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For me, OCD has always been about cycles, contradiction, and chaos. I’ve had OCD for as long as I can remember, but the first time anyone picked up on it properly, I was taken to the doctor for rashes on my hands around the age of eight. I remember trying to pass it off as something else. Dry skin, a reaction, anything but what it actually was. The doctor hardly even glanced at my hands before they said, quite plainly, that my cracked, oozing hands were likely from excessive

The last time I saw my grandfather, he didn't look like himself. Or maybe, he looked like a version of himself I hadn't been given enough time to get used to. That's the strange tax of distance. He lived in Bangalore, and I grew up in Texas, which meant I didn't watch his Parkinson's disease progress the way my cousins did: steadily, incrementally, in the daily way that allows you to adjust. I saw him in intervals. Years apart, sometimes.

I’ve grappled with an eating disorder for most of my life. A millennial, I grew up in a skinny-centric culture and watched shows like America’s Next Top Model, where aspiring models were berated for being anything more than size 0. And I berated myself for every pound I gained or failed to lose. In my 30s, I stand on the scale every day. On many days, I do it multiple times. Like other millennials, I grew up watching cycle after cycle of Tyra Banks chastising young women.

Of the nearly 50 years that I’ve been alive, I’ve been different people for varying lengths of time. I was a naturalist-in-waiting for a few years before I turned 10. I was a mostly reluctant student for around 20 years and a (failed) bassist for most of my youth. I’ve been a writer for nearly 25 years now. Since last year, I’ve been a fiancé. But, of all the different people I have been across my life, there is one I have never stopped being – a stammerer.

After years of suffering with my mental health, in particular depression and OCD, I finally thought I had got what I had always dreamt of. I had met someone I was about to marry, and I was pregnant with my first child. I had never thought I would even be in the position to imagine a future like this. Then I experienced prenatal depression, and my world collapsed.

Last year, I spent six months living and working in Japan. I worked at the World Expo, a role that allowed me to meet people from a wide range of backgrounds.  It was an experience that stayed with me long after I left, not because it was extreme or overwhelming, but because it quietly changed how I understand belonging and mental health. Being in a place where I didn’t fully fit in made me more aware of how much our sense of well-being is shaped by whether we feel connected

Nightmares are a common part of our childhoods that usually subside as we reach adulthood. But if you’re like me, those nightmares may have taken ahold of you, well into your adult life. I have always been pulled towards anything spooky. As a young girl, I had my head stuck in books about ghosts. Now, as an adult and creative writer, I choose to write about distressing subjects like true crime and the paranormal.

Everyone has had one of those nights where they feel overwhelmingly Lonely. Lonely within your body, heart, and mind—all at once. It’s a feeling similar to living unexplainably separate from yourself. You hope it won’t revisit as often as it does. The Loneliness lingers, almost long enough to graduate into its mentor, Depression. Loneliness tries to impress its more overpowering sibling until, finally, Depression allows Loneliness to take shelter under its wing.

With every burst of laughter I drew from the crowd, the loneliness behind my makeup grew a little deeper. My name is Shopia Green. I am a circus clown, and the image of my red nose, abandoned on the dressing room table, is the most honest photograph of my life. It is not just a prop; it is a portal. On one side, the vibrant world of the spectacle, where I am the embodiment of joy. On the other, the silence that consumes me when the last spotlight on the ring fades.

Breastfeeding wasn’t widely discussed in my family and not many of my friends had children when I fell pregnant with my child in 2021. I’m not sure exactly where the passion for breastfeeding came from, but it was certainly there long before I got the obligatory ‘breast is best’ leaflet from the NHS midwife. I was blessed with a healthy, textbook pregnancy at the tail end of the Covid-19 restrictions in the UK.

A few years ago, I went through a traumatic event, the repercussions of which rippled out into what I hope to call the worst year of my life. And while that time is now behind me, and life has once again gone back to normal, there is one side effect that still casts a shadow over my life. It feels like I hear people talking about triggers all the time, about being aware and sensitive. But I rarely see anything that resembles an understanding of what I experience when I say I

After struggling with mental health challenges since my teenage years, I was diagnosed with cyclothymia at the beginning of 2025. But what is cyclothymia? Looking back, I realise that this lesser-known mood disorder has impacted my relationships, work, and social life, even if I did not know that at the time. Getting this diagnosis at 43 was not something I had foreseen.

I was born on December 3rd, 1993, in Caracas’ busiest hospital. I spent my early years in a high-rise apartment at the top of a mountain in Manzanares, living a quiet, ordinary life. Everything changed when Hugo Chávez, once the face of a failed coup, rose to power. My dad saw what was coming, and we eventually left for the United States. Looking back, it's painful to see how the Venezuelan diaspora, my family included, was shaped by those decisions.

Severe acne may seem only skin deep, but its effects on mental health can be devastating. I’m Anna, a primary school teacher and writer who has struggled with acne since my late teens. I have been through almost every treatment imaginable, and have suffered the consequences of this visual, mental, and medical condition for over six years. Acne is a term most people are familiar with, whether from their own hidden school photos or the plague of teen movies that overuse it as

Eight years ago, I went to a friend of mine in distress. I had a lump or a bump or a cough or a premonition. “I am dying,” I told her. I was certain of it. “Or are you just about to put an album out?” she asked. My name is Charlee, and for the better part of twelve years, I’ve been a willing participant in the love-hate relationship most artists have with the music industry. The music industry is a peculiar trigger in my life. Anytime I move forward, I backwards dance into

I have alopecia, and I wear my bald head proudly now. Alopecia is hair loss that can be the result of medical conditions, hormonal changes, or genetics. While it is treatable, sometimes its effects can be permanent. When I am out in public, I catch people staring. Online, where I share my story, I receive backhanded compliments — comments that circle how lucky I am to be attractive, or how I could always wear a wig, or how I should “dress up my face” more to distract from th

A diagnosis can feel like a key — unlocking understanding and access to help — or like a label that locks you into something you can’t escape. I was 35 when a psychiatrist gave me a diagnosis of borderline personality disorder (BPD)/ Emotionally Unstable Personality Disorder (EUPD). I am now 43, and I still have an ambivalent relationship with the diagnosis.

How nostalgia makes us yearn for our own memories. Time moves forward whether we follow it or not. Nostalgia, however, waits.It lingers in old songs, in familiar streets, in the scent of a season or a person we thought we had forgotten. And when it finally returns, it pulls us gently, and sometimes painfully, back into a moment we can no longer touch.

There are two types of winter coats. One is light on the pocket but good for a fast-fashion spin. Then there’s the down-filled workhorse, puffed with promise and designed to last year after year. Standing in the ‘Winter Essentials’ aisle, I stared at both and bought neither. I wasn’t sure I was staying long enough to need either kind of warmth. 

It turns out ignorance really can feel like bliss, though I'm still deciding whether that makes me carefree or careless.  I’m Jessy, and five years ago I left my job and moved from London to Amsterdam. As a health and wellness writer with a background in broadcast journalism, I hadn’t realised how constant my exposure to news had become until I changed cities and, unintentionally, stepped away from the relentless churn of headlines.

For Indian women, many expectations are placed upon us. Her hair, vaal , must be long and lustrous. She must have fair skin. Most importantly, she must bear children. The Omnipresent Evil Eye Infertility in South Asian families is considered a curse, that an evil eye  is cast upon the family. Evil eye, otherwise known as nazar , holds significant cultural and spiritual importance in South Asian culture. It stems from the idea that jealousy, envy, and negative thoughts can cau

My journey and why video games help My name is Michael. I am no stranger to adversity in life, as I suffer from mental illness. I have almost died from mental illness and addiction. Depression, anxiety, and Post-traumatic Stress Disorder have occupied big parts of my life for decades now. There are many ways, both good and bad, that I have found to cope with my illness. After decades of struggle and through trial and error, I am continuing to seek new ways to cope with depres

Why Functioning Labels Are Harmful The discourse around autism tends to be typified by extremes. On one end is a child with severe social difficulties, sensory processing issues, and intellectual disability. On the other end of the spectrum is the popular conception of the eccentric savant. The person who —while odd, off-putting, and often seen as less than worthy— makes up for these perceived negative traits by being so good at one particular thing that their genius is seen

I am 17. My alarm goes off at 5:30 a.m., and I dread the next hour of my life. While most of my classmates are still asleep, I sit cross-legged in front of my full-length bedroom mirror and begin the painstaking process of covering the skin I had picked, squeezed, and cut into with cheap drugstore makeup. It’s a tedious process — camouflaging my skin so that I can hide in the hallways of my high school. I want to be invisible.