The Lil Nas X moment as a learning lesson for compassionate care
Lil Nas X—stage name of Montero Lamar Hill—was recently seen in a state of visible crisis on the streets of Los Angeles. News outlets described him as wandering disoriented, wearing only cowboy boots and underwear, before being taken into custody and treated by authorities as though he had committed a crime. Police labeled the episode with multiple serious charges. The details of what substances may or may not have been involved remain unconfirmed, yet the framing was swift: an “overdose,” an “arrest,” a list of accusations. Behind the headlines, however, was something simpler and far more human—a young man overwhelmed, unraveling in public, and met with punishment instead of care.
This is not unusual. When a person falters in ways that fall outside the narrow bounds of “order,” the response of American systems is often to criminalize the behavior. Police are dispatched, legal codes applied, and suddenly a moment of disorientation becomes an alleged offense. Hill was said to have “resisted officers” and “caused injury,” language that frames confusion as aggression. What was happening on video looked far more like panic, vulnerability, and a body in distress.
His fame makes the incident visible, but it is far from unique. Every day, people in mental health crises encounter law enforcement rather than crisis professionals. Those who are unhoused, those struggling with addiction, those with untreated conditions—they are funneled into jails and courtrooms not because they are violent, but because their suffering disrupts the public space around them. Hill’s experience is a mirror of what happens daily, only magnified by celebrity.
Some municipalities have begun to experiment with alternatives. In Denver, the STAR program dispatches trained clinicians instead of police to nonviolent crisis calls. In Eugene, Oregon, the CAHOOTS program has provided a similar model for decades. These efforts demonstrate that it is possible to meet distress with understanding rather than force. They also raise an important question: why must treatment so often be delivered only after someone has been criminalized, through court mandates, rather than as the first line of response? In Hill’s case, he was ordered into Narcotics Anonymous meetings—a tacit acknowledgment that support is necessary. But support that comes attached to bail, charges, and stigma is hardly support at all.
The conversation around cases like this often becomes distorted by spectacle. Online, many voices responded with mockery or moral judgment. Yet to view Hill only as a headline is to ignore his humanity. A person in crisis does not cease to be a person. To treat unraveling as a crime is to miss the truth of what was unfolding. If society can learn to see breakdowns for what they are—moments of suffering in need of compassion—then perhaps the reflex to punish will lose its grip.
A system built on punishment has only ever deepened harm. A system built on care has the potential to actually heal. The difference begins with the choice to see people like Montero Lamar Hill not as defendants, but as human beings who deserve help when they need it most.
