My Website supports inclusive mental health by making it easier for people with very different backgrounds, identities, and comfort levels to get help, find information, and feel seen without having to fight through stereotypes or discrimination in the process.
That is the short answer.
The longer answer is more honest. I did not set out with a perfect plan for inclusion. I wish I could say I had a neat roadmap and a clear theory of change, but I did not. I started with a simple question: how would this space feel to someone who has already been pushed aside, talked over, or treated as a problem instead of a person? I still miss things, and I still adjust the site when someone points something out. Inclusion feels less like a finished project and more like cleaning your kitchen. You are never fully done. You just keep going.
How discrimination shows up in mental health spaces online
If you are reading a site that cares about anti-discrimination, you already know that bias shows up everywhere. Mental health is no exception. It is often worse, because people are already vulnerable when they reach out for help.
Some patterns keep repeating:
- People of color being misdiagnosed or not believed when they describe pain or trauma
- LGBTQ+ people being treated as if their identity is the problem to fix
- Disabled people having their distress blamed on their disability, instead of seen as real on its own
- Religious or cultural beliefs treated as symptoms instead of respected as part of a person
- Men told to be strong, women labeled as “too emotional,” nonbinary people ignored completely
All of that can show up on a website before someone even meets a therapist or joins a group. You can see it in:
- Stock photos where everyone looks the same
- Language that assumes a straight, cisgender, middle-class, neurotypical reader
- Complicated forms that only fit one kind of family or one type of life
- Pages that push medication or one type of therapy as the only “right” choice
Inclusive mental health is not just “everyone is welcome.” It is “we have actually thought about how you might be treated, and we are changing the space so you are not harmed again.”
Once I saw how much bias could be baked into something as simple as a homepage, I started to treat every part of my site as a small decision point. Each small choice could either support inclusion or quietly reproduce the same problems people are already trying to escape.
What I mean by “inclusive mental health”
I do not think there is a single perfect definition. People have different ideas. When I talk about inclusive mental health on my site, I am trying to do at least four things at once.
| Area | What it means on the site |
|---|---|
| Access | People can reach help and information without huge barriers, cost, or complexity. |
| Representation | Readers can see themselves in the language, examples, and images. |
| Safety | Users are not judged, blamed, or exposed to harmful content without choice. |
| Voice | People are treated as experts in their own lives, not as problems to manage. |
That might sound simple. It is not. The hard part is that different groups need different things. What feels safe or respectful to one person might feel wrong or erasing to another person. I have had feedback that pulled me in opposite directions in the same week. For example, one person wanted more direct language about trauma and abuse. Another wanted less intense wording, so they did not get triggered.
So I do something that sometimes frustrates readers: I choose clarity and choice over comfort. I try to say what I mean, use content warnings where needed, and give people control over how much they read and when. This is not perfect, and I am sure someone reading this would design it differently. That tension is normal. Inclusion is not tidy.
Designing the website around actual people, not an “average user”
A lot of web advice talks about the “average user.” In mental health, I think that idea can be harmful. The so-called average user often ends up being someone with stable internet, strong reading skills, and no major mobility or sensory issues, who is not dealing with a panic attack while trying to click a tiny menu button.
I tried to flip that. I started by asking myself:
If someone is anxious, exhausted, or scared of being judged, how would they experience this page?
From that question, I made some very simple but deliberate choices.
Simple navigation and low cognitive load
On my site, the main menu is short on purpose. I avoid long chains of sub-menus. I keep page titles plain so the reader does not have to decode clever wording. When you are tired or anxious, you should not have to solve a puzzle to find help.
Some small examples:
- Links have clear labels like “Find support” or “Group options” instead of vague words
- Paragraphs are short, with plenty of white space between them
- Key actions, like contact or scheduling, are visible on every page, not hidden at the bottom
It is not fancy. Sometimes I worry it looks a little too plain. But plain can feel calming when your brain is already noisy.
Accessible design choices
I am not a designer, so I had to learn a lot of this as I went. I still miss things. But I try to follow some clear rules:
- Use strong color contrast between text and background
- Keep font sizes large enough for people with low vision
- Add alt text to images so screen readers can describe them
- Make buttons large enough to click on small screens or with shaky hands
To be transparent, I do not pass every formal accessibility check. I still sometimes forget to label a form field properly. When someone points that out, I try to fix it instead of getting defensive. That part is uncomfortable but necessary.
Language choices that reduce stigma instead of reinforcing it
Words carry a lot of history. Mental health language is full of terms that have been used to shame, control, or silence people. On my site, I try to avoid language that:
- Labels people as their diagnosis, like “schizophrenics” or “borderlines”
- Frames people as problems, like “difficult patients” or “noncompliant”
- Minimizes distress, like “just stress” or “overreacting”
I try to write as if the person reading is in the room with me, and I will have to look them in the eye after they finish the page.
That standard feels more real than some abstract rule. If I would be ashamed to say a sentence to someone sitting across from me, I edit it out of the site.
Person-first vs identity-first language
This is one area where I changed my mind. Early on, I used only person-first language like “person with depression.” I thought that was more respectful. Then people with lived experience reminded me that many autistic and disabled people prefer identity-first terms like “autistic person” or “disabled person.”
Now the site uses both, depending on context, and I sometimes explain the difference. I do not always get it right. Some readers do not like this mix and tell me so. But it reflects what I hear from people who are directly affected, not just what style guides say.
Speaking directly to the reader without talking down
I try to avoid over-explaining basic feelings, as if the reader has never heard of anxiety before. At the same time, I do not assume that everyone knows the ins and outs of therapy models. The tone I aim for is:
- Plain but not childish
- Warm but not overly sentimental
- Direct but not harsh
For example, instead of saying “People must seek appropriate clinically validated interventions,” I might write, “You deserve support that fits your life and has some evidence behind it.” That feels more honest and less like a policy document.
Representation: who gets to be visible on the site
One of the more surprising parts of building the site was how much time I spent thinking about photos and examples. Images are small, but they send strong signals. If you only show thin white women looking sad on a couch, the message is clear about who “mental health” is for.
Photos and visual cues
On my pages, I try to include images that reflect different ages, body types, races, and gender expressions. I do not pretend to cover every identity. That would be impossible and would probably feel fake. But I try to make sure that:
- No single group is presented only as a victim
- Queer and trans people are not erased or tokenized
I also avoid certain tropes that show up a lot in mental health marketing, like a person with their head in their hands next to a stormy sky. Those images may be dramatic, but they often make struggle look like a personal failing, not something shaped by systems, discrimination, or trauma.
Examples that reflect real diversity
When I describe situations on the blog, I try to draw from a wide range of experiences:
- A Black woman dealing with workplace bias on top of burnout
- A trans teen navigating family conflict about their pronouns
- A man who learned that “anger is the only safe feeling” from childhood
- A disabled person facing both physical barriers and mental health stigma
These are composite stories, not one person’s private life. I am careful about confidentiality. I mix details, change contexts, and ask permission if anything might be identifiable.
Someone might say this focus on representation is surface-level. I do not fully agree. Representation alone is not enough, but the lack of it can send a very strong message: you are an afterthought. That message can close the door before the person even decides to contact anyone.
Handling topics of discrimination directly, not just in passing
Because this article is for readers who care about anti-discrimination, I want to be direct about something. A mental health site that ignores racism, sexism, homophobia, transphobia, ableism, and other forms of injustice is not neutral. It often sides with the status quo by silence.
On my site, I have separate pages and posts that talk openly about:
- The mental health impact of racism and racial trauma
- Minority stress for LGBTQ+ people
- Medical trauma and mistrust of professionals
- How poverty and unstable housing shape anxiety and depression
Some people tell me this is “too political” for a mental health website. I disagree. When someone’s distress comes from being discriminated against at work or profiled by police, ignoring that context is not neutral care. It turns systems of harm into private “coping skills” projects.
When a person says “I feel broken,” inclusive mental health asks, “What if some of the things harming you are outside of you, and your reactions make sense in that context?”
This does not mean therapy becomes a policy debate. It means the site and the services do not pretend that all pain comes from inside an individual brain. Sometimes the problem really is outside the person.
Privacy, anonymity, and control for people who do not feel safe
People from marginalized groups often have extra reasons to fear being seen looking for mental health support. Maybe they worry about immigration status, job security, or community stigma. Or they had an experience where private information was shared without consent.
On the site, I try to respect that fear in how I handle contact and data.
Contact forms and what I do not ask for
The intake form on the site is short. Maybe too short from a clinician’s point of view. I skip questions that are not needed at the first contact stage, especially around:
- Detailed medical history
- Income, employer, or job title
- Religious beliefs
- Sexual behavior
Those topics might matter later, but someone should not have to share them with a stranger just to ask, “Are you taking new clients?”
I also have clear text that says people can use only a first name or a nickname when they first reach out, and they can choose how they want to be contacted. This might seem small. For someone afraid of being outed or tracked, it matters.
Transparent limits of privacy
Of course, there are legal and ethical limits around safety, duty to warn, and so on. Instead of burying that in fine print, I explain it in plain language on the site. Some people may decide not to work with me because of those boundaries. That is their right. They deserve to know the rules before they open up.
Cost, sliding scale, and honest talk about money
Money is one of the biggest barriers to mental health care. It is also one of the topics that sites often gloss over with vague wording about “affordable care” without any numbers.
On my site, I list fees clearly and describe sliding scale options. I also say a simple truth that some readers appreciate and some dislike:
Therapy should not be a luxury, but in this system it often is. I cannot fix the system alone, so I am honest about my limits and try to share other resources when I am not the right fit financially.
I include links to low-cost clinics, hotlines, and mutual aid type support. From a business angle, sending potential clients away might look unwise. From an inclusion angle, hiding options that might work better for them feels worse.
Making space for different types of support, not only therapy
Not everyone wants therapy. Not everyone trusts it. Some people prefer groups, peer spaces, or self-paced resources. If my site only pointed toward one type of help, it would quietly exclude all those people, even if I used nice inclusive language around it.
Multiple paths to care
The site offers information on:
- One-on-one therapy sessions
- Group support for issues like grief, trauma, or burnout
- Workshops that mix education and discussion
- Self-help guides that people can read and use on their own timeline
When I write about these options, I try not to rank them. Therapy is not the “gold standard” and everything else a weak second choice. For some people, a group or a peer support space is safer or more accessible.
Peer voices and lived experience
On the blog side of the site, I sometimes feature writing that centers people with lived experience. These pieces are not polished case studies. They are often messy, uncertain, and full of mixed feelings about mental health care itself.
I do not edit those pieces to make the profession look good. If someone shares a story about being harmed by a clinician, that stays in, subject to consent and privacy. Inclusion here means not cleaning up the narrative to protect my field.
Feedback, complaints, and the willingness to be wrong
I want to be honest about something that many sites skip. You cannot build an inclusive mental health site without being wrong sometimes. People will tell you that you missed them, misrepresented them, or confused them.
On my contact page, I invite feedback, including complaints. Not everyone believes me when I say that. There is a long history of people being punished for speaking up. I still think the invitation belongs there.
When someone points out a problem, I try to:
- Thank them without demanding emotional labor or long explanations
- Check whether it is a quick fix (like alt text) or a deeper issue (like harmful phrasing)
- Make the change and, when appropriate, note the update
Sometimes I disagree with a suggestion. For example, I have been asked to remove any mention of systemic racism from pages to keep things “neutral.” I say no to that, because it conflicts with my values and the evidence on mental health harms. Inclusion does not mean every request is granted. It means feedback is taken seriously and responded to honestly.
How the website supports people already committed to anti-discrimination
Since this article is for people who care about discrimination and equity, it might help to say how the site tries to support you, not just clients in crisis.
Resources for advocates, leaders, and allies
Several pages are written with people like you in mind. These include topics like:
- How workplace bias affects mental health, and what managers can do about it
- Supporting colleagues after a public incident of racism or hate
- Thinking about “wellness programs” in ways that do not blame employees
- Signs that a diversity or equity effort is harming staff mental health instead of helping
The tone is practical and sometimes blunt. I try not to sell the idea that a single training or webinar will fix deep problems. That would be dishonest.
Shared responsibility, not individual blame
One of my constant worries is that mental health talk can shift responsibility onto individuals for things that are clearly structural. If someone is burned out from racism at work and I only teach grounding exercises, I have helped them survive, but not changed the problem that harmed them.
On the site, I try to name this tension. I offer tools for coping and also questions for workplaces and communities to ask themselves. For example: Are you measuring employee “resilience” while ignoring discrimination in promotions or pay?
People involved in anti-discrimination work often carry heavy emotional loads. The site tries to validate that without suggesting that self-care alone can solve structural issues.
What still feels unfinished
Everything I have described so far might sound more organized than it feels from my side. There are still gaps. Areas where I know the site is not inclusive enough include:
- Limited content in languages other than English
- Not enough resources for people without stable internet access
- Few audio or video formats for people who prefer listening over reading
- Incomplete accessibility checks on older posts
I am aware of these issues, and I am not going to pretend they are minor. They are real barriers. Right now, I handle some of them by:
- Offering to send text by email in simpler layouts
- Providing transcripts for recordings
- Slowly updating older posts
It is slow. It will probably stay slow. That pace is frustrating for me, and likely for some visitors. Still, I prefer honest slowness over pretending the work is done.
One last question and a short answer
Question: If you care about anti-discrimination, how can you tell whether a mental health website is actually inclusive, and not just using the right buzzwords?
Answer: Look less at the slogans and more at the details. Ask yourself:
- Who is clearly invited in, and who is barely mentioned, if at all?
- Does the site talk honestly about money, access, and privacy?
- Are discrimination and systemic harms named directly, or avoided?
- Do you see options for people who do not fit a narrow idea of “the usual client”?
- Is there space to give feedback, and does the tone suggest they will listen?
If the answer to most of those questions is yes, then the site is at least trying to support inclusive mental health. It might still miss things. Mine certainly does. But a place that keeps asking those questions, and changes in response, is far closer to the kind of mental health support many of us want to see.