How Too Much Awareness Can Harm Marginalized People's Mental Health

Over the past few weeks, the media has been covering the rise of Anti-Asian racism with more fervor than before, after violent escalations in Anti-Asian hate crimes around the United States. What also came to light, was that Canada has higher Anti-Asian hate crimes per capita than the US, despite Canada always touting itself as an accepting, pluralistic country, free of the intensity of racism faced by our neighbours to the south. We also saw some acknowledgement of Islamophobia after Alberta had yet another attack on a Muslim woman after a string of unrelated attacks over the past threemonths. There’s been a noticeable rise in Islamophobic hate crimes, specifically targeting Muslim women in Alberta in recent years and months. That was followed by the announcement of new legislation in France, making it illegal for girls under the age of 18 to wear hijabs.

In addition, Trans Day of Visibility, observed annually on March 31st, led to stats and figures around transphobic violence and murders over the past year being shared widely. People took to Instagram, Twitter and other social media websites to acknowledge the horrific stigma and violence that trans folks are often subjected to.

As a gender non-conforming Muslim person of South Asian descent, it was a lot to take in. While I’m grateful that these marginalized groups are getting more media attention and our trials and tribulations are becoming more mainstream knowledge, it also takes a toll on my mental health.

It’s depressing and exhausting to be constantly reminded of the risks of being out as Queer and gender-nonconforming. It’s traumatizing to be scrolling through my feeds, searching for memes and distractions and see people sharing uncensored videos with no trigger warnings of Asians being brutally beaten, spit at, sworn at or subjected to other forms of hate crimes. After the most recent attack on a Muslim woman (which occured within walking distance of where I live), I felt anxious leaving my house.

I want people who are not a part of the marginalized groups I identify with to be aware of these issues. I want them to understand that my fears, anxieties and deep sadness around the realities of our experiences are difficult, and that they take a toll on me. I want validation that I’m not paranoid or pessimistic, but rather aware of the risks. I’m tired of the reactions of “Oh my goodness, I had no idea this was happening!” and desperately want more widespread awareness of issues that are so easily brushed under the rug and forgotten about.

But I also worry about the people like me, who find that this awareness comes at a cost to our mental health. That when faced with constant reminders of the worst parts of our existence, it makes it harder to see the beauty and joy of our lives. I want people to understand that while making privileged folks more aware of inequities and injustice is imperative, we don’t have to do it by compromising our own health and putting ourselves at risk of being triggered. When sharing information online, we have to ask ourselves: 

What purpose does this serve? 

Will this help or harm someone? 

Is there a way I can share this without it potentially triggering or hurting another? 

Will I be exacerbating the fears of those who are already going through enough? 

Whose voice, whose story, whose needs am I centering?

I struggle with this catch-22 of awareness, where the way to reduce harm is through awareness and education, but sometimes that awareness and education is harmful. Days like TDoV and Transgender Day of Remembrance (TDoR) are incredibly important, as is acknowledging the rise in Anti-Asian hate crimes and Islamophobia— we should absolutely NOT be sacrificing building awareness for these groups that have been silenced for far too long. 

But perhaps part of the answer lies in shifting the focus, becoming action oriented and creating safe spaces for those impacted the most to exist. Perhaps instead of sharing traumatizing videos for “impact” we educate and inform people of steps they can take to reduce Anti-Asian racism in their own lives. Perhaps in addition to sharing that trans people experience higher rates of mental illness and suicide, we also share trans joy and success. When any of these issues come up in the media, having friends who check in, ask how I’m doing and recognize the mental health toll these news cycles have makes it easier.

If every headline about trans people is about one of our siblings being murdered, how can we expect young trans people to have hope for their future? I only recently came out as gender-nonconforming, despite being fairly certain I wasn’t cisgender for as long as I can remember, even though I didn’t have the words for it. I was scared because all I had ever heard of were stories of trans pain, death, suicide, violence…the list goes on. I didn’t know that I could safely be exactly who I was.  

If every headline about Muslims paints them as terrorists or focuses on Islamophobic legislation or crime, how can we expect young Muslims to feel proud and not ashamed of who they are? I grew up post-9/11, and I remember seeing how badly my community was painted in the news, and wondering if there was something wrong with me– if I was bad. I used to hide that I was Muslim or make terrorist jokes so no one else would, and each time I did it would chip away at my self-esteem and self-worth. If we allow discriminatory, racially charged comments about Asians and COVID-19 to go unchecked, why are we surprised when Anti-Asian hate crimes escalate?

I don’t think there’s one right answer to all of this– but I know one thing for certain: we need to be centering the voices and experiences of those most vulnerable and impacted. When a tragedy happens to one of these communities, our first thought should be around how we can best support that community in the way that feels best for them. It’s difficult to navigate the fine balance between wanting more awareness, while also being painfully aware of how much it impacts my mental health to be constantly pummeled with traumatizing messaging.

My hope is that we are able to increase trans, Asian and Muslim representation (as well as representation from other underrepresented groups) in the media, so that when we are forced to reckon with the more difficult parts of our experiences, we can couple it with even more positive examples. Representation matters, but getting that representation right matters even more. We need positive stories to uplift our communities, and we need the hard stories to affirm and acknowledge our realities. Too often, when our experiences aren’t acknowledged, society gaslights us into believing we are the only ones or that our discriminatory experiences are all in our head, making difficult experiences more isolating than they need to be. Awareness is a two-sided coin, where we make the world aware of our whole selves and experiences, not just the ones that cause a frenzy of outrage and make good click-bait. We owe it to ourselves, and those hurting the most, to find ways to tell all of our stories; the good, the bad and the ugly.