Historically, families distrusted law enforcement when mental illness was involved.

The trust gap in history: when families kept quiet and police were part of the problem

Let me set the scene with a simple, human moment. A parent sits at the kitchen table, eyes tired from worry. A son or daughter is showing signs of something that isn’t quite right, and on the street outside, sirens flicker in the distance. In that older world, families often kept the most private stuff behind closed doors. They did not call law enforcement with confidence; they called with fear. The question we’re unpacking today is not about a test score, but about a real, uneasy feeling that stretched across generations: the perception of mental illness was something that families distrusted when police were involved.

What did people think back then? The straightforward answer from the blocks of history is: they distrusted law enforcement. It wasn’t that families were craven or careless; it was that mental illness carried a heavy stigma and a lot of misunderstanding. Mental health issues were frequently seen through a punitive lens or a criminal lens rather than a medical one. Hospitals and asylums—concepts many people didn’t fully grasp—could be frightening places. The idea of “getting help” often looked different from what families hoped for: it wasn’t always treatment aimed at recovery, and it wasn’t always consent or comfort. So when crisis hit, the instinct to call for assistance wasn’t about seeking compassionate care first. It was a cautious, anxious move, born from past experiences and societal messages that labeled mental illness as something dangerous or uncontrollable.

Here’s the thing: the mistrust wasn’t just about a single incident or a single officer. It grew out of a broader history where mental health issues were misunderstood, mischaracterized, and sometimes criminalized. Media portrayals tended to amplify fear, not empathy. Medical staff could be scarce, underfunded, or distant, and the systems meant to help were not always accessible to families who lacked resources or social support. In that context, involving law enforcement felt like stepping into a spotlight with more questions than answers. Families worried about what would happen to their loved ones—assaultive responses, involuntary holds, or a one-way trip to a hospital ward—without a plan that respected the person’s dignity. No wonder trust was frayed.

A quick tour through the historical terrain helps explain how this distrust settled in. In the mid-20th century, deinstitutionalization became a major policy push, paring down long stays in state hospitals and pushing care into communities. On paper, that sounds like progress—more humane options, closer to home. In practice, it created a patchwork system: community mental health centers, outpatient supports, crisis services, and a patchwork of funding that could be unreliable. When a crisis struck, families sometimes found themselves navigating that fractured landscape while fearing that police would step in more as enforcers than as partners in care. The result? A legacy where, for many, law enforcement was not a trusted ally in a mental health crisis but a potential trigger for escalation.

As decades rolled by, some parts of the country began to turn that tide. Crisis Intervention Team (CIT) training emerged as a practical bridge between police work and mental health care. Officers who completed CIT training learned to recognize signs of distress, to use de-escalation techniques, and to connect with mental health professionals promptly. Community partnerships flourished with hospitals, urgent care centers, and social services. The goal wasn’t merely to control a crisis; it was to respond in a way that kept people safe while guiding families toward support systems. These shifts didn’t erase fear or stigma overnight, but they did plant seeds for a more thoughtful, humane response.

Why does this history matter for today’s students and professionals in the field? Because the past frames present decisions. When you’re assessing a scene, talking to a person in crisis, or evaluating risk, you’re not just applying a procedure—you’re honoring a history that taught us how fragile trust can be. If the first impulse was distrust, the first step now is to demonstrate reliability: calm communication, verified information, and options that prioritize medical care over punishment. It’s the difference between a moment that worsens a situation and one that opens a path to help.

A few practical threads weave through this story, threads that are still relevant in real-life work:

• Training matters. Officers who understand mental health signs and trauma-informed approaches are less likely to default to force. They’re more likely to offer choices and connect people to care.

• Partnerships count. When police, hospitals, and community organizations share information and resources, families feel seen and supported, not sidelined.

• Community context matters. Cultural backgrounds, language, and past experiences with authority shape how a person responds to crisis and to responders.

• Care is not one-stop. The best responses blend immediate safety with a plan for follow-up, including access to counseling, medication management, and shelter if needed.

So, what does this mean for the people who study and work in this field now? It means staying curious about origins while staying purposeful about current practice. It means recognizing that distrust didn’t appear out of the blue—it grew from real, painful experiences. And it means continuing to build systems where trust is earned through consistent, respectful, human-centered action.

Let me offer a few quick takeaways you can carry forward:

• See the person, not just the problem. A crisis is a person in distress, not a puzzle to be solved with force.

• Prioritize connection over coercion. De-escalation, choice, and voluntary cooperation should be the default whenever possible.

• Value the family’s perspective. Families often know the person best, and their insights can guide safer, more effective care.

• Champion long-term support. Immediate safety is essential, but so is a pathway to ongoing treatment and community resources.

• Reflect on history to improve practice. Understanding the past helps you avoid repeating harmful patterns and helps you push for better training and policies today.

If you’re studying this topic, you’ll notice a common thread running through history to today: the aim is to transform fear into informed, compassionate action. The past shows us how easy it is for misperception to harden into fear, and how hard it is to bend that fear toward care. The present asks for a steady hand, a listening ear, and a willingness to collaborate with mental health professionals, families, and individuals in crisis.

A memorable analogy might help crystallize this: think of crisis response as a relay race. The baton isn’t a weapon; it’s a signal of help. The handoff—the moment when the responder moves from crisis containment to care coordination—matters as much as the sprint that came before it. The better the handoff, the smoother the transition to safety, treatment, and support. And the more trust builds, the easier the next crisis is to handle, not just for the person in distress, but for the family watching and hoping for a better outcome.

If you’re pondering the lessons from the past, here’s a simple question to carry with you: in future investigations, policy decisions, or on-the-ground responses, how can you ensure that trust is fostered rather than eroded? The answer isn’t a single rule or a single program; it’s a combination of training, relationships, and structures that consistently put safety and dignity first.

Closing thought: history isn’t just a classroom topic; it’s a compass. It reminds us that progress in how we treat mental illness hinges on the quiet bravery of everyday responders who choose empathy, even when old habits tug in the opposite direction. The road from distrust to trust is long, but the destination—safer, more humane responses to crisis—feels worth the journey. And for anyone entering this field, that destination is a powerful why—a reason to keep learning, keep listening, and keep showing up with care. Are we ready to keep moving in that direction, one respectful interaction at a time?