Community Connections

Another May has come and gone, and just like that, Mental Health Awareness Month programming and events are wrapping up. But mental illness does not end when the calendar changes, nor is it cured during one month of awareness efforts.

Over the last few weeks, I’ve been working with NAMI Minnesota to gather shareable resources and partner on experiences that support our colleagues’ mental health. On the evening of May 18, more than 300 of us gathered at The Parkway Theater to watch the documentary No One Cares About Crazy People. I left my seat feeling even more anger toward the systems that continue to fail families actively seeking help for their loved ones. I won’t spoil the documentary for anyone, but I will say this: it is a must-watch for education, awareness and understanding of the fact that sometimes the people we love are simply not okay.

During the Q&A portion of the evening, one audience member asked about community. Many of the other questions centered on government systems, lack of funding and resources and the heartbreaking realities shared by a mother raising a child with severe mental illness. She spoke openly about the physical and emotional trauma her family has endured while trying to navigate care and support systems on a teacher’s salary.

I felt compelled to respond to the question about community because, after all, my daytime title is Community Relations Manager.

Minnesota is the only other place I’ve ever lived. My original home is Philadelphia. In many of my previous writings, I’ve reflected on the kind of community I grew up in — one where neighbors looked out for one another, took each other’s trash bins in, walked neighborhood children home from school if parents were working late and simply made sure everyone was safe.

So you can imagine how shocking it was to hear colleagues say they’ve lived in their homes for 5, 10 or even 20 years and barely know their neighbors.

As a transplant with no biological family here, and as someone who has been diagnosed with mental health differences, the move has been difficult. Nearly six years later, there are still moments when the transition does not feel any easier. Friends would joke, “The thing about Minnesotans is they’ll give you directions to anywhere except their homes.” Every time I heard that, my face fell a little flat.

How can we build community when our connections end at the end of the workday? How can we expect people to feel supported when we rush from our front doors to our cars to avoid speaking to neighbors? And how does reminding transplants that “you’re not from here” strengthen community rather than reinforce isolation?

Are we aware of the families around us who may need help? The loved one walking down the street in the middle of a mental health episode? The neighbor who may need someone to simply pause, offer directions, or help keep a person safe until professional support arrives?

Recently, I was listening to Trevor Noah on his podcast, What Now? with Trevor Noah, where he shared a story about someone becoming upset during one of his stand-up routines after he joked about America. His response stuck with me: Shouldn’t we be happy that people choose to live here?

Instead of saying, “Don’t tell people how great our summers are because we don’t want more people moving here,” what if we said, “Welcome. Let me tell you where to get a really good burger or find the best 2-for-1 specials.” Or if that sentence is too long, just say, “hello.”

That question has stayed with me because community is not built through slogans, campaigns or a single awareness month. It is built in the small moments, whether we acknowledge one another, make space for one another, or choose to care about people beyond convenience. Sometimes the strongest form of mental health support is simply making sure no one feels alone.

I have been called racial slurs and told to “go back to where I came from,” only for the person to become frustrated when I responded, “To Philadelphia?”

But maybe that’s the real question we should ask ourselves: when someone different from us arrives in our communities, what kind of welcome are we offering them?