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It is in our human nature to forget details of the past, especially as we grow older; memories from our childhood become less vivid. Many of us, including myself, being part of Gen Z, have developed the habit of constantly recording our daily lives. With phones and cameras so easily accessible, we’re able to capture a wide range of moments, from the food we eat to the festivals we attend, or even a simple day out with our loved ones. This wasn’t the case for generations before us. Not only was the technology less accessible, but there also wasn’t the same cultural emphasis on documenting every experience. While cameras have evolved and allow us to preserve snippets of our memories more easily, they don’t always capture the full  experience. That’s where our minds come in. Photos and videos are there for physical proof, making the copy timeless, but it’s our memories that remind us of the sensory and emotional layers of living in that moment. My name is Layecha Fidahoussen, and as a student in Cognitive and Clinical Neuroscience, I’ve always been fascinated by how our mind works, especially how our brain processes life events. This interest extends beyond the biological mechanisms, including how culture and personal experiences shape our identity. Photo by Laura Fuhrman on Unsplash Importance of Memory Over time, our memories shift and change as we gain more life experiences and learn more information. This is why, when bonding with someone over distant memories, some may remember them better than others. We don’t remember events exactly as they took place; our recollections are often reshaped by perspective and time. Despite this, revisiting shared experiences over a hot meal helps strengthen our connections and relationships with people that we are close to. Our memories are a staple of our identity and serve as a biography  to tell our own stories and build our traditions for our surroundings and generations to follow. They are there to guide us and teach us from both our successes and failures for us to apply them in the present and the future, helping us adapt and help us navigate new life experiences. Memories can be stored briefly , from making an appointment to long-lasting ones like remembering crucial events from your childhood. These memories are essential in carrying out our daily lives, completing tasks, and making informed decisions. What is synthetic memory ? In order to preserve long-term memories, it’s important to take a step further, which has been implemented recently by the use of AI. A couple of weeks ago, I came across an article  where I read that AI can help us recall and reconstruct experiences that we’ve had in the past. In short, they are using  Generative Artificial Intelligence (GEN-AI) technologies to build a visual experience, such as photos and short videos, that builds a visual experience from having a detailed conversation with the participant on their most significant memory that they want to recover or reconstruct.   Although the article covers major topics like memories lost through old age, traumatic displacement, and experiences, I was moved by the innovative and thoughtful ways people are finding to help, especially through AI. I haven’t experienced anything so dramatic myself, but the story resonated with me on a personal level, which is something I will explore further in the next section. Why is it particularly interesting to me? It really stemmed my interest as someone who has lost ancestral history. Let me tell you a little about it:   My ancestors moved from Gujarat to Madagascar a long time ago. I wish I knew more about their journey and their life back in Gujarat. Despite the lack of information, a lot of the cultural aspects and traditions were passed down generationally, like the food that we eat, the language that we speak, and the clothes that we wear at cultural and religious events. Despite it still being there, I must say it has changed a lot due to integrating into the Malagasy and French cultures.   Both of my parents grew up in coastal towns back in Madagascar.  My dad grew up in the western part, and my mom in the southwest, before they met. Growing up, they would tell me about the skills and traditions and the moments they shared with their parents, and how different their lives were back when they used to live on the coast.   When I was younger, I had the opportunity to visit my mom’s hometown. She had a couple of pictures she showed me, and when we visited her town, unfortunately, a lot of people had moved to bigger cities around the country or to other parts of the world, so it looked like a ghost town. Photo by Anita Jankovic on Unsplash I remain grateful that she remembered so much from her childhood: the streets she used to play on, her neighbours, the places they used to go. She took me to the house she grew up in, where my grandpa used to work, and the mosque they used to go to. She told me about my grandma’s contribution to help her community, like sewing the mosque curtains with her own hands.   Her vivid recollection was helpful in trying to imagine her life there, but her home remained a place of empty walls full of memories.   As a family, we thrive on traditions from our culture, but also religiously. Over time, some traditions and cultural aspects have prevailed while others have been lost through generations. I learned so much of my cultural heritage from my parents and community, but as I grew up, especially since moving to London, it’s been hard to keep the traditions and cultural practices alive.   This got me thinking about the amount of practices that have been lost over time. From my perspective, it would be fascinating for the older generations in my family and in my community to use synthetic memories to keep a record of their past. It’s important for the next generation, like myself, to know and keep these unique customs alive, as it strengthens our identity and connection to one another through shared memories and experiences. How could this contribute to others' and our well-being? The psychological implications are important to consider, as synthetic memories can offer an emotional warmth and reconnection, which can help a wide range of individuals, like dementia patients, refugees, and those who have had traumatic experiences . As mentioned in the article , through trials, this approach can be used to complement Reminiscence Therapy , which is a method that involves reflecting on experiences and significant events in one’s life. This is also useful in therapeutic settings where discussing and creating a picture from specific memories might facilitate healing by helping people process difficult events at their own pace in a controlled environment. Not only could it contribute to individual mental wellbeing, but it may also positively impact our community by promoting empathy towards each other’s experiences, and creating a path for novel effective mental health interventions. As mentioned in the article  by the CEO of the initiative, “I think it is more therapeutic – both collectively and individually – to remember rather than to forget.” I should put a disclaimer that I'm not an expert in AI or technology, just a curious consumer. I was fascinated by this development and the future steps of it. My expertise does not fall on the technical side, but I do understand the importance of memory and how important it is to our identity. Introducing this new approach could offer valuable support to many people. After all, it’s our responsibility to preserve memories and protect our cultures, traditions, and histories for the next generations to come. Would you consider trying it and incorporating it into your life?

Image source: Bhautik Patel on Unsplash On most Monday mornings, the parking lots buzzed with a certain vigor. They chattered about all the messages they’d received. Some of them gathered to discuss the ones they had sent. I didn’t really know what to call their particular brand of energy, but my fellow neurons had it in spades. But on one peculiar Monday, the neurons that filled at my floor couldn’t be spotted anywhere. I shrugged it off and adhered to my usual routine, heading to my cubicle right at the back. In the hours that followed, I relayed pain from a stubbed toe, sorrow from a crumpling succulent, malodour from a rotting kiwi, and the strains of a hungry mongrel. When all my tasks were done, I realised that my colleagues hadn’t yet turned up. Eventually they did, but I found them gathered by the water cooler. The muttering paused the second they caught sight of me. I raised a questioning brow, and they instantly embraced me in their fold and unleashed their gossip: “No more happy messages are coming through.” “Seri is out of commission.” They were calling Sero Tonin by her nickname. That meant things were serious. “Yeah, the Dopes are not showing up either.” “Are they going to shut down?” I stepped back. They were starting to suffocate me. “Hold on, what do you mean?” “The highway is down.” “Messages are not travelling.” I tried to calm them down. “Okay let’s think as a team. What can we do about it?” They shrugged. “Boss got to do something, not us.” “Yeah, talk to top floor. They need to take action, and they need to do it now.” “Not an easy job going straight to the top.” I glanced out the window. “We’re just not receiving as well as we used to, is that right?” Their shoulders slumped. I glimpsed defeat in their eyes. The bulletin boards stared mute at me. I’d never seen my fellow neurons so united. “We need something special. Boss needs to inject us with the good stuff, you know that.” I didn’t know that for sure, but I was determined to find out. The informal route seemed best to me, to avoid the various levels of hierarchy and paperwork it might have otherwise required to obtain the information. And I was right. Multiple conversations over coffee relayed the same sentiment across all the departments. The Sensories said they didn’t want to be too touchy-feely about it, but they couldn’t deny being oversensitive – it was in their nature. The Motors longed to let the muscles relax, but for obvious reasons, their natural abilities failed them. And across campus, the Inters simply refused to cooperate with either the Motors or the Sensories, and decision-making completely broke down for a while. Only the Autonomics soldiered on, ushering in the breaths and the food, making sure the pumping of blood went on as normal. Overall, things seemed off compared to before. I’d like to say I went straight to the top and got matters sorted out within the day. That’s how I imagined things would work – I’d stomp into the offices on the top floor, meet the boss or the seniormost decision-maker who would deign to speak to me, and convince them that problems haunted us minions on the ground. But the truth is: it took months. Despite the agreement from most of the workers, they dumped a ton of paperwork on me alone that had to be filled out in order to visit the Big Boss. Her secretary, Ms. Thalamus, insisted she wasn’t taking visitors nowadays; the documentation needed to meet her had doubled since the good old days. Even so, it seemed like eons before I got hold of the actual form. And when I finally did, it was five pages long, most of it asking to regurgitate my work history, special achievements, and the largest space reserved for ‘reason to meet’. The underlings of Ms. Thalamus demanded solid justification for it, their hostility and suspicions of my best intentions leaping off every page. I put in all my efforts, refused to sleep (I never did so anyway), and it still got rejected. That’s when I realised my best just wasn’t good enough. Luckily, the offices of the Big Boss, including Ms. Thalamus and her troops, granted me a second chance. They expected my undying gratitude, and I feigned it in my response to their note. But the actual application would need special attention. This time around, I consulted the offices of Mr. Wernicke and Mr. Broca. As the heads of language learning and language production respectively, they shared invaluable insights into the problem areas. They almost rewrote my application for me. I also called in the nervous cavalry for support. And they stepped up better than I expected. This time my application went through. It came back with the date and time stamped on it. The glial folks helped me clean up and prep for the meeting with the boss. On the big day, I shrugged into my purpliest tie and my least threadbare suit. Standing in Ms. Thalamus cabin, I felt equal to the occasion and my surroundings. The secretary, however, adjusted her pince-nez and informed me that if she had her way, this meeting would never have gotten through. In fact, she had held a meeting with the boss to disallow the meeting. But the boss had expressed an interest in hearing what I had to say, so she would begrudgingly honor the time she’d given me. I met the boss in an office the size of our entire floor. She didn’t bat an eye at my tie or blink at the condition of my suit. I put forward my proposal in a detailed presentation that shared facts and figures, and indeed, even the shared sentiment from the departments. I began. “The way forward is clear. We need to onboard SSRIs, and we need them now.” She stared blankly at me. For a brief moment, I panicked. Finding no other alternative, I launched into the informative speech I had prepared: “SSRIs are Selective Serotonin Reuptake Inhibitors. They’re a type of medicine that helps people feel better when they are sad or worried for a long time. You know how Serotonin helps carry “happy” messages that make you feel good? SSRIs act like traffic managers and make sure more of the serotonin lives on, so those happy messages can keep moving around longer. By letting more of these happy messages flow, SSRIs can make people feel more balanced and less sad or worried over time. They’re like little helpers that keep the "feel-good" signals moving, helping you feel more like yourself again. So, what do you think?” To her credit she didn’t interrupt. She heard me out, occasionally glancing through the papers while I spoke, flipping a few pages here and there. “Okay,” she said. “You may leave.” It sounded so unceremonious that I didn’t really step out when she said it, so she had to grant me the wave of dismissal. And even then, Ms. Thalamus had to step in and haul me out of the room. It could’ve been six weeks, or it could’ve been more, I don’t really remember, but the Susurrus (the nickname my colleagues and I gave the SSRIs) came on board. And eventually, the messages began seeping through. Sero Tonin began visiting more often, staying longer. The Dopes also followed. My fellow neurons returned to their usual perky selves. Their dendrites and axons received and sent messages smoothly. My colleagues went back to riding their neurotransmitters with that type of energy – again, I forget what it’s called. We all gradually fell back into our routine. The glial clan cleaned us up and massaged our spines every day. When the body rested, I returned to helping file memories, prune old connections, and reinforce new ones. I fancied myself the silent sculptor of learning. Soon, the parking lot wasn’t empty anymore.

Note: An earlier version of this article was previously published on Medium. How I reclaimed my dreams, redefined success, and found myself again 25/5/25 - A date so precise it feels like destiny carved it into the calendar just for me. Not merely for its symmetry, but because it marks the beginning of a life I chose, a life I built, a self I reclaimed.   But let’s rewind.   On my 29th birthday, I had a startling realisation: for nearly a decade, I had been drifting - floating through my twenties on autopilot, letting life happen to me instead of shaping it with intention. I had become a stranger to the fierce, purposeful, fearless girl I once knew.   Growing up, I was bold. I chased dreams with certainty. I didn’t ask for permission; I simply went after what I wanted. Instead of shrinking in the face of doubt, I used it as fuel. But life chipped away at me, not with one dramatic blow, but in quiet, persistent taps with rejections, setbacks, and disappointments. The dreams I held tightly began to slip through my fingers. The final crack came when a goal I had been working toward for years collapsed completely. I tried everything to salvage it. I knocked on every door. But eventually, I had to face the truth: there were no doors left. Just silence.   Worse still, the voices of others grew louder than my own. Their doubts became mine. Their cynicism became my lens. Slowly, I lost sight of who I was and where I was going.   Until one day, on the cusp of 30, I looked in the mirror and barely recognised the woman staring back. I had spent my twenties in a body and mind that didn’t feel like mine. So I made a vow: I would spend the final year of my twenties reclaiming the woman I used to be. And maybe even becoming someone stronger.   I let myself dream again. I created a “30 Before 30” list. It was not just a checklist, but a manifesto. I walked away from the people who drained me. I had always been the kind, open-hearted girl who gave everyone access to her soul. But kindness without boundaries is self-abandonment, and I was done abandoning myself.   I quit the job I had been clinging to for far too long, not because it wasn’t fulfilling, but because I knew there was more. The day I handed in my resignation, I felt like a bird set free. Scared, yes…but free. I travelled to my dream destination that I had romanticised for years, but never dared to believe I’d see. As I wandered unfamiliar streets, the old me filled with excitement, wonder, and boldness began to reawaken.   Empire State Building Source: Razan Ghalayini I picked up a paintbrush again. I joined an art exhibition. It wasn’t about acclaim; it was about remembering the joy of sharing something I had created. Then I took the stage for a TEDx talk . My hands trembled, but my voice was steady. I spoke about how we’re all born scientists and that life is an experiment where even our failures bring valuable data. I wasn’t just speaking to others; I was reminding myself.   “Harmony of Mind and Heart” art piece by Razan Ghalayini. Source: by the author Then came the leap that changed everything: I applied to graduate school. Not just any program, I applied to the exact program I’d always dreamed of; the program that I was told didn’t exist. For years, I talked about the mind-body connection. People dismissed it as “too soft,” “not scientific enough,” but I knew better.   When I found the MSc in Psychology and Neuroscience of the Mind-Body Interface, it felt like finding water in the desert, as if the universe said, This is what you’ve been waiting for. So, I applied only to that program. And I got in.   On the day I turned 30, I celebrated the end of that year with a symbolic act: I jumped out of a plane. I skydived into the unknown, letting go of everything that no longer served me. I landed with a heart full of clarity and conviction. Razan tandem skydiving. Source: Skydive Dubai But the journey didn’t stop there.   After tending to my external world of career, goals, and dreams, I turned inward. I began a deep spring cleaning of my inner self. I asked myself hard questions. Which beliefs are mine? Which are inherited from society?   I reconnected with my values, set firmer boundaries, and learned the art of giving without losing pieces of myself in the process. Through my clinical placement, I saw firsthand how we can help others without emptying our own well. I saw that to care for others, we must first care for ourselves.   And through it all, despite the stress, the sleepless nights, the unknowns, I felt more me than ever before. It turns out all those years I spent applying to graduate programs and walking away were not wasted.  They were leading me here - to this exact program, at this exact time, with this exact cohort, a group of forty pioneers in the program’s very first year. I wasn’t late. I was right on time.   In my mid-twenties, I believed that by 30, I should have life figured out. But now, standing at 31, I know the truth: it’s never too late to begin again, to pivot, to dream differently, and to become. So today, on 25/5/25, I celebrate more than just a birthday. I celebrate a rebirth. I look in the mirror and see her again, Razan at 18, full of life, but who now carries twelve years of wisdom, grit, and growth.   I’m still becoming, and I am still learning. But for the first time in a long time, I know I’m on my path.   And that is everything.

Trigger Warning: The following article contains references to suicide and grief, which some readers may find distressing The text came through on New Year’s Day, 2022. My partner would later inform me that I tossed my phone across the room, yelled an obscenity then darted for the door to the balcony. When she and my mum asked what was wrong, I just muttered: “Jack’s killed himself.”  My friend Adam’s then-girlfriend sent the text. They had found out the day before, but he was too distraught to type that message himself. They had been for dinner at Jack and his girlfriend Anna’s apartment only a week earlier. They’d discussed plans for Jack’s birthday in February, and he’d been in his typical sparkling form – always inquisitive, disarmingly kind, and beaming from ear to ear.   We were a tight-knit group who supported each other through two years of COVID via typical male means, sharing jokes in a group chat and seizing any opening in lockdown restrictions to drink away the weight of our boredom and isolation. We never spoke earnestly about our mental health, but Jack always presented as the most perennially optimistic of all of us, the proverbial life and soul of the party. He and Anna were the postcard couple, exuding an infectious lust for life and forever plotting their next adventure.  I had been messaging him just before Christmas, and he was excited to leave the country and travel to visit family. A few days later, he tested positive for Covid, and the trip was cancelled.  Photo by Kajetan Sumila  on Unsplash The news of Jack’s suicide was like a hydrogen bomb dropped at the epicentre of everything I thought I knew about the world. Incomprehensibility was the dominant emotion at first, intermittently giving way to bouts of rage, guilt and hopelessness.  I spent the next few weeks oscillating between confusion and fury, trying to recall every interaction I’d ever had with Jack, looking for signs I may have missed. If I had been as attentive to others’ lives as Jack was, maybe he might have felt comfortable talking about what was devouring him from within. I could not get past the unimaginable pain he would have been in to take such sudden, violent action with the love of his life in the very next room, and the impotent urge to rewind the clock and call him on that morning haunted every waking moment.  To try and assuage the guilt, I’d remind myself that even the person who knew him better than anyone hadn’t seen it coming. That, in turn, led me to view my grief as self-indulgence and to loathe myself for it. How dare I take the liberty of self-pity when the damage to his partner and family was so much more profound?  Photo by Jade Masri on Unsplash  In late January, we finally managed to get together at Adam’s flat, and it turned out we had all been experiencing the same ebbs and flows of emotions. We would never learn his motives, and that terminal unknown had been gnawing away at all of us. For the first time, we all began talking openly about what we were thinking and feeling.  I shared one worry I had tried to bury for fear it would appear selfish: if Jack’s mental state could short-circuit so devastatingly, what was to stop any of ours from doing the same? I began characterising what had developed in his brain as akin to hypertrophic cardiomyopathy (a type of heart disease where the muscle wall thickens), building up undetected towards a sudden, fatal collapse. That eased the guilt and confusion, but only gave way to fear.  Photo by Pavel Danilyuk on Pexels  I had suffered from bouts of depression since I was a young teenager, and on several occasions struggled with suicidal thoughts, often concluding that the only thing keeping me alive was my atheism and associated fear of the great abyss.  Having grown up in a working-class town where traditional notions of stiff-upper-lip masculinity were prevalent, I had always resisted seeking professional help until about a year before Jack’s death. There came a point at which I felt incapable of experiencing joy, excitement or passion, and could only see the world through a heavy blanket of listlessness, with no discernible future worth existing for. Fortunately, my GP had been great, and I was prescribed antidepressants. Despite seeking professional help, I still never discussed my mental health with anyone else apart from my partner.  Suicide is the biggest killer of people under the age of 35 and men under the age of 50 in the UK . In 2021, there were 5,219 suicides registered in England, according to Samaritans , of which 3,852 were men. I had shared these statistics on social media, along with campaigns to encourage men to talk, but Jack had still not felt comfortable enough to discuss his affliction, and neither had I until three weeks after his death.   Photo by Rifqi Ramadhan on Pexels  I told the lads everything, and they implored me to give them a call or a text or to show up on their doorsteps whenever I felt like it was getting the upper hand. I promised to do the same for them. We made a pact, of sorts, never to suffer in silence. Over the ensuing weeks and months, that conversation and the collective resolve we found in one another, especially supporting Anna, seemed to give direction and purpose to our anguish, triggering a collective impulse toward a more active, unified kind of grief and remembrance.  Our friendship group always made ourselves available to Anna, always meeting up to share stories about Jack. We all placed mementoes in our flats of nights we enjoyed with him, rather than mourning the absence of those we would never get a chance to. We went to see his favourite band, and I ran Jack’s favourite half-marathon to raise money for a mental health support charity in his name.  Three years on, we are now all living in different countries, with different partners and leading very different lives, but we know there will always be someone on hand in our darkest hour. The harrowing events of three years ago forged bonds seemingly unassailable by time and circumstance.  What became clear throughout this process was that there is no right way to grieve, but a support structure is invaluable. I also learned that once a group of male friends begin talking about mental health, those clouds during the bleaker days, weeks and months will part just a little. We would trade it all in to have Jack back in a heartbeat, but I hope his legacy is that nobody whose life he touched will ever feel alone again.  This article has been sponsored by the Psychiatry Research Trust,  who are dedicated to supporting young scientists in their groundbreaking research efforts within the field of mental health. If you wish to support their work, please consider donating.

This piece was written with Francesca Giovanetti. Scientists often dive into research driven by two magic ingredients: caffeine and curiosity. Caffeine keeps us awake, and curiosity motivates us to solve complex questions and to push the boundaries of human knowledge. Locked away in labs, scientists work tirelessly to test hypotheses in all different areas of science. Unfortunately, many discoveries feel like they stay confined to publications, adding lines to a CV or increasing a citation index, rarely making it beyond the lab door. But what if that research didn't stay locked behind a door? What if, instead of collecting citations in a prestigious journal, it could always become something that could transform people's lives? When I was a kid, my biggest dream was to drive a garbage truck. Life had other plans, and today I’m a neuroscientist at the Institute of Science and Technology Austria (ISTA). My research focuses on brain plasticity - the amazing process behind how neurons form and reshape their connections. While studying this, I tested a drug called ketamine, which is used in psychiatry to treat patients with depression who don't respond to traditional therapies. What I discovered was surprising: ketamine activates a special group of brain cells called microglia. We can think of microglia as the gardeners of the brain, tending to and shaping the network of neuronal connections that make learning and healing possible. Ketamine instructs microglia to open up a protective layer around neurons called perineuronal nets (PNNs). These nets can make it harder for the brain to form new connections. In adults treated with ketamine, microglia physically create openings in the PNNs, allowing new neuronal connections to grow, much like what occurs during early brain development. For the first time, using an FDA-approved medication, we were able to rejuvenate the adult brain  and restore its youthful plasticity.  This already sounds like the end of this story, but it's only the beginning.  In order to restructure the PNN, ketamine has to be administered multiple times and at high doses, making it impossible to use it in the real world due to the severe side effects (such as disorientation, confusion and loss of motor coordination). So, I had to take a step back and ask a new question — how exactly does ketamine tell microglia to remodel the PNN and boost brain plasticity? If you open a pharmacology textbook, you’ll find the classic explanation: a drug works by binding to a receptor, like a key fitting into a lock. That’s true, but the brain isn’t just a chemical system. It’s also an electrical one. It communicates using pulses of electricity, like signals sent along a wire. So, I started to wonder: what if ketamine isn’t just unlocking a receptor? What if it’s sending a message, like a kind of Morse code, that microglia can read and respond to? By recording brain activity with electrodes, I was able to capture the unique electrical “signature” of ketamine. Image by Syntropic Medical GmbH Specifically, when ketamine is given, neurons respond by producing rhythmic waves of activity at around 60 Hz. I wondered if I could copy that same brain rhythm without using the drug. I exposed mice to 60 Hz ON-OFF pulsed light and, to my great surprise, I observed that I was able to fully replicate the effect that I described with ketamine. In short, I mimicked ketamine’s impact on brain plasticity using only pulsed light. We now have a very simple tool that, without all the issues associated with drug side effects, can be used for the treatment of depression in patients. Something that, instead of suppressing disease symptoms, can address the root issue of the problem: impaired neuroplasticity. This opens the way for faster, long-lasting relief without the onset delays or tolerability typical of pharmacological treatments.  This was the scary part: the moment we had to think big. It was time to move beyond the lab and into the real world. The science was there, but to turn it into something that could help patients, we needed more than data. We needed a company. Only a startup, in fact, can raise the capital, build a medical device prototype, and navigate the complex path from lab to clinic. Ideas alone don’t spark revolutions, but people do. A revolutionary startup needs more than just a great concept; it needs a team with a bold vision, real grit, and the drive to build something that matters. With that mindset, I teamed up with Mark Caffrey, Jack O’Keeffe, and Sandra Siegert to create Syntropic Medical. In just a few months, we secured top-tier funding through grants and venture capital, brought together a spectacular team of scientists and engineers, and developed our first medical device prototypes.  At an incredible pace, in just a few months, the team completed all the preclinical safety testing and demonstrated that the light stimulation technology fully translates to humans, promoting the onset of neuronal plasticity safely in healthy volunteers. This effect could be achieved using a simple pair of wearable goggles, designed to deliver the light stimulus directly to the peripheral vision. Syntropic is now testing the safety and effectiveness of its technology in patients with major depressive disorder through two distinct clinical trials: one at the University Hospital of São Paulo in Brazil, and another at NYU Langone Hospital in New York. This article isn’t just the story of a good idea finding its way into the real world; it’s also a call to rethink how we treat depression. Current therapies rely heavily on medication, but too often, they fall short. According to the World Health Organization, more than 280 million people worldwide suffer from depression. Of those, over 40% relapse, 30% see no benefit from their treatment, and 25% abandon treatment due to unbearable side effects. These numbers highlight a critical need: we must develop new therapies that are faster, more effective, and easier to stick with. Maybe our idea is the right one, or maybe it isn’t. Maybe it will change millions of lives, or maybe it will pave the way for someone else’s breakthrough. But what matters most is that we try. That we dare to bring a revolutionary spark of light and hope to the lives of patients.

Trigger Warning: This article discusses Postpartum Posttraumatic Stress Disorder (PPTSD), Birth Trauma, and Medical Emergencies, which some readers may find distressing I share this story not just to process it, but to raise awareness. Birth trauma happens more often than we talk about. Complications in labour deserve more understanding, support, and open conversation. Storytelling enables us to break the silence, connect with others, and start the healing process, both individually and collectively. This is the day I died.   Not literally, but it marked the end of life I knew it. My body was no longer mine. My sense of self was shattered. In its place came a new reality: epilepsy , PPTSD (Postpartum Posttraumatic Stress Disorder), and postnatal depression became my daily companions. Image by Jan Canty via Unsplash How Memory Works in Trauma   Trauma alters how memory works. Studies show that when people experience a traumatic event, their memories become fragmented. Even witnesses recall events differently, shaped by stress and emotion.   In my case, I was barely conscious for much of what happened. My memory is a collection of fading images, sounds, and sensations. My husband was there to confirm what I couldn’t recall.   Even now, it feels like piecing together a dream, or a nightmare. The Lead-Up to Labour: Missed Signs   Pregnancy is considered full-term at 40 weeks. If labour hasn’t started naturally by 41–42 weeks, induction may be recommended to avoid complications like stillbirth or fetal distress..   At 40 weeks and 6 days, I was induced with a hormone gel ( prostaglandin ), but it didn’t work. They tried again at 41 weeks and 2 days.   By 41 weeks and 3 days, I had lost the mucus plug , was bleeding, and felt something was wrong. I went to the hospital and was monitored for hours.   The baby’s heartbeat was irregular.   A shift change happened. The new doctor discharged me without explanation. Exhausted, alone, and confused, I wanted to trust her. But something felt off.   At 41 weeks and 5 days, I was scheduled for induction. But at 10:00 a.m., I got a call: There were no beds. They’d call me tomorrow.   At noon, my water broke. I was prepared to wait at home until contractions started.   Then I saw more blood and green mucus - meconium. What is Meconium?   Meconium is a baby's first stool.. If it appears before birth, it signals fetal distress. If inhaled by the baby, it can cause serious breathing difficulties or infection.   I was alone. My husband was working in a place with no phone signal. I waited through contractions on my own. When he returned, we reached the hospital by 3 p.m.   There were still no beds.   Labour Turns Into a Crisis   I was placed in the emergency pregnancy department. My contractions were every minute and intense, but I was forced to wait.   I had to remain in bed with straps around my belly to monitor the baby’s heartbeat . I couldn’t move. This wasn’t what I had planned.   I was given Entonox too early, making me dizzy and nauseous for four hours.   During pregnancy, I had tested positive for Group B Strep (GBS) , a bacterial infection that can be fatal to newborns delivered vaginally if untreated.   I needed IV antibiotics before delivery. But everything was delayed.   By the time I was moved to a room, I had a fever. The doctors realised I was developing sepsis.   What is Sepsis?   Sepsis is a life-threatening immune overreaction to infection, causing organ failure. Pregnant women and newborns are particularly vulnerable, as sepsis can develop from untreated infections, prolonged labour, or complications like Group B Strep.   I had written and verbally requested a caesarean if things went wrong.   But no one was prepared. I wasn’t given pain relief, no epidural, no plan.   When they finally decided on a C-section, the doctors reviewed my records. The anaesthesiologist found an MRI from a year earlier showing lesions on my right temporal lobe. It had been ordered after I reported cognitive symptoms. The neurologist sent the results, but they never reached my GP.   I was burning with fever, in septic shock, unable to advocate for myself.   I faintly remember a nurse pressing firmly on my back, grounding me in that moment of chaos, pain, and fear, as I fought for my life and my baby’s.   Image by Nivedhita via Unsplash My body was shutting down. I lost consciousness.   Right before the epidural, I had my first visible seizure.   The alarms went off.   Twenty doctors rushed in.   My husband was pushed out of the room.   The doctors said, “Forget about the baby - we need to save the mother.” I don’t know how long I was unconscious. Protocols delayed the C-section, putting the baby at risk. After My Daughter Was Born   She was born by emergency C-section at 11:40 p.m.   I didn’t wake up until the early hours of the next morning.   When I opened my eyes, my husband was there. He asked if I wanted to see our daughter.   I assumed she was okay. I was too weak to keep my eyes open.   I couldn’t hold her. I couldn’t process what had happened. It felt like waking from a nightmare and being handed someone else’s baby.   Seizures became a part of my reality after birth. That’s another story for another day.   Amid the chaos, I will always remember the nurses. Their strength and presence during the whole week spent in the hospital in those darkest hours meant more than words can express.   Trying to Survive as a mother   For two months, I wasn’t allowed to hold my daughter unsupervised in case I had a seizure.   I couldn’t bathe her, take her for a walk, or even be alone in a room.   The disconnect was overwhelming.   I’d imagined maternity leave would mean walks in the park, museum visits, and fresh air.   Instead, I was stuck inside the house, isolated and overwhelmed.   PTSD After Birth: A Silent Epidemic   After surviving all of this, I wasn’t the same.   I later learned about PPTSD. It develops after childbirth, particularly in cases involving medical trauma, life-threatening situations, or feelings of helplessness.   PPTSD after childbirth affects 3–6% of women, but for those who experience complications like emergency C-sections, preterm birth, or excessive medical intervention, the rate is much higher.   For months, I felt numb, disconnected, and afraid. Author's own image   The Only Thing That Kept Me Going   When I finally held my daughter, she instinctively crawled toward my breast and began nursing.   That was the first moment I felt something real.   But this was the day I died as Christina, and a new person was born, one who had to accept a new way of life. While many describe birth as completing a cycle, it didn’t feel like an ending for me. Instead of closing a chapter, it opened something raw and unfinished… something painful I’m still learning to live with.     “There are certain events that can never be separated from the time in which they occurred. We are left trying to understand them, but they refuse to be fixed in the past. Instead, they live with us, inside of us, shaping the way we move through the world.”  Patrick McGrath This article has been sponsored by the Psychiatry Research Trust,  who are dedicated to supporting young scientists in their groundbreaking research efforts within the field of mental health. If you wish to support their work, please consider donating.

What happens when you believe you need to keep everyone safe? Photo by Ethan Wilkinson on Unsplash Trigger warning:  This article contatins mentions of suicidal ideation. I’m on hold to the local police; I don’t know what I’m going to say this time. It’s the third time I’ve rung them this week, and I know that it’s not going to go well. But I also know that however painful and embarrassing this call is, it won’t be worse than living with the guilt of letting someone die. This was me when my Responsibility OCD got so bad that I lost all sense of reality and perspective. I was trapped in a nightmarish cycle. My whole existence revolved around keeping people safe. Responsibility OCD  is a theme of Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder. OCD  is a serious anxiety-related condition where people experience frequent distressing and intrusive obsessional thoughts, which often lead to compulsions — repetitive mental or physical actions that are done to relieve the anxiety of the obsessions. With Responsibility OCD, sufferers believe they are responsible for preventing others from coming to harm. Obsessions and compulsions focus on a heightened sense of responsibility for people and situations. Living with OCD I have suffered with OCD for as long as I can remember. As a child I experienced the more commonly known OCD themes like contamination, checking, and harm. Throughout this time of my life I managed to keep my compulsions hidden, and although they affected me greatly, I was still able to function in the outside world. As I got older, I started experiencing intrusive thoughts about harming my family, and when I started driving, OCD made me believe that I had continuously knocked people over. I would spend hours of my life walking up and down busy main roads to check that I hadn’t harmed anyone. I would review the local news to make sure no one had been the victim of a hit-and-run. My OCD was becoming harder to manage and to keep secret. I was constantly exhausted, mentally and physically, but there was a lot worse to come. Photo by A n v e s h on Unsplash Inflated responsibility Inflated responsibility  is a common belief in people with OCD, and with all the OCD themes that I experienced, my main fear was acting irresponsibly and hurting someone. At some point, however, my OCD shifted into something much more sinister and frightening, as my fear of being responsible for everyone’s welfare completely overwhelmed me. Soon, everywhere I went I saw risk. If there was a tiny spot of water on the floor of a supermarket, I would panic that if I didn’t wipe it up someone would slip, crack their head open and die — and it would be my fault. If I didn’t kick a stone off the pavement, someone could trip and injure themselves. Often, I would attempt to reduce the risk of someone coming to harm. I would move heavy things from the edge of supermarket shelves and monitor the magazine area in case there were inserts that people could slip on. Everyday activities, like shopping or going for a walk, became the stuff of nightmares. Photo by Nathália Rosa on Unsplash I was working in a retail position at this time, and here too I was constantly concerned for the safety of customers. I was even following them around if I thought they had hurt themselves, asking them if they were ok. This became so bad that I was unable to do my job properly as I was fixated on whether customers were coming to harm. Eventually, after months of torturing myself with guilt, I had no option but to leave. My OCD became even more distressing, because I started having visual and auditory hallucinations of the things I feared the most. I would see people lying on the floor, injured because of my neglect. I would see blood on customers in the shop. It felt like I was living in a horror film. All around me, everywhere I turned, there were hazards and dangers. Each situation left me consumed with guilt, which stayed with me for weeks if I was lucky and months if I was not. I lived my life in a state of fear, worried that I had let someone die by not reporting something. My mind was filled constantly with visions of people bleeding to death or drowning — and it was all my fault. I had hundreds of deaths on my conscience every day. This is what hell looks like The guilt I felt for abandoning injured people became too much for me and the only way I felt I could relieve that guilt was to ring the police. I started ringing the non-emergency line multiple times a week. “There’s a man on a bridge looking sad and I’m worried about him” I would say, or “I’m sure that swimmer didn’t get out of the water, you need to check he’s ok”. The confused operator of course wanted evidence and I was never 100 % sure, so the call would end in me feeling embarrassed and confused. I would often ring back, compelled to seek more and more reassurance as I worried that I had left crucial details out. One time, I rang the police because I thought I heard the cries of an injured person outside my flat.  In the early hours of the morning, I lay in bed terrified as I heard footsteps and then saw the beam of the police officer’s flashlight as it scanned the block of flats. Of course, nothing was found, because, as usual, nothing was there. I felt terrible for wasting their time, but I would have felt guiltier if I hadn’t called them. The ‘what if’ question that OCD asks is a cruel feature of the condition. Photo by Miryam León on Unsplash I couldn’t live like this anymore. I could see no way out of this horrific trap that I was in. There were many times I contemplated suicide to escape the guilt of being a negligent person who had let someone die. I didn’t see a way out.   Breaking the cycle I needed an intervention urgently. My therapist suggested that I emailed him any concerns I had about people and I would never know what he did with the information. This wasn’t the conventional way to deal with OCD and we both knew that. But something drastic needed to happen, and this way I wasn’t calling the police all the time which was making me severely ill. It did break the cycle and slowly the gap between me getting urges to contact the police got bigger, and the distress I felt over situations I saw lessened enough for me to start leaving my flat without feeling huge amounts of panic.   OCD still plays a big part in my life, but it doesn’t rule me like it once did. I am more aware of my triggers like stress and tiredness, and I try not to indulge my hyper-vigilant nature. It’s not easy though, and I often have very difficult relapses, but when I challenge the OCD and make small gains, it empowers me to not give into it. I never say never when it comes to my OCD and I know it will always be a part of who I am, but I am gradually finding a way through. This article has been sponsored by the Psychiatry Research Trust,  who are dedicated to supporting young scientists in their groundbreaking research efforts within the field of mental health. If you wish to support their work, please consider donating.

For decades, the concept of ‘Mum Brain’ has been synonymous with the experience of motherhood. It’s almost a rite of passage to experience the memory loss and brain fog of pregnancy and the postpartum period (also called Pregnancy Brain, Baby Brain, Mummy Brain, Mumnesia). But what if Mum Brain had more to do with the mental load of motherhood, namely the cognitive and emotional labour that primarily falls on mothers, and less to do with mum brains ? I’m a neuroscientist who studies the neuroscience of motherhood and maternal mental health (check out the Maternal Mental Health series I previously co-edited for Inspire the Mind ). I also authored a book on the topic, Mommy Brain , and produce the podcast Mommy Brain Revisited . I’m also a mother and have had my own personal experience of ‘Mum Brain’. You could say I spend a lot of my time thinking about motherhood and the brain. Photo Credit: Sarah Chai on Pexels Over the past few years, I’ve written about how we need to rebrand the term Mum Brain (including in my previous article for Inspire the Mind ) to capture the amazing things that the brain of a mother does when she becomes a parent. Still, I don’t think this rebrand is going to happen. Mum Brain, the term, is too entrenched in our vocabulary. We use it to laugh off the impossibilities of motherhood, to share an experience that often feels overwhelming, to normalise mental struggles, all while diminishing the capacities of a mum’s brain and disregarding the multitude of tasks it is doing. Let me explain. If Mum Brain was a thing – as in every mum had a biological predisposition to forget or be ‘dysfunctional’– we would probably see news headlines attesting to this, “Pregnant Physician Prescribes Wrong Medication Again ”  or, better yet, we likely wouldn’t have little humans surviving and thriving. Caregiving takes a lot of brain power. We just don’t value it as much as other forms of thinking and doing. Thus, we are quick to blame the brains of mothers when they understandably struggle to keep up with the overwhelming mental load of modern motherhood, rather than questioning what we can do to reduce it. But enough about my musings, what does the research tell us about ‘Mum Brain’? There’s a growing body of research indicating that mums face a significant mental load as they do more of the planning and execution of household tasks and childcare in heterosexual relationships, from cleaning to organising medical appointments and playdates , with the exception of taking out the trash . I’m not going to get into the details of mental load and gender stereotypes here, but what I want to point out is that this mental load of motherhood is likely adding to the sleep deprivation and physiological changes a new mum experiences, resulting in a mum’s brain ‘short-circuiting’ . When mums are asked in research settings about how good they feel their memory is, they usually rate it as being worse than if they didn’t have children. Research also shows that how a mum feels about her memory is related to her sleep and mental health, how isolated she is, and the role of constant interruption in her life, as usually she is the primary caregiver and the go-to adult for the child(ren). Interestingly, when mums' memories are tested to better understand ‘Mum Brain’, the science shows that memory ‘problems’ in pregnancy and the postpartum period are, at best, very slight. Usually, when tested in a laboratory, pregnant and postpartum women do quite well on memory tests and don’t differ from their non-mum counterparts, except with slight deficits in some executive functions (skills that you use to manage everyday tasks like making plans, solving problems and adapting to new situations) such as remembering words for things and some forms of short-term memory. Other research even shows memory improvements in pregnancy , particularly for things that are related to parenting. Why then is there a disconnect between how a mum feels about her memory and what science says about it? This seems to be due to the mental load of motherhood . Photo Credit: ShotPot on Pexels When research investigates memory and motherhood, typically mums are invited to come into a laboratory, which is a nice quiet setting, often with childcare, and are asked to complete some memory tests. One study, which I co-authored, investigated the memory performance of pregnant women at home versus in the lab. Interestingly, we found that pregnant women do well on memory tests in the lab but do poorly at home, suggesting that the home environment plays a role and may be impacting their memory . A recent study also showed that a mum’s performance on memory tests is impacted by the amount of stressors she experiences, including sleep deprivation, life stressors and maternal age (could this be perimenopause?). It seems that the more mental load a mum is facing, the more her memory is impacted. The mental overload of motherhood may be the missing link in understanding the ‘mum brain’ that so many mothers talk about. This also suggests that while ‘Mum Brain’ is a thing, it’s not a biologically pre-determined fact. It’s likely more a result of environmental factors, social expectations and gender norms. The brain is not a never-ending reserve of power. Any brain will ‘dysfunction’ when it is overwhelmed and has too many to-dos. It can hit its limit, especially when it hasn’t been recharged. The good news is that once a mum has a reduced mental overload, she likely will feel that her brain is functioning in a better way. Photo Credit: Tara Winstead on Pexels The BIG question then, is how do we reduce the mental load of motherhood? There is no one way to do this, and it’s not solely a mum’s responsibility. Sometimes, reducing the mental load of motherhood means working together as a couple to come up with a plan of who does what when it comes to childcare and household tasks. Other times, it may be that the mother needs to figure out what is important for her as a mother and let go of others’ expectations (easier said than done). Or it may mean bringing in extra help or finding creative options with friends and family to share the caring. In fact, for many mums, it may mean getting some uninterrupted sleep or time to herself. As you can imagine, the list of options for easing the mental load of motherhood is endless, which means there are countless ways to intervene.    The bottom line is that taking care of children is not a one-person job, and it definitely is not 100% a mother’s responsibility, 24 hours a day, on top of everything else she does. We all have the necessary brain parts to care-give (and clean the house), so let’s remember that and start to ease the mental load of motherhood for those around us.

Of all the topics that concern parents, teachers, and caretakers of teenagers right now, I have found that the most worrying is how to reduce their phone use. It’s an addictive world of obsessive scrolling out there, where young adults (aged 18–24) spend on average four hours, 36 minutes a day on their phones. One parent I talked to spoke for many of us when she said, ‘I just want to smash their phones into a thousand pieces and flush them down the loo.’   But taking away your teenager’s phone or smashing it into a thousand pieces isn’t going to work or help. Even if we think about digital parental controls, I have found that they have been made so deliberately cumbersome and inaccessible by tech firms, that they are unusable for most parents. Even if we do figure out how to use them, teenagers will find a way around such controls, whether through back-up phones or by using VPNs (virtual private networks, which can hide who and where the users are), just as they find ways round age verification. They are almost certainly more tech-savvy than us. Photo by Tracy Le Blanc from Pexels However, don’t despair!   Some approaches do help, especially those that tap into teenage psychology and work with teenagers rather than against them. Therefore, in this blog I will go through two strategies which have worked for many parents.   First, the need for connection.   1) Connecting more with our teenagers ourselves The best immunisation against using digital devices for social connection is a teenager who feels understood, communicated with, and connected to us. This can mean one-on-one time, ‘special days’ in which you plan something meaningful together, five-minute chats or prioritising quality moments, by which I mean focused and meaningful engagement.   To protect times when a more fulfilling connection is possible, we need to create digital-free zones in our homes and in our schedules, including holidays off grid (ideally) involving climbing, swimming, or any physical activity in which it’s impossible be on a phone. One parent told me her teenager was surprised by how relaxing she found such a digital detox, even though she had resisted the idea originally. ‘I think of it as “stealth health” holiday,’ the mother told me. ‘You subtly weave in digital-free times.’ Photo by Andrei Tanase from Pexels Mealtimes, family times, evenings, and bedtimes are the most important periods to keep free of digital activities, both to create the space to provide the connection our children really need, and to slow down the obsession with phones. Put your own phone aside to encourage your teen to do the same.   Secondly, we need to think about a teenager's love of autonomy: reducing phone use needs to be their idea, not ours.   2) Appealing to their love of autonomy with cunning questions We want to tap into the teenage desire for autonomy. Telling them what to do may be less effective than asking questions, so they figure things out themselves and take ownership of the problem. Ask exactly how much time they spend on social media. This is so simple, but effective. Many teenagers are concerned about the time they spend on their phone, but haven’t actually totted up the hours. When they do, they can be quite shocked. One teenager who carried out this exercise said, "I realized I could have done so many other things – forged better connections with friends in person, quality time with my family, time spent doing more worthwhile things. I just hadn’t realized how many hours were involved."   A second question you could ask your teenager is, "How does social media make you feel?"   You could ask why they are drawn to social media in the first place. Is something else going on? Are they anxious, or being bullied, or looking to social media for answers about something? Or is it to distract from negative thoughts? Does it feel like they really are connecting with others, or more like they are performing? The likelihood is that the answers will be negative. Digital intimacy does not deliver on its promise. In fact, it often makes things worse; psychologists have found increases in loneliness reported by 15- and 16-year-olds in most parts of the world . The data often seem to show these problems taking a turn for the worse after 2012.   Ask them to experiment. Do they feel happier when they spend less time on their phone? What might feel better? Trust them to work this out for themselves, and equally trust their ability to apply some critical thinking to what they are seeing online. Is there another point of view? Is what they are viewing curated to the point where it bears no relation to reality?   One study randomly assigned college students (there are fewer studies on adolescents, as it’s hard to get parental consent for studies on minors) to either greatly reduce the use of social media platforms for a period, or not to do so. The researchers then measured the students’ depressive symptoms three weeks later. They found that "the limited use group showed significant reductions in loneliness and depression over three weeks compared to the control group".   Collective action I’m not suggesting keeping teenagers off phones or creating digital-free zones will be easy. Nor am I suggesting that we can stop our teenagers from using social media altogether. Individual efforts to resist its lure will be hard, given that a teenager will naturally argue that, well, all their friends are on social media.   For instance, take a teenage girl who stops using social media completely. If all her friends continue to spend five hours a day on the various platforms, she would be completely out of the loop and socially isolated. Social media creates a trap – a collective action problem – for children and for parents. An individual child might be worse off quitting Instagram, even though all children would be better off if everyone quit. The individual would be cut off. This social media paradox explains why teenagers sometimes don’t feel better if they digitally detox.   We need collective action for real change, so talk to other parents in your teenager’s circle to see if you can work together in creating guidelines. In the meantime, we need to find ways for coping: agree that while they can be on their phone, they must time their use, or just use it less. We have to help our teenagers manage their phone use, just as we need to manage our own.   We can also acknowledge the online world has clearly brought with it some massive advantages, and teenagers, understandably, want to benefit too: there is nothing inherently wrong with digital connection. The internet is not innately satanic; not any more than Gutenberg’s printing press or the first transatlantic cables were. It can be useful to accept a teenager needs a phone to run their life, make plans with friends, book a train ticket and so on. Phones provide connection for young people too. When teenagers talk to their contemporaries online, they feel they belong. They can show they care about each other, and intimacy can be important for those who find communication in real life more difficult. The Gift of Teenagers: Connect More, Worry Less by Rachel Kelly, published by Hachette, is now available at Waterstones, WHSmith, and online. The audiobook, narrated by Emma Fenney, can be listened to on Audible .

Before Covid forced many of us into pyjamas and endless Zoom calls, I was already working remotely and had been since 2017. In fact, I ran a successful blog about it and felt confident telling people how to manage their freelance time and stay productive at home. The problem was, over time, my social skills were taking a nosedive. Back then I had no idea what working from home so often was doing to me, but slowly, it was chipping away at my confidence and my ability to be around other people with ease. I recently moved abroad with my husband, and have become determined not to recreate the same isolated life I was living in London.  Photo by Joy Mumford Freelance = Freedom  ‘Freelance’ has been part of my identity for a long time. Whether I’m working in a cafe, a co-working space, travelling abroad or in my living room, being completely unattached to anyone else’s schedule has given me a sense of freedom that I cherish.  Before this, I was working in a busy startup and eventually burned out (a tale as old as time). After that experience, I didn’t hesitate to become self-employed so I could make my own hours and add the word ‘freelance’ to my email signature. Suddenly, I was able to prioritise my wellbeing and life goals, and finally booked some of the travel experiences I had daydreamed about for so long.  In my first year of self-employment, I took an incredible 3-month trip around Central America to have my own Eat Pray Love moment. Upon my return, I felt ready to get stuck into my business, but going from working on my laptop in the Costa Rican rainforest and on a beach in Belize, to sitting in my living room, felt rather boring.  Photo by writer Still, I wanted to start taking my business more seriously, and for me, that meant being at a desk from 9 ‘til 5. I set a solid schedule for myself, started a blog writing about freelance life, and attended networking events hungry to make new connections. I regularly met with a freelance friend to work together and keep each other accountable.  Bad Habits Crept In Like a frog in boiling water, I’m unsure when I realised I was becoming socially anxious. At some point, I let bad habits take hold; I regularly worked in pyjamas at my desk and avoided leaving home, which meant some days I wasn’t speaking to another human being until my boyfriend, now husband, came home after work. I would be unproductive during the day and find myself cancelling social plans to pick up the slack in the evening or at weekends.  Photo by Joy Mumford Eventually, the idea of working in a café became less and less appealing. My knee-jerk reaction was to assume I could be more efficient and productive if I skipped the commute and spent that time working instead. Was I completely isolated during those years? No. I attended many social events that I couldn’t (or felt I shouldn’t) get out of, and I always had fun. And did I show up to gatherings a nervous wreck every time? No. If you met me during those years, I’m not sure I would have come across as anything other than slightly awkward.  Locked Down  And then… Covid. Just like that, working from home became the norm for the entire country, and suddenly I was in good company. By the time the pandemic happened, I had already realised my negative mindset shift, but it felt too late to do anything about it. Like everyone else, I embraced the life of a hermit crab.  I was certainly ahead of the curve when it came to work from home (WFH) content; I had been working on a digital platform for WFH freelancers, which provided a space to network virtually, and I had also half-written an eBook about how to effectively work from home. Now would have been the perfect time to launch both, and yet something didn’t feel right. Writing about the joys of freelance life no longer felt genuine. If I were honest with myself, this lifestyle had led me down a socially anxious path that I didn’t want to glamorise.  So, I scrapped the new website, hurriedly finished the book (not my finest work), released it, and gave all the proceeds to the Trussell Trust food bank project. Mentally, I was done with working from home, but physically, I would still be stuck doing it until the pandemic was over.   Photo by Joy Mumford At some point during those Covid years, restrictions lifted, and I decided enough was enough. Many of my friends had left London during the pandemic, so I joined a book club and began forcing myself to meet people, whether I liked it or not. I created a small writing group, and although my brain constantly screamed “online is easier!” I persevered and organised in-person sessions as often as I could to spend time with real, 3D people.  Somehow, though, I found myself slipping back into bad habits. My savings had taken a hit, so working non-stop seemed like the best way to get back on track financially. Much like last time, I became anxious to do almost anything that involved being outside of my own home. New Continent, New Me  Two years ago, my husband and I got married and decided to move to the US for a fresh start. What followed was two years of selling our belongings, planning a wedding, moving in with parents, going through stressful visa admin, and spending several months living apart on different continents. As a result, my mental health took another hit, but this time, in a different way. When it finally came time to join my husband in the US, I knew I had to be more mindful and intentional about remote work to avoid repeating the bad habits I had developed before.   Today, I leave the house and speak to another person at least once every day. I try to drive somewhere every 2 days to expand my bubble and work in places other than just the bagel shop next door (as tempting as the bagels are). I go to the gym three times a week, and work in the communal area of my apartment complex. I joined a book club, and I do weekly line dancing classes. I can confirm that wearing cowboy boots and embarrassing yourself in front of strangers once a week is a great way to boost your self-confidence.  Photo by writer Looking at my life now, it’s hard to see how I ever let myself become so isolated. For me, social anxiety crept in slowly and grew roots, so don’t let those roots take hold for you. Stay curious about your social skills and set rules for yourself to interact with others as often as you can – even if you don’t think working solo is affecting you. After years of writing about working from home, I now know that the most important thing I could have done was to shut my laptop more often and maintain real, in-person connections with those around me. So, the next time you feel the urge to stay inside those same four walls, embrace discomfort and join the world. You won’t regret it.

Warner Bros, Pictures Spoiler alert: The following article contains details about the plot and ending of Sinners. As a movie enthusiast, I love a film with powerful themes, and the recently released horror film  ‘Sinners’ doesn’t fall short. With all the talk around the movie, I went in blind and don’t regret it one bit.  Sinners is American director  Ryan Coogler’s latest release, a standout for this year so far. It’s made headlines for being one of the highest-grossing films of the year—something I wasn’t expecting, especially since horror films don’t generally see much commercial success. This is great news for me as a horror lover, and I hope that this gives horror movies a big push to reach mor widepsread audiences. Given its success at the box office, it’s clear something drew the public to the film. I think it’s Coogler’s powerful storytelling, combined with the actors’ stellar performances that truly brought this all together. For some context, Sinners is set in 1930s Mississippi Delta and stars Michael B. Jordan in a double role as twin brothers “Slim” and “Stack”, alongside the film's breakout star Miles Canton as the twins’ younger cousin “Sammie”. Slim and Stack return to their hometown, looking to open a juke joint for the black community. Joining them was their cousin Sammie, a talented singer and guitarist with a passion for the Blues. Sammie’s father, a pastor, warned him that Blues music was not of God, but the devil; something not to be messed with. Sammie ignores his father's word and continues pursuing music. As this story builds—the twins and Sammie pursuing their ambitions—the supernatural, keen to intervene, are afoot. Eager to turn talented Sammie was our antagonist, the Irish vampire, Remmick, played by Jack O’Connell. Let's explore the various storylines taking place and the impacts they had on the film. Sammie Sammie’s character is key to the movie’s plot and main message. Coogler uses Sammie to connect religion and music. Historically, Blues is a genre of music originating from African Americans living in the Deep South during the 1860s. It incorporates elements of the African cultures brought over by slaves to the United States. Whilst there isn’t a specific story explaining its origin, it’s widely believed to be related to the emancipation of slaves in the late 1800s. If you listen to Blues, it clearly holds a lot of emotion, depth and soul, which Sammie brings in his performances. Warner Bros. Pictures Historically, colonialism has used religion to justify the occupation of people . For example, white colonisers did this in Africa and the Americas using Christianity. They believed that they had the divine right to bring about the liberation of the so called “oppressed”. Their Western civilisation would save the people from satanic oppression, ignorance, and disease. This explains why the Pastor is so against Sammie’s performance of Blues. Blues signifies the connection African Americans have with their roots, which in the eyes of the western world, is demonic. And a reminder of what was stolen. Ultimately, Sammie represents the everlasting connection African Americans have with their ancestors through music. Something colonisation was never able to take away. Smoke Christianity was weaponised to wipe out and erase the history and culture of the colonised. Christianity was forced onto people as the only correct belief, to ensure the change of the collective conscience of the colonised. And it worked. Too often, society views traditional or pagan beliefs as weird or even demonic. Warner Bros, Pictures This ties into Smoke and Annie’s (his lover) beliefs. During Smoke’s visit to Annie, we learn of Annie’s belief in hoodoo, a spiritual practice developed by enslaved African Americans. We can see this when she hands Smoke his ‘mojo bag’. Woven into the practice is African spirituality and indigenous botanical knowledge. Whilst Annie firmly believes in its power, Smoke is dismissive, believing it to be nonsense. Was it though? Aside from Sammie, Smoke was the only one who survived the attack from the vampires. The non-believer was saved by the demonised practices of his ancestors. Remmick My favourite scene in this movie, has to be Sammie’s performance at the juke joint. Quite literally leaving me with goosebumps. It was clearly the centrepiece of the film. On stage, we got to see Sammie begin the night with his song “I lied to you”. This song was an experience on its own, it blends blues with gospel, jazz, and hip-hop—all genres deeply rooted in African American culture. Whilst everyone was dancing, amongst them we were shown dancers from African cultures o the past, and musicians from the “future”, our present. This is what Remmick sees, he understands Sammie’s ability to reunite all the spirits in one place. As mentioned in the movie, Blues is “music so pure it can pierce the veil between life and death, past and future”. Warner Bros, Pictures Remmick, a victim of the colonisation of the Irish, lost his family and loved ones, his community. When he hears the song, he realises its raw power could reunite him with them. Sammie’s abilities allowed listeners to connect with their ancestors, offering a solution to his eternal loneliness. Symbolic of how colonisation exploits its victims of their traditions and cultures, Remmick wanted to turn Sammie into a vampire like him rather than preserve his artistry; all to serve himself a chance of being with his people. Forming a cycle of exploitation, the once exploited is now exploiting.  My take on the film's main message   At the end of the film, Sammie had the choice between two fates: to follow in the footsteps of his father and be a holy man, or choose his passion and what truly makes him happy. Despite everything he experienced and lost that night, he still choses to follow the song of his ancestors: the blues. By the end, I was certain that the villain was never really Remmick. He was simply another victim of colonialism. The movie perfectly explored the complex relationship that music, religion, and spirituality have in the African American community. I loved that this wasn’t obviously pushed to viewers; you have to dissect what was happening to understand the themes. This makes it a great movie to discuss. So, I urge anyone reading this to please give Sinners a watch. I’m certain whether you like it or not, you won’t leave the film without some sort of analysis on what you watched. Even now I still think of new things Coogler was trying show. A 10/10 movie for me!

She served too “I didn’t see anyone who looked like me in the brochures. I didn’t feel like I belonged.”said the veteran sitting across from me in a focus group.   I was working at St Pancras Hospital as an Assistant Psychologist, having recently completed a review on barriers to care for women veterans. Whilst writing this review, I discovered that although nearly 11% of serving personnel are women, internal accounts showed that only 5.7% of those presenting to OpCourage, an NHS veteran’s mental health and wellbeing service in London, were women.   This gap reveals something troubling and systemic: services may be available, but they are not always trusted, safe, or designe d with women in mind. My internal review for the NHS Veteran Mental Health Service supported the development of focus groups at St. Pancras, aiming to understand barriers to care and improve access to it. In this article I will highlight some of our findings from these focus groups.   The women’s voices shaped this article.   Image Source: RDNE Stock Project on Pexels "Why would I go back to the system that hurt me?” Many women find veteran-specific services too closely bound to the military, a system they once trusted but which failed to protect them. That failure has a name: institutional betrayal , the feeling of being harmed or abandoned by the very institution meant to safeguard. When trauma is connected to the institution itself, engaging with these services can be deeply triggering.   One of the clearest examples of institutional failure experienced by women veterans is the prevalence of Military Sexual Trauma (MST) - 22.5% of women report experiencing sexual harassment and 5.1% report sexual assault in the UK military . Furthermore, these statistics are likely an underestimate given that many victims do not feel able to report their experiences, and even fewer seek help.   In our focus group, women spoke about staying silent for years even after leaving the army. “What was the point?” one participant exclaimed. “No one believed me inside [the military], so why would anyone outside?”   Research echoes this reluctance. Women veterans are less likely to disclose trauma to providers they associate with the military , fearing judgment, dismissal, or even retaliation. Unfortunately, that fear is not unfounded in many cases. Many women who reported MST saw little consequence for their perpetrators but faced blame or isolation themselves.   When care is offered through systems linked to trauma, accessing help can risk causing a second wound. When reaching out risks more pain, many stop reaching out altogether.   The Culture of Endurance During our focus groups, women veterans frequently described the pressure to be “as tough or tougher” than their male peers. This pressure to appear invulnerable often extends to the reporting of sexual trauma. In trying to avoid being seen as weak or seeking special treatment, many veterans become hesitant to disclose experiences of assault. Some veterans told us they had ignored their mental health symptoms for years. This internalised emotional suppression presents as one of the most insidious barriers to help-seeking, and it does not dissolve upon discharge.   One woman said, “I didn’t want to be the one who couldn’t cope. You don’t want to be that woman.”   Indeed, within the military this culture of toughness combined with the stigma of seeking mental healthcare, mindsets which disproportionately affect women veterans, explains why women veterans avoid seeking help. This internalised stigma, alongside fears of external judgment, creates another wall between need and care. Source: Thingsneverchange on Unsplash   You don't belong here The fear and risk of being dismissed, disbelieved, or even harassed does not dissipate when women choose to seek mental health services.   Women veterans report feeling poorly understood by civilian providers unfamiliar with military trauma . In clinical spaces, where they expect to feel safe, they have found discomfort or dismissal, and at worst, blame . Many experience significant emotional labour: explaining, justifying, and proving, again and again, that they have been impacted by war. In focus groups, our veterans often felt this disbelief stemmed from a struggle to reconcile societal expectations of a woman’s role with the choice to enter the armed forces. At other times, they sensed it was a tactic to minimise the validity of what they had experienced.   Compounding the trauma they may have endured within the military, one in four women US veterans report being sexually harassed by male patients while waiting for Veterans' Affairs (VA) care (the most comprehensive and integrated healthcare service provider for veterans in the US). Thus, by engaging in a service intended to support their recovery, they risk both their physical safety and being re-traumatised. In other cases, gender-based discrimination, discomfort with male clinicians, and earlier negative experiences stop women from accessing care. This issue is exacerbated on their return to civilian life without clear support systems or recognition of what they have faced within veteran communities. They feel they do not belong in the military, nor outside of it.   Accessing care should not feel like a battle. Nonetheless, for many women veterans, it does, especially when they are already burnt out from having to prove they belong in a system never built with them in mind.   At St Pancras Hospital, the only veteran-specific mental health service in London and its surrounding areas, I was fortunate to work under wonderful clinicians who were trauma-informed and trained in military culture awareness. These values were central to the service. Yet, I could sense how for our women, these spaces still reflected broader systemic issues that could still leave them feeling invisible. Some never returned to us.   Trauma-informed, safety-first, and military-aware environments are essential.  However, even the best services cannot always fully control the atmosphere, such as interactions between patients in waiting areas, deeply ingrained societal attitudes (both internalised and external), or structural issues like clinic layouts, staffing shortages, or resource limitations. Thus, too often, that atmosphere still tells these women: you don’t belong here .   An overlooked barrier:  inconvenience The barriers aren’t always traumatic. Sometimes, they are just relentlessly inconvenient.   Many women told me about struggling to attend appointments while juggling school runs, shift work, chronic pain, or caregiving. Some were prescribed medication but never offered psychological support. Others couldn’t even figure out how to start.   “The forms, the referrals, the waiting,” one woman said. “It’s like a whole second job,” she joked, but neither of us laughed.   Source: Priscilla Du Perez on Unsplash When services listen At St Pancras, I saw what happens when services listen. The internal review I wrote on barriers to care became the foundation for a new focus group, where women shared their experiences directly. Their input led to tangible changes: women-only groups, more representative brochures, and the option to choose a female psychologist.   You can’t fix a system overnight, but you can make someone feel heard. I believe that matters.   That is why I wrote the review. That is why I wrote this article. I saw what changed when people listened. I believe more people can.   Final note Women veterans are not absent from care because of an absence of need. They are absent because care hasn’t always met them with understanding, safety, or respect. They served. They returned. I think we should finally acknowledge that they deserve better.