mental health crisis can look too much like a threat to the wrong eyes. 

That misperception can cost them their lives. 

When a Black or Brown person is in crisis, the symptoms — yelling, pacing, disorientation, emotional volatility — are often seen by responding officers not as signs of suffering but as signals of danger. There is a deeply embedded, often unconscious, bias that associates our pain with aggression and our breakdowns with violence. 

According to The Sentencing Project, Black Americans are 2.5 times more likely to be shot and killed by police than white Americans. Nearly 25 percent of fatal police encounters involve individuals with mental illness.

Law enforcement officers are trained to control, command and respond to threats. But what happens when the “threat” is actually a person experiencing a panic attack, dissociation or manic episode? What happens when de-escalation is replaced with force before compassion is ever considered? 

Too often, the result is handcuffs instead of help. Or worse. 

The system is not built to interpret mental health struggles through a lens of cultural understanding. Mental illness doesn’t always present with trembling hands. Sometimes, it comes out as yelling. Cursing. Isolation. Anger. In communities where survival has meant being loud, tough and guarded, those expressions aren’t just symptoms — they’re defense mechanisms shaped by generational trauma. 

To an untrained officer with fear in their eyes, that looks like resistance. That looks like danger. That justifies force. 

And in those high-stakes seconds, the outcome of a life-or-death decision may rest not on the threat present, but on the race of the person in crisis.

We cannot talk about mental health without talking about policing. And we cannot fix the criminalization of crisis without reimagining who responds to it. 

Here’s what I believe must happen: 

• Police must be trained to recognize mental health emergencies, especially in communities of color. 
• Crisis response teams should be led by mental health professionals — with officers present only as support. 
• People of color must be centered in the redesign of public safety systems.
• Therapists, advocates and survivors must keep speaking up — because too many can’t. 

When I look at a young Black man in crisis, I don’t see a suspect — I see a younger version of myself. Someone who’s hurting and doesn’t have the words or the room to say so. Someone who needs help, not a holster. 

We can’t afford to keep confusing cries for help with threats of harm. Our lives depend on it. 

To community leaders, mental health advocates, agencies and policymakers — these are pivotal times. The current social and political climate demands that we build real alliances between our communities and law enforcement. We must fund culturally forward training, center lived experience, and invest in programs that elevate the voices of those often misunderstood. 

Budget decisions must reflect that urgency. 

If this message resonates, don’t let it end here. 

Take it with you — to your living rooms and lunch tables, your places of worship and work, your barbershops, classrooms and group chats. Talk about what it means to recognize crisis before it becomes tragedy. Talk about what justice looks like when paired with compassion. 

Speak up at council meetings. Reach out to school leadership. Invite law enforcement into your spaces — not just to answer, but to listen. 

This isn’t only about systems. It’s about shifting culture. 

The future of our communities depends on what we’re willing to do — together.

Former Salisbury Police officer Scotty Robinson Jr. is a mental health therapist in training, author and advocate for culturally responsive care.