Harvard-trained educator and therapist Araya Baker explains why it's important for minorities to have therapists and mental health resources who are part of marginalized communities.

Unfortunately, little has changed during the forty or fifty years since the mental health field first opened its doors and ivory towers to folks besides White men — starting with White women, the first historically marginalized group to attain the social access and wealth necessary to pursue advanced degrees in psychology and social work. Today, more than any other demographic, White women still predominate the field, with upward of 75% of therapists and social workers identifying as such.

On top of that, a 2015 study by the American Psychological Association, looking at U.S. pyschology workforce demographics between 2005 and 2013, found that Whites comprised 83.6% of psychologists, while representation of Black Americans stood at 5.3%, Latinx at 5%, and Asian Americans, a mere 4.3%. Native Americans were not even accounted for. I’ve also found no data, to date, on LGBTQ+ therapists, which means that queer Black therapists like me are essentially invisible in the literature on counselors and mental health professionals. This poses a huge problem for the millions of queer people of color out there, who desperately want to know if therapists like me even exist.

In fact, a 2006 study on race-matching in therapy supports this belief, suggesting that for some clients, sharing a minoritized identity with a therapist may reduce guardedness, mistrust, and self-consciousness.

Unsurprisingly, this idea gets a lot of pushback.

A number of professionals in the mental health field, much like many educators in the education field field, believe that clients from minoritized communities gain no exceptional benefits from working with therapists who share with them a certain identity or community. The presumption is that representation is only surface-deep. Yet, as a crisis counselor and therapist, I indeed experienced that commonality and representation often facilitated rapport, and resulted in a stronger therapeutic relationship with some queer clients, some Black clients, and each and every queer Black client. The converse idea that cultural competency allows one to “master” another’s culture is nothing more than speculation rooted in inconclusive evidence, bias, and quite frankly, capitalism and greed.

Even with the multiple identities and forms of oppression that I hold and encounter as a Black, LGBTQ+ person with mental illness, it’s still impossible for me to closely relate to the identity or lived experience of every single client that I meet. Moreover, if a client of any background asked me to refer them to a counselor who shared with them an identity, community or lived experience, I wouldn’t hesitate. People deserve to voice their opinions, and have their needs met. Simple as that.

To that end, seeing people get well and stay well matters more to me than who’s in front or behind of me, in this competitive rat race of a therapist market. I do this work because I want to see people thrive, not simply survive and get by. That level of integrity begins with me encouraging clients not to settle for any therapist who is not a good fit, including myself, possibly.

Still, therapists have to eat, which is why I felt compelled to raise awareness about the overlooked issue of minority therapists needing support. At community based organizations, where we sacrifice decent compensation to offer affordable care to our people, we encounter glass ceilings. On the other hand, in private practice, we come up against outdated and oppressive notions of how a “real therapist” presents: namely, an older White man, or a younger White woman. Without any reciprocity from our communities, we don’t flourish. But, most importantly — as evidenced by the numerous people who reached out — when our communities don’t know how and where to find us, the potential mutual benefit that could happen can’t happen.