Ashley Stewart, PhD, is the Inaugural American Institutes of Research Health Equity Research Fellow at the Congressional Black Caucus Foundation.
Scroll through TikTok or X on any given night and you’ll find young people trading stories about therapy, trauma, and “soft life” healing. In 2022, TikTok reported over 45 billion views of #mentalhealth, 28 billion views of #selfcare, and one billion views of #wellbeing. What looks like casual content-sharing is, in many ways, a new kind of public health practice, one born out of necessity. With 46% of Black adults reporting difficulty finding providers who understand their background, and 34% reporting cost-related concerns, social media has become a frontline space for mental health conversations among Black emerging adults.
In the US, Black emerging adults face this crisis at a unique intersection, navigating racism, economic pressure, and the emotional weight of digital exposure to racial violence. They’re entering into adulthood in a world where their timelines often serve as both coping mechanism and battleground. The stakes for their well-being couldn’t be higher. New research from the Center for Policy Analysis and Research at the Congressional Black Caucus Foundation, “Black on the Timeline,” reveals that these digital spaces are just as consequential for them, shaping their mental health and sense of identity in ways we rarely address.
Social media remains central to how Black young people build relationships and find community. The research, which included an online survey of more than 1,600 Black emerging adults ages 18-25, found that, for many, it’s the primary space to express themselves freely, access news that centers Black voices, and find support around mental health. Nearly half said they turn to platforms like YouTube, X (formerly Twitter), and TikTok for advice about mental health and therapy.
For those experiencing significant mental and emotional distress, this is especially important to understand. Gender-diverse Black young people reported significantly higher levels of distress and anxiety. Their online experiences are shaped not just by race, but by intersecting layers of identity that make them targets for multiple forms of bias and harassment. In these digital worlds, visibility can be both empowering and dangerous.
One of the most troubling findings from “Black on the Timeline” is how misinformation circulates in mental health conversations online. Viral posts often collapse complex diagnoses into personality traits, e.g., “If you overthink, you probably have anxiety.” Or they promote quick fixes that overlook the structural roots of distress. Nearly three in four respondents said they had unintentionally shared false content on social media. The stakes are high when the internet functions simultaneously as a therapist’s office, a friend group, and a cultural classroom all at once, especially when suicide was the third leading cause of death for Black youth ages 15 to 34 in 2023, according to the Centers for Disease Control.
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For many Black emerging adults, social media is the first, and sometimes only, place to seek information about mental health. This isn’t because they’re naïve about misinformation; it’s because there are deep gaps in the health care system. Underfunded community clinics and inaccessible private therapy networks are limiting their access to traditional care. For many, therapy remains out of reach, both financially and emotionally.
On their social media timelines, they can find someone who looks like them, articulating feelings they’ve felt but struggled to name. Influencers and peers talk openly about anxiety, depression, or burnout in ways that feel relatable and nonjudgmental. Even when the information isn’t perfect, the space itself can feel more human, less clinical, less stigmatizing, and more rooted in shared experience.
That’s why the solution isn’t to simply tell young people to log off. It’s to understand why they log on: to find care, connection, and credibility in places where institutions have too often failed to show up.
We cannot meaningfully address Black mental health without talking about the digital environments shaping it. Policymakers, researchers, and tech leaders must recognize online well-being as a racial justice issue. Federal efforts to regulate algorithmic bias and misinformation must explicitly account for how these dynamics affect Black users. Platforms should also be required to publish data disaggregated by race and gender to make visible who is most at risk.
Community organizations and mental health practitioners have a role as well. Partnerships with trusted Black content creators can amplify accurate, culturally responsive information. Schools, churches, and libraries can develop programs to equip young people to critically navigate online spaces and find credible mental health resources.
The reality is nuanced. Despite the harm, young Black users continue to create joy, humor, and connection on their social media timelines. But resilience alone should not be the expectation. The responsibility for building safe, affirming digital and mental-health ecosystems belongs to the institutions with the power to shape them, from tech companies to public health agencies. If we’re serious about protecting Black mental health, we must meet young people where they already are: online, searching for community, healing and truth.