In the United States—and particularly in New York City, the nation’s foremost urban experiment—we have been trained to believe this is what “public safety” means.
While most Americans agree that this represents a collective ethical failure as a society to care for our most vulnerable members, moralizing responses have done little to produce meaningful change. Worse, they often obscure what’s truly needed. To change our long-standing reality, what’s essential is to confront that this is first of all a failure of political definition. Across every borough, New Yorkers suffer from a long tradition of misidentifying what safety is—and as a result, billions of dollars are poured into the wrong institutions, which then fail to deliver.
To be successful, and to avoid inadvertently repeating narrow policing frameworks that fixate on reaction rather than preemption, Mamdani’s Department of Community Safety must refuse temptations to fixate on crisis and “serious mental illness” alone. Instead, this agency must insist upon reframing crisis moments—and the mental illness associated with such moments—as the consequence of years of failed opportunities to ensure the care, community, and resources people need to be safe.
New York, like the rest of the country, has been taught to partition mental illness itself into two categories: “serious mental illness,” or SMI, and everything else. Management of SMI is then said to require exceptional emergency systems—built around police powers and involuntary treatment—while everyday care for anxiety, depression, trauma, addiction, grief, and isolation are pushed into the private market or left for families to manage on their own. That is, until they can no longer do so and crisis erupts, resulting in a sudden category shift, by which public systems—but only crisis-response systems—are suddenly implicated.
Based in large part on this false notion of mental illness and extreme distress, New Yorkers have been told, relentlessly, by both media and politicians, that safety comes from force, police visibility, and the number of uniforms present on the scene. It hinges on police powers to remove “dangerous” people from public space, insisted former Mayor Eric Adams and his mental health adviser Brian Stettin, as they insisted that only expanding arrest powers could save New York from the unhoused and mentally ill people they represented as a scourge on the city. This kind of story is repeated by tabloids and leading national newspapers alike, by mayor after mayor, by police commissioners, and by technocratic liberals at all levels of U.S. government. Their insistent claim: While the nation’s reliance on policing as a substitute for care may be regrettable, it is nonetheless unavoidable—and we always need more of it.
In practice, New York already relies on everyday care to produce safety. Its politicians and police leaders have just refused to admit it—or to fund it as such. Instead, the city treats the care as an afterthought and the crisis as the main event. It spends lavishly on the institutions that are last to arrive, while starving the ones that might have prevented the emergency altogether.
New York, like cities across the country, has tested this hypothesis for decades. The result is a city that, while it may be safer by narrow crime metrics that are at their lowest point in decades, has grown ever more anxious, more unequal, and more brittle in everyday life. Although most American cities are, in a sense, safer than at any point in the last 50 years, their residents repeatedly insist that they feel more unsafe than ever.
What gets labeled as “disorder,” “danger,” and “SMI” is the visible residue of public abandonment: It’s the housing that never materialized, the benefits that never arrived, the care that was never available until “crisis” erupted in public and other people’s discomfort compelled a response. The shouting man on the train platform is not evidence that the city is too permissive and inadequately policed, as Eric Adams repeatedly preached. He is instead evidence that everything meant to help him earlier quietly failed offstage.
The city’s non-police crisis-response programs have shown that sending care teams instead of armed officers reduces arrests and violence. Violence interrupters have saved lives. Outreach workers and supportive housing have stabilized people living with psychotic experiences in the subway. None of this is speculative. What’s missing is not the evidence that these policies work. It’s the infrastructure to make it so.
The most radical thing about Mamdani’s Department of Community Safety is not that it proposes to deemphasize policing. It’s that it refuses to treat care as optional.
The heart of such an approach is people whose work is not emergency extraction but continuity: helping someone keep benefits, mediating conflicts, eldercare, parenting coaching, accompanying people through grief, addiction, reentry, postpartum distress, psychotic experiences, loneliness. This kind of care hinges on lay caregivers trained in task-sharing roles in coordination with professionals to provide psychotherapeutic support for anxiety, depression, and grief and to provide everyday companionship to those living through extreme states.
Crucially, this workforce refuses the simple distinction between “serious mental illness” and “mild-to-moderate” or “common” mental illness. People do not live their lives in diagnostic categories or symptom-severity ratings. Psychosis, suicidality, addiction, despair, panic, and withdrawal from shared reality rarely arrive fully formed; they emerge along a continuum shaped by housing, work, relationships, loss, stress, and time. As studies around the world have shown, the same kind of community care that helps someone through depression or grief is often what prevents a psychotic delusion or hallucination from developing into overwhelming anxiety and a violent police encounter.
Without a credible alternative to police at the moment of crisis and bold investment in a public care infrastructure behind it to prevent crisis and durably stabilize people after it occurs, no reform will ultimately survive the crushing inertia of the status quo.
This is not just a debate about safety. It is a debate about what kind of city New York is becoming. Care is how people learn whether and how they belong. When help arrives only after crisis has already boiled over, and when it then arrives defensive or armed, people learn to expect abandonment. When the most consistent presence of the state for people who are suffering is either police or psychiatric coercion, people learn to fear public institutions rather than trust them.
As NYPD’s $11 billion budget makes clear, New York has the resources to do this. It has clear evidence that it’s effective. It can build the workforce. What it has lacked is the political spine to identify public care systems for what they are—the city’s real safety system—and to allocate public resources accordingly, not just to crisis response but to the full spectrum of neighborhood-based care across the lifespan that’s required for community safety to become a reality.
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