Double jeopardy

I wasn’t expecting this end to the story: “You’ve been denied for life insurance.”

I had applied for an increase in my policy; not enough to inspire my husband to become the lead in a true-crime doc, but enough to keep him at ease for a bit should I go.

I knew it would be an approval call. My lab work came back stellar (apparently there’s some truth to that horrible myth I’ve been fighting about healthy diet and exercise). I was at the healthiest weight I’d ever been, and the medication I took was on an as-needed basis. Mentally, physically, spiritually aligned at last.

I was shocked when he informed me not only that I was denied, but that it was for “psych reasons.”

Psych reasons? My brain shuffled. They found something wrong with me psychologically. As in, mentally unwell, unstable, unfit. A denial means unworthy.

The agent apologetically explained that he had seen “more and more of these denials for mental health reasons,” noting that a letter would soon explain why I was denied.

Specifically, it was “treatment for anxiety” and “diagnosis of PTSD.”

Anxiety. As in, the most common mental health condition in the United States – 42.5 million adults.

PTSD, another far-from-rare diagnosis, affects about 8% of women at some point in their lives. My treatment was talking to a counselor monthly and taking medication as needed for night terrors.

No history of self-harm, no irrational behavior, no indication of overmedicating. Just a monthly Zoom call and a common blood pressure med if I had bad dreams.

I had received two common diagnoses and sought medical guidance, with ongoing treatment to manage them healthily.

I did what every healthcare professional, counselor and social media pop-up ad tells women to do. And now I was being punished for it.

We have spent years trying to dismantle the shame surrounding mental health treatment. Talk about it. See the counselor. Take the medication. Ask for help before things become unmanageable.

I did.

And then I learned that the medical record created by doing exactly that could be interpreted not as evidence that I was responsibly managing my health, but as evidence that I was a risk.

Consider this: 43.8 million Americans take mental-health medication. Prescription history is one dataset that can feed life insurance mortality-risk assessment.

In a system where an initial eligibility decision can be made before fuller medical records are obtained, the applicant may be left trying to prove that an algorithm, database or abbreviated medical record misunderstood their health.

How often does this leave an adequately treated patient questioning a treatment that works? That statistic is dangerously unknown.

In 2025, the Society of Actuaries Research Institute published Mental Health Underwriting. Its conclusion: Underwriting practices should be updated or modified so insurers capture more complete information about mental-health risk rather than relying on inadequate indicators.

The institute has also acknowledged that fuller information about diagnosis and treatment history can make the difference between denial and acceptance. The industry recognizes the problem. But for people encountering it now, recognition doesn’t equal resolution.

To be clear, I’m not arguing that mental health should be invisible to an underwriter. Severe untreated illness, hospitalization, substance abuse, and histories of self-harm can affect mortality risk.

That is what life insurance companies are paid to evaluate.

The question is whether treatment itself is being interpreted as evidence of risk, and how much context an insurer should have before saying no, especially when attending physician statements or electronic health records are not ordered before that eligibility check.

Even though I eventually reached the “this ridiculous system” eye roll, that wasn’t my gut reaction. What about the women who feel the shame in the denial?

The thought: “If I wouldn’t have asked for help, I wouldn’t have been denied,” or “Maybe if I stop the meds, quit counseling, I’ll be approved next time.”

What. If. I. Just. Suffer. In. Silence.

That will not be the end of my story.

But we should pay very close attention to any system that tells people to seek help with one breath, then attaches a consequence to having sought it with the next.

Because someday, when we are standing at the terrible end of someone else’s mental-health story asking why they didn’t get help sooner, we should remember to ask a harder question:

What happened when they did?

Jama Ross is a Fort Wayne resident and writer.

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