The Weight We Carry into the Room
Photograph by Nana Ampomah
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How Cultural Identity Shapes the Therapeutic Journey
Every person who walks into a therapy room carries something invisible with them. Not only the presenting concern, whether that is anxiety, relationship difficulty, grief, work stress, or the private pressure that finally became too much, but also a wider world of expectations, cultural scripts, and inherited beliefs about what it means to struggle, to ask for help, and to heal.
I have been thinking about this a great deal lately. In my practice, I work with people from remarkably diverse backgrounds: different ethnicities, faith traditions, family structures, migration histories, sexualities, gender identities, relationship styles, and life experiences. One lesson keeps deepening over time: therapy is never culturally neutral. The room may look the same from session to session, but what each person brings into it, and what they feel they must leave outside, is shaped profoundly by where they come from and how they have learned to survive.
The Unspoken Rules We Grow Up With
Many of us are raised with implicit rules about emotional expression. In some families and communities, the message is clear: you get on with things. You pray. You work harder. You do not sit with a stranger and talk about your feelings. Brené Brown’s writing on vulnerability has helped popularise a language for this tension: the very thing that may allow connection and healing can also be experienced as exposure, shame, or weakness in contexts where endurance has been treated as the highest form of strength (Brown, 2012).
I understand this intimately. Growing up in a Ghanaian household, mental health was not a conversation we had at the dinner table. Strength was often measured by the ability to endure, provide, and keep going, regardless of what was happening inside. Those values are not wrong. They are often born of resilience, histories of survival, migration, faith, family duty, and communities that have borne extraordinary pressure. But the same values can also create silence around suffering, making it difficult to reach out when support is needed.
Research on men’s help-seeking suggests that masculine norms around self-reliance, emotional control, and toughness can make psychological support feel threatening or shameful (Addis & Mahalik, 2003). Where those expectations intersect with culture, racialisation, migration, faith, or family responsibility, the pressure can become even more complex. Iwamoto et al. (2010), for example, found links between masculine norms, avoidant coping, Asian values, and depression among Asian American men. Although no single study can speak for all minoritised men, the broader lesson is clear: when strength is defined as silence, booking a therapy session can feel like a betrayal of what someone has been taught to be.
What I See in the Room
Time and again, I sit with clients who carry not only their own distress but also the weight of cultural expectations. A young professional feels crushed by pressure to succeed, not just for themselves, but because their parents sacrificed everything for their education. A client is navigating a relationship their family would never accept, torn between their own truth and the fear of being cast out. Someone is grieving a loss but cannot express it openly because their community expects grief to be handled privately, quickly, and without disruption.
These are not niche experiences. They are remarkably common. What strikes me most is how often clients arrive already apologising for taking up space: apologising for not being “ill enough”, for struggling with something they believe they should manage alone, or for feeling disloyal to the family and culture that shaped them.
This is where culturally responsive therapy matters. Bernal et al. (2009) provide a framework for adapting evidence-based treatments to attend to language, cultural values, family context, explanatory models, and lived experience. Broader meta-analytic research also suggests that culturally adapted psychological interventions can improve outcomes when they are responsive to the client’s cultural context rather than treating culture as incidental (Hall et al., 2016). In practice, this means therapy should never ask a person to leave their identity at the door. It should make room for all of it.
The Therapist’s Own Culture
Something I return to regularly in my reflective practice is how my cultural background influences how I show up as a therapist. I am not a blank screen. My heritage, my experience of navigating between cultures, and my understanding of code-switching all inform my clinical work. Sometimes this creates an immediate sense of connection. At other times, it requires vigilance. I must remain alert to the assumptions I might carry into the room, especially when a client appears to share parts of my identity.
The concept of cultural humility, first articulated by Tervalon and Murray-García (1998), has been transformative in this regard. Unlike a narrow version of cultural competence, which can imply a fixed endpoint of knowledge, cultural humility is an ongoing discipline. It requires self-reflection, accountability, recognition of power, and a willingness to learn from each client’s unique account of their life. It means I do not assume that shared ethnicity means shared experience. It means I do not confuse cultural knowledge with cultural ownership. It means I remain curious, careful, and open.
Why This Matters Now
We live in an increasingly diverse society, and the mental health field is still reckoning with the limitations of a one-size-fits-all model. In the UK, the Mental Health Foundation reports that Black, Asian and other minoritised communities may face specific barriers to mental health support, including stigma, language barriers, mistrust of formal services, financial barriers, and not feeling listened to or understood by professionals (Mental Health Foundation, 2024). Mind also highlights racialised inequalities in access to appropriate support, noting that people from minoritised backgrounds in the UK are less likely to receive appropriate mental health support than White British people, and that Black and Asian people are less likely to receive support for common mental health difficulties such as anxiety and depression (Mind, n.d.).
This matters because access is not only about whether services exist. It is also about whether people can imagine those services as safe, relevant, respectful, and for them. Cultural stigma is one part of the picture, but it is not the whole picture. Systemic racism, lack of representation, Eurocentric assumptions about distress and recovery, financial barriers, language barriers, immigration histories, faith dynamics, and previous experiences of being misunderstood all shape whether a person feels able to ask for help.
This is why we need to talk openly about the intersection of culture and therapy. Not only in abstract academic language, but in honest, human language rooted in lived experience. When people believe that therapy requires them to reject their family, faith, values, or community, the work becomes inaccessible before it even begins. Good therapy does not demand rejection. It invites reflection.
What I Want You to Know
If you are reading this and recognising something of yourself, if you have ever felt that your cultural background makes it harder to ask for help, or that therapy is not really “for people like you”, I want you to know that you are not alone. Seeking support is not a betrayal of your culture. It is not a rejection of your family. It is not a weakness. It can be an act of courage, clarity, and care.
Good therapy meets you where you are. It does not require you to abandon your values or dismiss your upbringing. It invites you to explore the parts of your story that may be causing pain, to understand them with compassion, and to find a way forward that honours who you are, all of who you are.
In my reflective journals, I often return to one simple truth: every client teaches me something. The clients who have trusted me with the weight of their cultural identity, who have allowed me into the space between who they are and who they were expected to be, have shaped me as a therapist in ways I will always be grateful for.
The room is big enough for all of it.
References
Addis, M. E., & Mahalik, J. R. (2003). Men, masculinity, and the contexts of help seeking. American Psychologist, 58(1), 5-14. https://doi.org/10.1037/0003-066X.58.1.5
Bernal, G., Jiménez-Chafey, M. I., & Domenech Rodríguez, M. M. (2009). Cultural adaptation of treatments: A resource for considering culture in evidence-based practice. Professional Psychology: Research and Practice, 40(4), 361-368. https://doi.org/10.1037/a0016401
Brown, B. (2012). Daring greatly: How the courage to be vulnerable transforms the way we live, love, parent, and lead. Gotham Books.
Hall, G. C. N., Ibaraki, A. Y., Huang, E. R., Marti, C. N., & Stice, E. (2016). A meta-analysis of cultural adaptations of psychological interventions. Behavior Therapy, 47(6), 993-1014. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.beth.2016.09.005
Iwamoto, D. K., Liao, L., & Liu, W. M. (2010). Masculine norms, avoidant coping, Asian values, and depression among Asian American men. Psychology of Men & Masculinity, 11(1), 15-24. https://doi.org/10.1037/a0017874
Mental Health Foundation. (2024, November 9). Black, Asian and minority ethnic (BAME) communities. https://www.mentalhealth.org.uk/explore-mental-health/a-z-topics/black-asian-and-minority-ethnic-bame-communities
Mind. (n.d.). Racism and mental health. Retrieved June 22, 2026, from https://www.mind.org.uk/information-support/tips-for-everyday-living/racism-and-mental-health/
Tervalon, M., & Murray-García, J. (1998). Cultural humility versus cultural competence: A critical distinction in defining physician training outcomes in multicultural education. Journal of Health Care for the Poor and Underserved, 9(2), 117-125. https://doi.org/10.1353/hpu.2010.0233