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Looking forward to a sweet treat or getting excited for lunch is something I’m sure many can relate to. But with the new #SkinnyTok trend sweeping across TikTok, this normal hunger and interest in food is now being shamed. Creators, and the algorithm, are now pushing toxic mantras like “If your stomach is growling, pretend it's applauding you” and “You don’t need a treat, you’re not a dog”.   Image by Solen Feyissa on Unsplash #SkinnyTok is a corner of TikTok where thinness is glorified, often in dangerous and harmful ways. The social media trend, featuring up to half a million posts, is packed with unregulated diet advice, much of it focused on restricting food and celebrating hunger through “tough love” messages designed to shame weight gain and glorify weight loss. Phrases such as: “if you’re paying for a gym membership and not going, cancel it so you can afford bigger clothes” and “being skinny is a form of self-respect” are just some examples of the messaging around body image that this trend is creating. Despite experts issuing warnings about the damaging effects of the trend, it has gained a large amount of traction, echoing old "pro-ana" (pro-anorexia) content which was rife on platforms such as Tumblr in the early 2000s.   In a world where weight loss drugs like Ozempic dominate the headlines, the rise of the #SkinnyTok trend continues to reinforce thinness as the ‘ideal’. I have previously written articles here on Inspire The Mind on the topic of Ozempic and the impact it can have on body image  and mental health . But could #SkinnyTok be even more dangerous? And what effect might this relentless content have on the huge number of young people who are being exposed to it?   The psychological impacts of #SkinnyTok #SkinnyTok promotes extreme weight loss methods and restrictive eating habits, often disguised as easy hacks or wellness practices to remain thin. It is well evidenced that restrictive eating habits are harmful to both physical and mental health. What’s especially worrying is how #SkinnyTok sends the message that hunger is a good thing, that it means you’re burning fat and making progress, instead of recognising it as your body’s natural way of saying it needs nourishment and resources. This kind of mindset takes the joy out of eating. When food is villainised as something to avoid, it strips away the comfort, enjoyment and sociability that can come from it.   Perhaps the biggest concern with the #SkinnyTok trend is the environment of shame it creates around food and weight gain. It creates the illusion that losing weight and being thin is solely down to willpower, and not being able to stop yourself from indulging is the single reason you are not thin. However, this mindset completely ignores the complexities of the human body and weight, and how other factors outside of food intake, such as genetics, sociodemographic factors and physical and mental health, can equally impact one’s natural, healthy size.   #SkinnyTok hasn’t just brought an environment of shaming others, but it’s also creating the mindset of people shaming themselves into being thin. People are even going to the lengths of creating AI images of themselves on TikTok, looking either bigger or smaller, to motivate themselves to stay away from or strive towards a certain look. For young, impressionable people who are being exposed to this content, it would be difficult to maintain the opposite, healthy mindset.   This is made worse by the fact that many followers of the trend commend its benefits, claiming that maintaining the #SkinnyTok mindset is the only success they have had in losing weight. The community it has created, where individuals bond and collectively promote unhealthy weight loss habits, further normalises this outlook, making it increasingly difficult to resist engaging. Of course, there will be many people who are exposed to the trend and are unable to attain the unrealistic body standards which are being promoted, creating a cycle of self-criticism that can quickly escalate into damaged mental health and eating disorders. Unlike Ozempic, exposure to #SkinnyTok is unregulated and doesn’t come with warnings or prescriptions. It’s freely consumed by young people who may not yet have the tools to recognise the harm it’s doing to their mental health and self-image. Image by Kim Musalimov on Unsplash Concerns surrounding the relationship between TikTok and mental health, particularly eating disorders, are not new. Indeed, there has even been research on this association. A study  conducted in 2024 aimed to investigate the impact of “pro-anorexia” TikTok content on body image and eating behaviour. The study found that women who were exposed to just 8 minutes of pro-anorexia videos immediately had a decrease in their body image and increased internalisation of societal beauty standards.   Another study , also conducted in 2024, looked instead at how TikTok could exacerbate symptoms in those already suffering with eating disorders. Strikingly, this study identified that the algorithms TikTok uses to deliver personalised content meant that individuals with eating disorders were delivered up to 4343% more “pro-anorexia” related content than healthy people. Furthermore, this study identified that these people were more likely to be delivered these problematic videos, even if users had not been “liking” them to encourage this personalisation. Indeed, exposure to more of these videos was associated with more severe eating disorder symptoms.   This highlights that for many, algorithm targeting can create situations where we are being exposed to this content involuntarily.   Is TikTok doing anything to prevent these harmful posts? TikTok is aware of the trend and does have guidelines in place to crack down on content which promotes disordered eating or body shaming. When you search the #SkinnyTok tag, you are first greeted with a message from TikTok stating “You are more than your weight” and encouraging you to seek help if you suffer with body image issues. Additionally, TikTok has even banned a major influencer  who was actively promoting the trend.   The French minister for digital media , Clara Chappaz is concerned about the trend, claiming that the videos are “revolting and absolutely unacceptable”. The French government was made aware of the trend and has since approved a parliamentary commission to look into the psychological effects of TikTok on children and adolescents.   Despite these steps to improve the narrative of the content, #SkinnyTok posts are still scattered in people’s feed. Many creators have learnt to circumvent the barriers TikTok introduced by purposefully misspelling words (for example, “Skinni”) in order to avoid AI detection. Image by Elena Leya on Unsplash   How can we reclaim a healthy narrative? It’s easy to say that the way to maintain a healthy mindset is to simply ignore the content. However, this is unrealistic for many, particularly vulnerable young people or those already suffering from eating disorders, who may not be able to resist engaging.   While the regulation of this content is largely based on the individual, we can work as a society to try to push the narrative away. By talking openly about SkinnyTok, and how it is damaging, unrealistic and dangerous, we can hopefully encourage people to just scroll past and disengage. It’s important to remember that eating disorders are serious, life-threatening  conditions. Allowing an environment of shame to thrive only fuels these issues. Instead, we should foster spaces where body diversity is accepted, and food is celebrated and enjoyed.

Just shy of 18, I boarded a plane from Dhaka to Sydney. Nervous about starting a new chapter away from my family, but ready to figure out my dreams of growth.   I had secured a spot to study in Australia, a foreign place I had never ventured, but being far away from home I felt excited. The naivety and thrill of independence overshadowed the reality of what was to come. Unknowingly, I was unequipped for the isolation and immense pressure to define my academic future.   It was a constant ticking. If I did not have the answer from the get-go, university would lead to failure. As a young African woman raised in a society where resilience was a badge of honour, the idea of not knowing what I wanted to study was not something I was comfortable voicing out loud. I thought struggling in silence was the path to direction, a part of the journey.  Luckily, I started with a foundation course at university that was designed to help me. While I excelled at the foundation level, the first official year of university was abysmal. It wasn’t until I hit a breaking point that I realised I couldn’t do it alone.  Photo by Desola Lanre-Ologun on Unsplash The Unspoken Struggles   Adjusting to university life as an international student was harder than I had anticipated. I was suddenly thrust into a world where everything from food to accents was unfamiliar. Making friends wasn’t easy, but it wasn't impossible. By sheer luck, I gravitated to a group of like-minded African women, each eager to embrace their independence and make the most of the opportunity to earn a foreign degree. Together, we shared the common goal of making our parents back home proud and seizing every chance to succeed. Despite the connections I had made, I found myself retreating into solitude. My coursework was rigorous, and I felt the weight of both my expectations and those of my family back home. I couldn’t afford to fail, but I was failing not just academically, but mentally. The effort of school and working part-time, combined with ‘growing pains’ as a young woman meant that I suddenly had indescribable needs, all added to the deep homesickness I felt. It is strange to think of being homesick after the excitement of being in a new place. It did not matter what clubs I went to, or how hard I tried to ingrain myself in activities the university offered, I couldn’t prevent the toll on my well-being.  In my community, mental health wasn’t a topic openly discussed. Seeking help was often seen as a sign of weakness, opening oneself to jest. Unfortunately, I had internalised that belief. I convinced myself that I just needed to try harder, sleep less, and push through. But that approach only made things worse. It was gradual, and I didn't pick up on it. It seemed overnight when suddenly, nothing mattered.  Photo by Paul Garaizar on Unsplash The Turning Point  Everything came to a head during my second year. I was burned out, my barely decent grades slipped, and I did not have the energy to get out of bed. For over a year, I was isolated. It was a suffocating comfort that I understood and wrangled with. I also started experiencing anxiety attacks. Eventually I came to realise that it was never about me, but always about the looming disappointment.   In my circle of friends, they too were enduring a mixed bag of concerns. Each person trying hard to wrestle with their own life. One of my roommates who was also my best friend decided to get married and leave university. In my mind, she was abandoning me. It was at this point that I finally acknowledged that change needed to happen. Initially, I contacted student services to enquire about my visa status. After asking questions regarding the resources available to me as an international student, I was guided to a student counsellor. There, I was encouraged to seek support through the university's counselling services. The idea terrified me. As an over-thinker, the thought of speaking so openly with a stranger did not resonate with me. Before every session, I thoroughly planned my words to prevent being perceived as unserious or worse — a lunatic. Walking into that counselling office was difficult. Since it was on the other side of campus, I took my time walking there, allowing self-doubt to wash over me with every step. The counsellor's office was in a discreet part of campus, almost designed to offer students a cloak of cornered spaces to face their inner demons. By the time I reached the door, I understood there was no turning back. Photo by Christina on Unsplash Faced with uncertainty, those steps became the best decision I could have ever made. The counsellor spoke to me without judgement. She listened, validated my feelings, and helped me understand that I wasn't a failure. Through her coping techniques, she introduced me to the concept of 'stress' — a feeling I hadn't allowed myself to acknowledge —and encouraged me to consider it as a legitimate emotion. I wasn't losing my mind. In fact, mindfulness and structured self-care routines were my prescription. As I left the office, it felt surreal. "It can't be that simple," was a recurrent thought plaguing my mind. Following her advice, I joined the gym, structured my daily routine, and opened up to my best friend. To my surprise, she was too struggling in her marriage and coping in her own way. We discovered we were dealing with similar struggles, and for the first time, I truly felt understood. Shaking Off the Stigma  Since then, I have questioned why I had been so resistant to seeking help in the first place. The stigma surrounding mental health, especially in African communities runs deep. We are often taught to “pray it away” or to simply endure hardships without complaint. But mental health struggles are real, and they require real solutions. In my case, those solutions didn't require a medical prescription.   Had I sought help earlier, I would have saved myself from unnecessary suffering. I learned that mental health services aren’t just for moments of crisis—they are a form of self-care, a way to ensure you’re functioning at your best. Universities provide these resources for a reason, and students, especially international students, should take full advantage of them. If I could go back in time and talk to my younger self, I would tell her this: You don’t have to struggle alone. Seeking help is not a sign of weakness; it is an act of strength. Universities have resources for a reason, and they exist to support students in navigating the pressures of academic life.  I know now but often need reminders that there is no shame in asking for help. Mental well-being is just as important as academic success, and normalising these conversations will improve the university experience. My journey wasn’t easy, but embracing support changed everything. It allowed me to find balance, thrive, and make the most of my time at university. I have since graduated and persist to figure my way through life.  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.

Trigger Warning : The following article contains mention of suicidal thoughts.   Author's own photography My name is Jan, and I am a 22-year-old transgender man from the Middle East. There are many people like me, and I am part of a larger community of transgender individuals who are rarely shed light on. I hold a mix of Arab identities, which adds an additional layer of challenges to my transition. I started hormone therapy two years ago and hope to continue my medical transition. At the age of 14, during summer break, I stepped out of the shower and asked myself a very simple question: “If not now, when?” I hurried into my room, sat facing the mirror with a pair of scissors in hand and chopped my shoulder length hair off to my ears. It was a rather messy haircut, but I was thrilled! My mom walked in on me later that day and burst with laughter. This was the beginning of my social transition. I always felt that there is a ball of energy and potential; a given image of myself as it was meant to be, present within, that needed to exteriorize into my reality. My teenage years were marked with a child-like drive for adventure. After cutting my hair, I have only worn boys’ clothes and made sure that my appearance appeared as a boy. I was eager about the idea of going outside by myself, holding a sense of independence, and exploring my city. I had a big passion for walking, as I found my sense of autonomy in it. I had explored every single corner of my city, and became familiar with all lesser-known forms of public transport. Buses here are locally run via numbered routes, and so information is only accessible by word of mouth. Traffic is rather chaotic and we do not have bus stops, and so all you need to do to get on a bus is to make eye-contact with the driver. I had a habit of hopping on such buses only to see where they would take me. Author's own photography It was unconscious to me then, but I was preparing myself for the start of what I now know to be a journey marked by unknowns and uncertainty. I realize now that this habit, deeply represents the emotion of pursuing gender-affirming resources in a world that does not acknowledge transgender individuals. In Lebanon, there are no laws about transgender people . At times, information is hardly available, and the journey is really marked by a sense of letting go and pursuing your identity regardless of the societal risks that come with it. For quite some time, I thought that I was the only transgender person in my country. I could not possibly envision that there are others like me, who have the same experience. By now, I have met more fellow trans people than I could ever dream of, and have made life-long friends of virtue  from a wide variety of intersecting backgrounds, where our city is a common point. I found that there are local transgender people who are well into their fifties and sixties! Queer people have a long history in our region that is less known. The older generations have faced immense difficulties, and in many ways, their fights have paved the way for us and made medical resources and specialized doctors more accessible. In 2016, the Lebanese Psychiatric Association made a statement refuting conversion therapy , which was a major push for the community. There are some who hide their identity out of societal pressure. There are also many who have pursued transition regardless of the consequences. As empowering as having a community can be, the truth of the matter is that we are all facing challenges within our individual walks of life amidst a country in economic crises and uncertainty. The year I started my transition, a crisis emerged with a nationwide shortage of vital medication, hormones included. Cisgender and queer people alike struggled for resources. The transgender community was heavily affected, and we only survived through mutual support networks. My early transition spirit was quickly diminished by the harsh reality of daily misjudgment, prejudice, and lack of awareness. I was committed to the path of finding myself, but my gender identity was not well met in any sphere in my life, be it family, education, work, or social settings. This was especially heightened prior to hormonal therapy, as people were quick to disregard and misgender me. I was constantly barraged with invasive questions relating to my personal life and sexuality; questions beyond my age, especially by those who held authority over me. As I grew up, I could no longer pass as a young boy, and strangers would constantly ask about my gender. Over the years, this began to wreak havoc on my mental health. I began to experience a condition akin to the Male Gaze, as Huda illustrates so accurately in her article . Transgender people experience a sense of societal gaze; an accumulated sense of guilt over the harsh perceptions of others that burdens the psyche. Author's own photography Every single trans person that I know has experienced a sense of heightened anxiety, even paranoid thoughts, stemming from recurrent stigma and threatening situations. Overtime, this leads to suicidal ideation , especially when coupled with isolation. I have personally struggled with suicidal ideation well before I began my transition. The sense of being in a body that I am not wired for haunts me throughout my life. I countlessly found myself on the edge of suicide. The lingering uncertainty of my future in a struggling country, and the judgment and discrimination of others weighed heavy. Pursuing my hormonal transition, regardless of its burdens, allowed me to cherish every day as my individual transformation unfolds month to month. It takes about 5 years for all the changes to settle in. I managed to stay connected to my life through art. Whenever I felt suicidal, I would stay up and paint through the night. I made the decision to keep painting as a personal practice rather than a career. It is one hobby that I turn to when I need to enter a state of flow and mental solitude , allowing me to process my emotions. Contrary to what others may think, I find that my transgender and Arab identities complete each other. I feel that all parts of my identity come together to form a whole that is shaped by my lived experience. Despite all the negative experiences, there are many who have accepted me with innocent curiosity and respect. I find that the more content I am with myself, the easier it is to present my individual walk of life and bridge the gaps of understanding with others. Sometimes, the only solace is to accept the situation as it is, and trust the process as it unfolds regardless of time. Years feel infinite as we experience them, but collapse on themselves to create a multi-faceted mosaic of transformation and change. To be transgender is not only to live such a process, but to embody it wholly as it unravels. It is to embrace, accept, and let go of different parts of me as I continue to grow and exteriorize a sense of self that was latent within all along. 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.

When I was six, I learned that a house could disappear overnight. In Malang, rain wasn’t just water falling from the sky. Sometimes it was gentle, cooling the air and making everything smell fresh. Other times, it was a monster. Our house was small, near the Brantas River . Every year, when the rains came, the water crept closer. My parents watched but never seemed too worried. "We've seen worse," my father would say. Then came the night that proved him wrong. The rain had started that afternoon, heavier than usual . By evening, the air smelled thick with damp earth, and the sky was a deep, unbroken gray. I sat on the floor playing with my toys, pretending not to notice how often my parents glanced outside. When I went to bed, the world felt different—tense, waiting. I stared at the ceiling, listening to the wind rattle the windows and the rain pounding against the roof. Eventually, sleep pulled me under. Until my mother shook me awake. “The water is coming,” she whispered. Her voice was steady, but I could feel the tension in her fingers as she gripped my shoulders. I sat up, blinking in the dim light. The room looked the same, but I could hear something new—water moving, rushing, too close. We stepped outside, and my feet splashed into cold water. I gasped. It had already reached our doorstep. People were in the streets, wading through the flood, some carrying sacks of belongings, others yelling names, searching for family. The river had escaped, raging like a wild beast. Then, before my eyes, my home was swallowed whole. It didn’t collapse in pieces. It didn’t shatter. It simply vanished. One moment, it was there—a place filled with my father’s books, my mother’s laughter, my childhood toys. The next, it was nothing but rushing, churning darkness. I didn’t cry. I couldn’t. I just stood there, holding my mother’s hand, trying to understand how something so solid, so familiar, could disappear as if it had never existed. Photo by Rewardy Fahmi on Unsplash The Long Night We ran. My father carried me on his back, my mother clutching his arm as the water chased us down the street. We weren’t the only ones—dozens of families were fleeing, moving toward higher ground. That night, we stayed in a school. The floor was cold, the air thick with mud and fear. Volunteers gave us food, but no one was hungry. I watched my mother sit against the wall, staring at nothing. My father wiped his face with his sleeve, his shoulders rising and falling with deep, exhausted breaths. They didn’t say anything to each other. I didn’t sleep. I listened to the rain, waiting for it to stop, waiting for someone to tell us this was all a mistake. But morning came, and nothing had changed. Displaced but Not Defeated The next few days were a blur—moving shelters, searching for help. I held my mother’s hand, afraid to let go. People spoke of government aid, of rebuilding efforts. Some blamed bad infrastructure . Others said it was nature’s way of reminding us who was in control. I didn’t care about any of that. All I knew was that my home was gone. The Weight of What Was Lost A few days after the flood, when the water receded, my father took me back to where our house had been. At first, I thought we were in the wrong place. The ground looked different—mud-covered, unfamiliar. There was no foundation, no broken furniture left behind. It was as if our house had never existed. I kicked at the mud, hoping to find something—maybe my toy car, maybe a piece of my mother’s favorite chair. But there was nothing. “How can a whole house just disappear?” I asked my mother later that evening. She didn’t answer right away. Finally, she said, “Houses can disappear, but people don’t.” I didn’t understand then. I just knew that I felt small, unanchored, as if the flood had washed away more than just our home . It had taken away the feeling of being safe. Image by Pok Rie on Pexels Starting Over We didn’t have many options. The government offered temporary housing, but my parents didn’t want to wait. They found a small rented house far from the river. It wasn’t home—not yet. The air smelled different. The walls were bare. At night, I listened for the familiar creaks of our old floorboards, but there were none. My mother tried to make the place feel like ours. She hung up our old calendar, even though the pages were still damp. She placed a single potted plant by the door, saying we should always have something growing. The neighbors—people we had never met—came by with food and blankets. My father, who had barely spoken in days, finally managed a small smile as he shook their hands. Slowly, life resumed. But I had changed. Every time dark clouds gathered, my chest tightened. At night, I dreamed of water swallowing our home again. One evening, as rain poured outside, I curled up in my mother’s arms. “What if the water comes back?” I whispered. She kissed my forehead. “Then we’ll move again. We’ll always find a way.” Her words should have reassured me, but they didn’t. Instead, they made me realise something—there were no guarantees. Image by Rahadiansyah on Unsplash A Lesson in Resilience Years later, I still think about that night—not just as a childhood memory, but as a lesson I carry with me. For a long time, I believed that losing a home meant losing everything. But I’ve learned that home isn’t just walls and a roof. It’s the people who hold your hand when the flood comes. It’s the kindness of strangers who bring you food and blankets. It’s the quiet strength of parents who, even in the face of uncertainty, tell their child, “We’ll always find a way.” I used to fear the rain. Even now, when thunder rumbles, something inside me tightens. But I know fear never stops the storm—it only stops you from moving forward. And I’ve seen this story repeat, not just in my life, but in the lives of so many others. Every year, floods displace families across Indonesia . News headlines treat it like routine— Another flood in Jakarta . Rising waters in Semarang . Villages submerged in Kalimantan . But behind those words are people, standing in the ruins of their homes, trying to start over. I recognize the look in their eyes. The exhaustion. The disbelief. The quiet determination. Because I’ve been there. And I know that no matter how much water takes, people always rebuild. Losing a home taught me something no disaster could wash away: life gives no guarantees, but that doesn’t mean we are powerless. The rain will come. The rivers will rise . But as long as we have each other, as long as we keep moving forward, we will always find a way. 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.

Trigger Warning: This post contains mention of suicide and mental health struggles, which may be distressing for some readers. Please take care of yourself and consider skipping this content if it may be triggering. If you need support, consider reaching out to a mental health professional or contacting a crisis support service in your area.   Understanding Depression in Adolescence   I am Dr Naghmeh Nikkheslat , a Senior Research Scientist at the Institute of Psychiatry, Psychology & Neuroscience at King’s College London. I am working on a study funded by the MQ Transforming Mental Health Charity . The study is called “ Identifying Depression Early in Adolescence (IDEA) ” co-led by Prof Valeria Mondelli and Dr Christian Kieling. In this piece, I am going to talk about my research into the understanding of depression in adolescence.   Depression is a mental health condition that affects millions, often beginning in adolescence or early adulthood. Going through puberty, adolescent girls are twice as likely as boys to develop clinical depression, which greatly affects our ability to feel happy and enjoy life. Adolescent depression is a serious concern as not only can it negatively impact social and functional development, but it can also increase the risk of suicide.   While scientists have studied depression in adults, they know much less about how biological processes drive depression in adolescents, particularly across sexes. This gap in understanding is crucial because identifying these underlying factors can guide and improve preventive approaches.  Photo by Keenan Constance on Pexels  Study Design: Focusing on Brazilian adolescents   As part of the IDEA project, we studied 150 Brazilian adolescents aged 14 to 16. Since 90% of the world’s adolescents live in low and middle-income countries, we decided to focus specifically on adolescents living in one of these countries, such as Brazil. The 150 adolescents included in our study were divided into three groups: Low-risk for depression High-risk for depression Adolescents diagnosed with depression.   They were evenly divided by biological sex to explore differences between male and female adolescents. The adolescents were also tracked over three years to see if their depression symptoms persisted or improved. The Kynurenine Pathway and Its Role in Depression   As part of this study, I was particularly interested in investigating a biological mechanism, known as the “kynurenine pathway”. The kynurenine pathway comprises a series of chemical reactions that process tryptophan, an amino acid found in foods and the building block for serotonin, the “feel-good” neurotransmitter that regulates our mood. When tryptophan is broken down, it can either produce neuroprotective (brain-protecting) or neurotoxic (brain-damaging) chemicals. This process involves several byproducts like kynurenic acid (neuroprotective) and quinolinic acid (neurotoxic). Photo by Google DeepMind on Pexels When the body experiences inflammation, an immune response occurring during infection, stress, or illness, the kynurenine pathway is prone to producing more neurotoxic chemicals. Prolonged inflammation appears to activate factors that convert tryptophan into kynurenine and ultimately into neurotoxic byproducts. This shift can lead to brain tissue damage, decrease serotonin levels, and contribute to depressive symptoms.   In adults with depression, research has shown an imbalance in this pathway, with more neurotoxic than neuroprotective chemicals being produced. Therefore, our project aimed to investigate if a similar imbalance occurs in adolescents and if there are notable differences between males and females.   Key Findings: A Gendered Pathway to Depression   Measuring kynurenine pathway products, we found that adolescents with a higher risk for depression or a current diagnosis of depression had lower levels of kynurenic acid, the neuroprotective compound. This reduction was most evident in female adolescents, suggesting that females might be more vulnerable to this imbalanced kynurenine pathway, potentially explaining why females experience depression at higher rates, especially during adolescence, when hormonal changes may further intensify these effects.   In addition, our study looked at inflammatory markers, specific proteins that indicate the body is in an inflammatory state. We found that higher levels of inflammatory markers were linked to increased production of neurotoxic chemicals in the kynurenine pathway. Notably, this association was found in adolescents at high-risk or with depression, but not in low-risk adolescents. This suggests that inflammation might drive the kynurenine pathway toward producing neurotoxic chemicals, increasing the risk of depression.   In the follow-up, three years later, our study showed that female adolescents with persistent depression had higher levels of neurotoxic metabolites than those who recovered over time, suggesting that increased neurotoxic activity could make depression harder to overcome for some adolescents. Therefore, measuring kynurenine pathway chemicals in adolescence could potentially help identify those at risk of persistent depression, particularly in females.     Implications for Treatment and Prevention   The findings from this study suggest that targeting the kynurenine pathway could provide a more personalised treatment for female adolescents struggling with depression. Reducing inflammation or shifting the kynurenine pathway back toward producing neuroprotective rather than neurotoxic metabolites may help prevent the progression or chronic nature of depression, particularly in females. New treatment strategies or lifestyle changes, such as dietary interventions or therapies that restore the balance between neuroprotective and neurotoxic chemicals, could offer new directions for treating depression.   Photo by Engin Akyurt on Pexels A New Path to Prevention   By identifying the kynurenine pathway as one of the key mechanisms in adolescent depression, especially among females, this study points to the potential of developing sex-specific treatments that could intervene early and opens doors for personalised preventive approaches. For adolescents, early detection of biological markers could make a real difference, enabling interventions before symptoms become severe.   This research represents a hopeful step toward targeted interventions that recognise the unique biological factors shaping mental health in teenage years, especially for girls who are more vulnerable during this critical period of development.

Photo by Debby Hudson on Unsplash I can’t quite pinpoint when it all started —  the hatred towards myself and my body, the unparalleled self-loathing, and the unwavering desire to limit my food intake. But once I’d entered the world of disordered eating and everything that came with it, it became increasingly hard to leave.  The Truth Behind the Online World The internet was both my biggest comfort and my biggest vice. As a teenager, battling hormones and living in a single-parent household, I spent most of my time squirrelled away in my bedroom, pretending to go to bed at 10pm, but really staying up until the early hours on my computer. The dangers of connecting with people online (especially in the eating disorder world) are rife. Considering most eating disorders develop in adolescence , I was an easy target and easily influenced. In my adolescence, my searches online for eating disorder forums and communities revealed the good groups, the bad ones, and the truly ugly ones. The ones that reeled you into their world of counting calories (or not consuming any at all), of pinching 'belly fat', of excusing yourself from social events that involved food. The ones with tips and tricks of how to avoid eating and how to get ‘thinner’. The ones with people from all over the world ‘egging each other on’, pursuing what seemed like an aspirational shared goal. The lifestyle was completely romanticised , and I fell for it. I dived deeper and deeper, engaging in terrifying conversations and becoming a shadow of my former self. Photo by  i_yunmai on Unsplash I’d skip breakfast, turn up to school, and then college, with just a pack of snack-a-jacks and a cereal bar for lunch, and go home to a small healthy meal I could just about stomach .  And then I’d go to my room and spend most evenings chatting in the forums, updating them on ‘how well’ my day had gone, eating-wise. Looking back, it’s hard to believe just how consumed I really was and how easy it was to get sucked into this new world.  And then I learned of people dying. People who had been keen instigators in the groups. People who had posted every hour of the day. People who were ‘real people’ with their whole lives ahead of them. People who were ‘achieving’ with their eating disorders. People whom I had spoken to, engaged with, and looked up to. Gone . And it terrified me. Because I didn’t want to die. That wasn’t my goal. On one side of the coin, I wanted to look a certain way and feel a certain way, and a huge part of me was pulling me into continuing that particular life, but on the flip side, I wanted to be okay again. I wanted to be well . I wanted my life back. A Stroke of Luck and Forging Friendships Luckily for me, in a case of ‘right place, right time’, I was directed to a Canadian Facebook Eating Disorder Recovery Group that focused on exactly that —   recovering . One of the girls from the most prominent online forum I was a part of had set it up, and slowly but surely, some of us started trickling over, leaving the dark side behind. We were from all over the world — the UK, Canada, America, Australia, and New Zealand, to name but a few.  It was never going to be easy, of course. None of us were there with this burning, unwavering desire to recover. And for me at least, a huge part of me wanted to continue restricting my calorie intake and watch the number reduce on the scales, but I also knew I had to try. So that’s exactly what I did. At first, it was hard to share when I was struggling, but that’s what the group was for. So I shared the moments that I normally battled within my head, and I also shared my achievements. The meals I’d managed to keep down, the social events I’d managed to attend, the outfits I’d worn with pride, the weighing scales I’d thrown out or ignored. These were big milestones I wouldn’t have had anyone else to celebrate with, but I had my newfound friends online.  And it wasn’t just the Facebook group we communicated through. Some of us swapped details, including addresses, and pen pal relationships began. We wrote each other beautiful, long letters, adorned with positive stickers and sometimes a little thoughtful gift. We’d send long messages on Facebook Messenger, and we’d stay up talking late into the night, no longer solely about our eating disorders, but about our entire lives. One particular new close friend of mine lived in Ottawa, Canada, and we became each other’s reason for battling on and beating this thing that had consumed so much of our lives. Photo by Chris DeSort on Unsplash The Journey to Canada (and recovery) So when I finished university at age 21 and decided to travel a little before settling down to find a job, there was no question that Canada would be part of that journey. I started in San Francisco, travelling around America via Greyhound buses with my ex-boyfriend, before heading across to Chicago and onto Toronto and Ontario. We had a stay lined up with someone from the group called Katy for a few nights in Guelph, and then further few nights in Ottawa with my close friend Tanya and her family. In Guelph, we visited the grounds of the Eating Disorder Unit, where many members of the group had undergone treatment. Meeting Tanya in Ottawa was like meeting a long-lost best friend. We hugged each other tightly, laughed like we’d never laughed before, and stayed up late into the night chatting in person.  The night before I left, we arranged a pizza party at a restaurant in the city. Katy and another group member, called Amanda, joined us. We raised our pizza slices to the sky to ‘cheers’ ourselves, and we partied all night long, being young and wild and free — as we always should have been.  There were little blips, of course, over the next couple of years, but over twelve years on, I’m proud to say I have recovered  from my eating disorder. It remains my solid view that I wouldn’t be the person I am today without my Canadian penpals. We haven’t spoken for years, but we’re connected on Facebook, and I often think of them fondly and am so proud of all they’ve achieved. Some of them now have families, Tanya has her own therapy clinic, and I’m a happy writer with a real love of food. And actually, a real love of myself, which forever seemed the most impossible goal.  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.

Content warning: This piece contains a description of miscarriage and mentions pregnancy loss. There’s no easy way to say this: we lost our baby. At 12 weeks, after hearing the heartbeat and seeing that small, flickering light on the ultrasound, we felt like we were past the hardest part. But sadly, our first pregnancy ended in a missed miscarriage, and everything changed. The emotional toll of the experience has been immense, but I learned a lot about balancing my mental health and finding ways to cope. If you’ve experienced a similar loss, I’m so sorry this has happened to you, and I hope some of what I did can help you, too. Talking about it Within weeks after finding out I was pregnant, we shared the news with close family. It was early, but we wanted to share our news, and I’m so glad we did. When things went wrong, we didn’t have to pretend. We could have those hard conversations with people who understood, particularly my mother and mother-in-law. Both had suffered miscarriages before, and there was a strange kinship that brought us closer. I’m not sure I could have got through the grief without their support. My husband and I, tying the knot. Photo by Tasha Park. Taking time off work I'd only just started a new role when we found out I was pregnant. We’d been trying for a while after getting married in February 2024, and when the loss happened, it felt especially difficult to return to normal life. I knew that I needed time away from work to grieve, to heal, and to just be. Going back to the office wasn’t an option. One of my colleagues was pregnant, and her due date was only a couple of months before what ours would have been. The thought of being around her, feeling that fresh wave of loss every time I looked at her growing bump, was unbearable. I knew I couldn’t carry that trauma into the office. So I made the decision to focus on freelancing, which would allow me to control my schedule, balance work with self-care , and prioritise my mental health . Taking daily walks by myself Once I was physically healed, which, thankfully, didn’t take long, I made the effort to walk every morning, by myself, listening to empowering podcasts , with Mel Robbins being my go-to. I didn’t want to hate my body for what had happened, and walking  helped me reconnect with it in a way that felt positive. Photo by author Sharing my story I’d written about pregnancy loss before — mostly for work in a previous role — but I never imagined I’d be sharing my own story so publicly . When I went through the experience of RPOC ( retained products of conception ), which caused excruciating pain and a visit to the emergency room, I didn’t know what to expect. Sharing that story — my  story — felt like I was shedding some of the darkness and transforming it into something that might help someone else. The number of comments and messages I received after posting about my experience on TikTok  was overwhelming. People reached out with their own stories, and it was as though, together, we could lift some of the weight of miscarriage from each other’s shoulders. The beauty in sharing our grief is that it takes away the stigma. Miscarriage is so often whispered about, treated like something to hide. But it’s not something to be ashamed of, and the more we talk about it, the easier it becomes to heal. Putting away reminders of our Magpie We’d nicknamed our baby “Magpie” early on, and after we found out about the loss, my husband and I did something that was necessary for our healing: we put everything away. Pregnancy scans, my pregnancy journal, and even the magnetic Scrabble tiles on the fridge spelling out “Baby OC” — they all went into boxes and were hidden away in the attic, so we could give ourselves the space to grieve without constant reminders. The memories of our baby will always be with us, but for now, those physical reminders are out of sight. Photo by John Hitchings from Getty Images Avoiding time with children For the first few weeks, I didn’t feel ready to be around babies or young kids, so I asked my family if we could spend time together without them. It felt awkward at first, but everyone understood, and it was one of the most important things I did for my mental health. If you’re struggling with something like this, don’t be afraid to ask for what you need. People will often surprise you with their understanding and willingness to help. Doing the things I wasn’t allowed to do while pregnant In the days after the miscarriage, I gave myself a small comfort: I did the things I wasn’t allowed to do while pregnant. The very first day, we went shopping, and I stocked up on all the things I couldn’t have — alcohol, deli meats, blue cheese — the little indulgences that I had given up. In a situation where I felt so powerless, it was a small act of reclaiming something for myself. Acknowledging that this is not the end of our story One of the most important things I did after our miscarriage was remind myself that this wasn’t the end of our story. Yes, we lost our Magpie, but that doesn’t mean we won’t have our family. I still believe we will hold our baby in our arms one day, and that they will grow up happy and healthy. This chapter, as painful as it is, is not our whole story. Grieving the loss of a pregnancy isn’t linear, and it doesn’t follow a set timeline — it looks different for everyone who goes through it. For me, balancing my mental health meant finding small ways to take care of myself, to honour my grief, and to allow myself the space to heal. It’s a process, one that I’m still navigating, but I know that in time, my partner and I will find our way to the family we’ve always dreamed of. 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.

Editor's note: This piece was written before the recent terrorist attack on tourists in the Kashmir region. Of course, our hearts go out to the people affected by this tragedy and to their families. We felt that these recent events should not prevent us from publishing this piece, which focuses exclusively on mental health. In the face of stigma and isolation, Tele-MANAS provides women in Kashmir with mental health support and hope In the snow-covered villages of Indian-controlled Kashmir, women have silently shouldered the burden of mental illness for years, their pain hidden beneath the rigid customs and traditions that have shaped their lives.    Mental illness in Kashmir has often been misdiagnosed, with symptoms frequently attributed to other health issues, mainly gastrointestinal or cardiovascular problems.    Many people in the Himalayan valley, “known as paradise on earth,” also believe that anxiety and depression are caused by people through talismans and witchcraft. I have come across countless women, mostly from financially poor backgrounds, seeking solace in faith healers, who spoke of ancient remedies and unseen spirits     I am Irfan Amin Malik, an independent journalist from Indian-controlled Jammu and Kashmir. With over nine years of experience covering the Himalayan region, I have witnessed firsthand how women in this region grapple with mental health crisis and the stigma surrounding it. As a journalist and part of Kashmir society, I have closely seen the stigma and neglect surrounding mental health, which inspired me to write this story. Image by Isa Macouzet via Unsplash Women’s experience with mental health in Kashmir   It costs almost nothing to visit faith healers in Kashmir, where they are readily available everywhere. In villages, women seek therapy from religious healers for insomnia, obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD), depression, and anxiety.   “My heart is at unrest and my mind is disturbed. I am unable to concentrate on my studies,” a young girl confides in a faith healer, with her mother by her side, supporting her and describing her struggles.   In response, the faith healer in Tral, Kashmir’s one of hilly towns hands her a small piece of paper, instructing her to place it in water and drink from it daily for a week.   In the dimly lit, overcrowded rooms where mostly women gather from dawn to dusk, their personal struggles are exposed for all to hear, revealing a broader cultural indifference to the privacy and dignity of women who require care.   After failing her Senior School class 12 examinations in 2005, Kaiser Bashir (name changed), a 40-year-old housewife from the outskirts of Srinagar, developed OCD.    Her mental health was severely damaged by her parents’ taunting, a trauma that persisted for years until she finally sought treatment from a psychiatrist. “Failing the exams and the insults that followed left a deep mark on my mental health, leading to disturbing, repetitive thoughts,” she said.   Her parents took her to a faith healer for more than ten years, where the healer would blow on her or use water to try to call forth heavenly healing. Sometimes, under the guise of offering treatment, some fraudulent faith healers physically harass women, exacerbating their mental health. Image Source: Author's Own Women have suffered most in the war-torn region of Kashmir, where armed conflict have continued for more than three decades. They have suffered severe stress , from being sexually harassed, to experiencing violence, gunfights, curfews, and lockdowns. For example, the National Crime Records Bureau’s (NCRB) most recent report , released in December 2023, revealed that Jammu & Kashmir had the highest number of attempted suicides in 2022, accounting for 497 of the 1,769 cases reported across India.   The 2015 Doctors Without Borders Kashmir Mental Health Survey found that 50% of women (compared to 37% of men) had probable depression, 36% of women (compared to 21% of men) had probable anxiety disorder, and 22% of women (compared to 18%) had post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD).   Another reason women in Kashmir (bordered by India, China and Pakistan) turn to faith healers is the dearth of psychiatrists, with many traveling long distances to cities only to face judgment and whispers from those who believe their pain should remain hidden. Dr. Abrar Guroo, senior consultant at Tele-MANAS, Institute of Mental Health and Neurosciences (IMHANS) in Srinagar says that cultural reasons and a lack of specialised psychiatrists in rural hospitals are the main causes of the stigma surrounding mental health in Kashmir. “The stigma associated with mental health is cultural, and those who experience stress or anxiety are unwilling to talk about it for fear of being stigmatised. Because there are not many psychiatrists in rural hospitals, women are reluctant to seek therapy in the city for fear that it will hurt their prospects of finding a spouse, since society may interpret their visit to a city psychiatrist as a sign of a serious illness.”   According to the Indian Public Health Standards (IPHS) (which sets the essential benchmarks for delivering minimum healthcare services in India), government hospitals in rural areas are not required to have psychiatrists, with only one psychiatrist mandated for district hospitals serving an average population of 1.86 million.   According to the 2011 census, Kashmir has only 45 specialised psychiatrists for a population of 12.5 million , which goes against the World Health Organisation's recommendation of at least three practicing psychiatrists per 0.1 million people . This underscores the government's insufficient provision of mental health care for the people.   Women in Kashmir have been most affected by the mental health issue, according to Guroo , since they are still confined to their houses and forced to cook and clean, which prevents them from interacting with others and developing personally.   But times are changing. Today, these women are no longer trapped in a cycle of silent suffering. With the rise of telepsychiatry, they are now seeking help from the comfort of their homes, breaking free from the isolation. Tele-MANAS: A novel therapeutic approach:   Since its inception in 2022, Tele-MANAS , a 24×7 mental health helpline in Kashmir, has brought much-needed relief to thousands of women suffering from mental health issues.    The Indian government launched Tele-MANAS to help close the gap in mental health care in the region. Trained psychiatrists, clinical psychologists, and counsellors use audio tele-networking to assist patients. For example, telepsychiatry has helped Shabroza Hussain (name changed), a young woman from Pulwama in south Kashmir, recover from bipolar depression after fighting it for more than a decade.    Despite her struggles, her father’s efforts to take her to a psychiatrist in Srinagar were thwarted by the challenges of traveling 50 kilometres twice a week. Thanks to Tele-MANAS, the 37-year-old Hussain is able to contact the telepsychiatry helpline at any time to get the relief.   While Tele-MANAS has been instrumental in bolstering the mental health of women in Kashmir, more digital literacy is required to enable more women to become tech-savvy and take advantage of digital healing, says Syed Mujtaba, a mental health advocate and Coordinator at IMHANS.   The response from telepsychiatry in Kashmir has been so overwhelming that till January this year the IMHANS in Srinagar reported receiving more than 75,000 calls from individuals in Kashmir, primarily women, who experienced anxiety, stress, and drug addiction.   The growing success of Tele-MANAS has opened a door to wellness that once seemed unreachable, offering hope and healing without the burden of travel or societal judgment. For instance, when Bashir’s OCD worsened, she faced harsh insults from her husband, being called “mad woman,” and “brainless woman,” further deepening her trauma.  Image Source: Author's Own However, a turning point came when Bashir’s friend shared the Tele-MANAS helpline number, offering her free counselling from the comfort of her home. According to Guroo, through telepsychiatry 90 percent of patients were able to prevent self-harm, demonstrating the effectiveness of the Tele-MANAS in facilitating early intervention.  In order to provide extended mental health support, Tele-MANAS also launched its application and video consultation services in January 2025.   In conclusion, as Kashmir battles a mental health crisis, the telepsychiatry is breaking down barriers of stigma and distance, empowering women to seek assistance without fear of judgment. With rising success and new digital tools, Tele-MANAS is poised to transform mental health care in Kashmir.

I must admit. I am someone in my mid-twenties, but I absolutely love animated movies. I recently went to see a movie called “The Wild Robot” , a movie that had me so emotional and inspired to write this piece because of the message it carried at such a deep level. I’ve always enjoyed children’s movies, and, full disclosure, it is during these movies that I find myself shedding tears, more than I would for movies made for adults. When I decided to watch this movie, I knew nothing about it other than its title. The film's poster. Source: Universal Pictures UK What is the movie about, you might ask? The movie is about a robot who finds herself on an island inhabited by animals, as a result of a delivery being lost during a typhoon. She slowly adapts to the wild. One day, while escaping from an angry bear, she accidentally kills a family of geese, only to see one unhatched egg, which she decides to care for. As the egg hatches, the gosling imprints on her because she is the first ‘living’ thing he sees. Having no emotion, and never having taken care of a living thing, the robot, called Rozz, learns how to feed him, and keep him alive. In the process of learning how to care for the gosling, Rozz the robot, gets the help of a fox called Fink, and together, they raise the gosling, whom they call Bright Bill. Bright Bill was the runt of the group and, therefore, was much smaller than his siblings, who did not survive the accident either. So, over the course of the movie, Rozz teaches Bright Bill survival skills, and most importantly, how to fly. The key theme As someone who works in the field of maternal mental health, I was excited the moment I realised that one of the key themes of the movie was motherhood. Most importantly, the movie highlights how motherhood is not just biological. I excitedly turned to my partner and expressed my enthusiasm. The children in the theatre around me were enjoying the movie at the surface level; they were captivated by all the animals, but I was moved by the deeper meaning of it. I am not at that stage of my life (yet) to be a mother. However, I have an incredible mother of my own, and I saw the movie through the lens of a daughter. The entire sequence of events which saw Rozz teaching Bright Bill how to swim and training him, so he’d be able to fly, reminded me of my school years. I struggled with Math and Science (ironically) in school, and always doubted myself when I didn’t do well. Of course, I have two wonderful parents who play an equally important role in my life, but as this movie is about motherhood, it reminded me specifically of the relationship I have with my mother. I saw the flying storyline as a metaphor for all the challenges I had in my school years, when I didn’t do very well academically. Rozz did not give up on helping her adoptive son achieve his goal of flying long hours during the geese’s yearly migration. Similarly, my mother, through her constant words of encouragement - and tons of mother-daughter fighting during my teenage years - helped me overcome that phase of low grades. Eventually, during my undergraduate years, I became one of the highest scoring students, achieved a high grade in my MSc, and am now doing a PhD in science, the very subject I was conditioned to hate. The film's poster. Source: Disney UK Moana 2 and the impact it had on me To whoever is reading this, it must now be no surprise that the next movie I went to the cinema for was Moana 2, released in January of this year. After having spent three weeks back home in India over the winter break, I was back to work in London. It was bittersweet saying goodbye to friends, family, and loved ones, but I knew I was getting back to my second home, London. Ironically, the plot of Moana 2 is centred around the main character taking a long journey away from home to save her island and its inhabitants. I found this symbolism so timely, given that I had been emotional about leaving India. Once again, no surprise, this movie had me shedding tears, but I left the theatre motivated and excited to resume work the next day. Children’s movies have deeper messages, relevant even to adults There are so many movies like these two, which have meaningful messages even for adults. While growing up, I loved The Little Mermaid, Beauty and the Beast, and Snow White, all of which had a damsel in distress waiting for her Prince Charming to rescue her. What I really enjoy about these new generation animated movies is that there is no such plot. Take, for instance, the movie Zootopia , all about inclusivity and fighting stereotypes. And then, of course, we have the Inside Out franchise, which is probably one of my favourites, given its focus on emotions and mental health. You can read more about this movie in the article written by my colleague Maddy Kirkpatrick. One can enjoy these movies on a light-hearted surface level, to invoke feelings of nostalgia and comfort. In fact, I do it too, when I am going through stressful times and want to relax, I turn on Disney+ and watch an animated movie. But almost always, soon after the movie starts, at an unconscious level, I start reflecting on the deeper meaning of the movie. A few weeks ago, I watched the movie Elemental, similar to Zootopia, also centred around diversity and integration in today’s society.   Even the songs of the movies are those that I have on my regular Spotify playlist. While nothing will come close to A Whole New World from Aladdin, I regularly listen to motivational songs like “Beyond” from Moana 2 and “Try Everything” from Zootopia and bop along to the music on my commute. Lyrics like this, sometimes are just what I need for a motivational boost. I won't give up, no, I won't give in 'Til I reach the end, and then I'll start again No, I won't leave, I wanna try everything I wanna try even though I could fail. The film's poster. Source: Disney UK Now, other than oversharing to readers on the internet the fact that children’s movies make me cry, I do have a deeper message. There is a reason why it is these movies I turn to when I’m stressed or upset. Because I know that whatever the message, it will help me work through my emotions. To an extent, they motivate me. On the flip side, it shows me that I don’t necessarily need to take everything too seriously. Now and then, it’s okay to turn my brain off and watch a movie at its surface level, even if it means watching a series of video game characters literally ‘break the internet’, like in Wreck-It Ralph. So the next time a tiny human in your life asks you to sit down and watch a movie with them, grab a bucket of popcorn, make a pillow fort, and dive right in! With that, I will now leave you with a song that is sure to get you motivated and tapping to its beat!

The mental health struggles associated with being a trans man are often dismissed in already frail discussions on men’s mental health. As a trans man living in the U.S., it’s become abundantly clear to me that we need to reframe how we talk about men’s mental health to make progress. Discovery is part of the journey When I was thirteen, I finally began seeing a therapist; it was a long overdue change in my life after my grandmother, who acted as a second parent alongside my mom, passed away the year prior. As one might expect, this sudden loss sent me into a depressive spiral. I was diagnosed with depression, anxiety, and obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD). Although therapy and medication helped, I continued to struggle, especially with nagging issues related to my self-image — issues I had never been able to put into words during most of my childhood. When I was fourteen, I had the chance to meet one of my long-standing Internet friends in real life; she and I had been talking online for around a year. Our friendship quickly grew from long nights chatting on the forums to calls from our house phones, then FaceTime and texting. Spending several nights with me let her see a side of me that few others saw; I owned girls’ clothes, but they never left my bureau in favor of ripped jeans and graphic tees. I wore mens’ deodorant and tilted my head up in the mirror from time to time to see if I could create the illusion of a bobbing Adam’s apple if I swallowed the right way. Early one morning, we had a frank conversation: she asked me if I felt like a girl, or something else . The wall I had built around myself for the past fourteen years crumbled around me. I tearfully told her what I knew to be the truth — that I was a boy, or at least, I wanted to be a boy. To her credit, she took it in stride. “That makes sense,” she said. “What would you like me to call you?” Today, 9 years later, the girl who helped me finally break down my self-imposed walls is my wife. I am lucky to have had her support through the years, but I cannot say the same for many people I know who haven’t had the blessing of even a single person’s support to count on during their transitions. What I was surprised to find was that, after I came out, my once supportive and safe environment surrounding mental health care became critical of my every move. My mom and I "agreed to disagree" after I came out. After limiting discussions of my gender issues, we mutually hoped my therapist would help us find common ground. I hoped he would help me to communicate what I was struggling with — that this seemingly irrational development, out of left field to some in my life, had been my reality for as long as I could remember. “Are you sure you’re not genderfluid?” My therapist asked, perhaps ill-informed instead of ill-intentioned. “It would be easier for your mom to accept that you’re still her daughter if some part of you was still the girl she recognizes.” But I wasn’t, and I never had been. The spaces that had been intended to help me work through my unrelated mental issues became focused on picking apart the source of my transness, which seemed to be regarded as the biggest illness of all. Image by Geralt on Pixabay Gender Dysphoria: The persistent ‘sickness’ that may not exist I experienced some of the lowest points of my life during high school. Many believe the mental health struggles of transgender kids are inherent; that is, they accompany being transgender, or from a more sinister standpoint, mental health issues are deserved if you have committed the crime of being trans. I was elated when in 2019, at 18 years old, the World Health Organisation declassified ‘ gender dysphoria ’ , which I had been previously diagnosed with, as being a mental illness. The condition I lived with was not a sickness, nor was it treatable; it was how I had been born, and the healthiest way for me to move forward was to go with the flow instead of fighting the current. Trans people aren’t mentally ill by default — but how can trans people thrive today? Many people have tried to spark debates with me about how transness and mental illness intersect. Some may bring up alarming statistics: for example, a 2022 U.S. survey found that 1 in 5 transgender and nonbinary youth had attempted suicide . Others, including many far-right politicians, purport the idea of a transgender "cult" acting in sinister ways. Of course, this idea is not based in reality, but its ability to scare the uninformed is, without question, effective. This has led to widespread beliefs that trans people are inherently bad. Many believe that transness is in itself a mental illness, and that treating trans people poorly is some kind of karmic justice for the crime of being born trans. What I have to ask others, though, is this: wouldn’t you be depressed? If you woke up and discovered you had to live your life as the opposite gender and nobody believed you when you professed your internal sense of self? Instead, what if they suddenly began accusing you of pedophilia or menacing women in the bathroom? Would you not struggle to get a hold of your mental health? The weight of being trans is somehow often omitted from discussions on trans mental health. Of course so many trans folks are struggling —  those who are rejected by society often do. Image by BiancaVanDijk on Pixabay Trans men aren’t the problem — the stigma around men’s mental health is. There is very little space for trans men in men’s mental health discussions. I would go out on a limb and say that the perceptions of men’s mental health hurting trans men are hurting cis men, too. Trans men may avoid appropriate mental health care because they feel getting that help makes them appear weak, or effeminate; the same pervasive idea of ‘ therapy is for sissies ’ that has permeated the culture of today’s masculinity. These perceptions push down struggling cis men and may bar trans men from seeking appropriate treatment for fear of misstepping. There are high expectations from society on how to be a man correctly, and many trans men walk on eggshells for fear that showing emotions or admitting when things are tough will prove to others that their masculinity is not to be believed. To uplift not only trans men, but all men, we need societal change. Mental health issues are not shameful — they’re a part of life. A diagnosis does not change your values or your experiences, nor does it determine your inner strength. To find acceptance for all, we need open, honest conversations - and new perspectives on how gender determines our lives. 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.

Before being sentenced to prison, in February 2020, I had a long time to imagine it. In 2014, working in corporate finance, I committed fraud, lying to an investor with whom I was starting a company, and producing a fake document to support that lie. Years passed, and no one unearthed the lie, but still, I worried every day. Then, in early 2018, the police contacted me. I gave an interview that spring where I confessed everything and waited. In the autumn of 2018, they charged me, in the spring of 2019 I pleaded guilty at Southwark Crown Court, but it wasn’t until almost a year later that I was sentenced to 45 months. While in jail, I became a writer and learned a great deal about myself. Now, three years after my release, I’m writing this piece to explore how prison affected my mental health, and what I learned there. Photo by Wesley Tingey on Unsplash The long wait for sentencing meant I had years to worry and think about prison. When I woke each morning there would be a moment before I remembered. You’re going to prison . Then the cold spike of fear through my chest. I felt in a constant state of readiness, wanting to flee the danger, being unable to do so. As a result, my mental health worsened. I drank heavily, suffered pits of yearning despair, and seriously considered suicide.   Even before this stress, I’d struggled. After an awful time at my prep school, aged seven, I hid myself. For the longest time I’d hidden who I was, feeling that the real me wasn’t worthy of love. This suppressed tension affected all the relationships I tried to form, and spilled over into the rest of my life. I found so many other people and their behaviours frustrating. A slow driver, a delayed train, or an unhurried pedestrian would infuriate me. Photo by Jennifer Grismer on Unsplash Our prisons are not places which are good for mental health. This is most obviously shown by the ‘ safety in custody ’ statistics published by the Ministry of Justice. The latest figures show that 88 self-inflicted deaths took place in the twelve months ending September 2024, and 13,605 prisoners self-harmed, a total of 76,365 times over the course of that year. In reality, this will hugely understate the real number. While I was a prisoner, I saw many men who would quietly self-harm and hide the evidence. Poor mental health among prisoners is seen in countless other ways. During the day, many of us had the distractions of time in the exercise yard, work or classes, and the relentless noise of the wings. At night, when the pounding of feet and clanging of doors and clunking of locks was over, when we were all locked away, men would scream or sob or yell or tear their cells apart.   And then, on the 26th of March 2020, the first COVID lockdown began. We were locked inside our cells for 23, or sometimes even 24 hours a day. Food brought to our cell doors, we spent day after day in concrete tombs the size of a car parking space. Deprived of social interaction, of variety and of purpose, it’s no wonder many of us struggled and suffered.   How did I cope? I wrote. I began a fantasy novel about a boy who grew to become a monster. I wrote in my journal every day. I thought about those I loved. And I remembered. I remembered the choices I’d made which led me to prison. In the quietness of my cell, particularly in the dark at night, without devices, without social media, and without distraction, I had to face myself. Again and again, I considered my life, reflecting on the moments when I could have chosen differently, and imagining what might have been. I gazed upon my crime, and my own failings, and accepted entirely and completely that I only had myself to blame. My poor moral choices were my own, and there was no meaningful support available from mental health professionals or chaplaincy staff. Photo by Mitchell Lawler on Unsplash I learned to accept what I couldn’t change. Prison is very good for that. There is so much out of your control. When will the cell door open? When will they feed us? How long will the water be off? Will there be electricity this evening? Will the phones work? I realised that if I became frustrated by every setback or problem which I could do nothing about I would spend my entire sentence being frustrated. And so, after months of prison lockdown, I realised I’d stopped being irritated. I discovered that while I may not be able to control events, I can control how I react to them. " Irritated" isn’t something which is done to us, it’s an experience that we create within ourselves.   While jailed, I saw so much pain. I met men who’d had terrible lives, who’d been abused as children, who’d suffered in ways no one should suffer. Adults who have spent time in the care system are vastly overrepresented in the prison population, with almost a quarter  of adults in prison having been in care at one point. Many prisoners struggle with literacy; over 60% of prisoners can’t read at the level expected of an 11-year-old. I found it very easy to understand why someone like this might deal drugs or steal in order to survive. As I watched the men around me and listened to their stories, my compassion for them expanded. I had no excuse for my crime, but so many prisoners had experienced childhoods which left them with little choice or hope. I came to understand that many people we meet are battling pain and monsters of their own, and rarely is the behaviour we might find challenging about us. Photo by Khashayar Kouchpeydeh on Unsplash I was released from prison in August 2021, and although I carry the horrors of prison with me, I’ve never been happier or calmer. How did this happen?   I accepted my absolute responsibility for my actions and choices. I have agency and am able to control much of my life. However, I also recognised that much is beyond my control, although my responses to events are mine to choose. I became more compassionate, seeing each person in the world as one who may be suffering or struggling. Finally, I developed a deep sense of proportionality. When you’ve been in prison, a delayed train or a traffic jam seems less important.   I wouldn’t recommend prison for personal growth. It’s an awful place and I saw things there I will never forget. But I do believe those lessons of responsibility, acceptance, compassion, and proportionality can be learned without time behind bars, and that they make for a happier and healthier life. 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 Their Stories Revealed About Myself From a young age, I understood the profound impact that compassion and support has on a child's journey. Nurturing the unique potential and fostering resilience in children with Autism Spectrum Disorder (ASD) has become not just my profession but my passion. Having navigated my own childhood challenges with anxiety, I developed a deep-seated desire to uplift young lives, believing that even the smallest contributions can spark meaningful change. I am excited to share my experiences working with children with Special Educational Needs And Disabilities (SEND), and how this journey has profoundly shaped my understanding of my own challenges and strengths. I am Yasmin Ismail, a dedicated writer and emotional resilience coach on a mission to empower women to heal, grow, and thrive amidst life's challenges. With a degree in psychology and counselling, I discovered my true calling while working with children living with ASD and anxiety. Photo By Monica Sedra On Unsplash Building Connections and Celebrating Progress On one September morning, I received my first briefing about the 11-year-old boy I would be working with: Jake (a pseudonym for privacy purposes). Jack had ASD ASD, a developmental condition characterised by difficulties with social interaction and engagement, including non-verbal expressions such as eye contact. Jake also struggled with fine motor skills, which made coherent writing a significant challenge. Despite the difficulties detailed in the briefing, I felt a surge of excitement at the potential I knew Jake possessed. During our initial weeks together, he struggled to make eye contact and seldom responded to my questions. However, while observing him laughing at books and playing outside, I had an idea. I decided to use humour and his passion for trains to connect with him. I created learning games centred around trains and introduced a ‘funny face’ game to break the ice. This approach allowed him to open up, and gradually, he began to engage with me more actively. As the months passed, I witnessed a notable improvement in his handwriting and overall work — progress that his teachers had not anticipated. At first, Jake would often say things like, “I’m not the sort of boy who can read,” or “I’m not good at writing! It’s a mess.” Each morning, I offered him positive affirmations and rewarded his progress with his favourite train stickers, reinforcing his achievements no matter how small. The biggest milestone came when I noticed Jake greeting other children and teachers, as we had practised in our sessions. He began integrating into the classroom, feeling comfortable like any other student. I treated him as I would any boy who was simply trying to learn. As Jake’s confidence grew, he started sharing more about his weekends and interests, and this newfound confidence inspired me to reflect on my own self-beliefs. If a boy with so many odds stacked against him could achieve what others deemed impossible, then perhaps I could, too. Photo By Lewis Keegan on Unsplash Reflections on Self-Belief Both Jake and I faced negative messaging about our abilities — his concerning reading and writing, and mine relating to my skills as a bilingual child. As a child, I was often told that I couldn’t write coherently and was frequently given ‘easier’ assignments than my peers. This not only affected my confidence but also led me to doubt my dream of becoming a writer one day. Experiencing these challenges made me acutely aware of the small yet significant impacts that can shape a child's self-perception and aspirations. Watching Jake hold a laminated sheet filled with beautiful handwriting, gleaming with pride at his progress, made me realise that it was okay for me to acknowledge my abilities too. He taught me that belief in oneself can overcome the odds. Initially considered the most underdeveloped child in his school, working at a Year 1 level while in Year 6, by the end of the year, he had advanced to an early Year 3 level. One of the highlights of my experience with Jake was helping him create his little book filled with his writing and drawings. Encouraged by me, he read his "Spooky Halloween" book to different classes, capturing the attention of his peers. The smile on his face that day was unforgettable; it was the smile of a boy who had accomplished something he once believed was beyond his reach. To describe the impact of Jake on my life is an understatement; he changed me in ways I never anticipated. While I thought I was helping him, he helped me heal from my own negative self-beliefs, teaching me that we are shaped by what we tell ourselves.   Changing Perspectives As schools across the UK strive to include children with neurodevelopmental disorders in mainstream classrooms, we are beginning to witness a shift in barriers and misconceptions. My own experience working in the SEND field has shown me that it is not our stance that needs to change, but rather our approach. Jake exemplified this beautifully — a child many might assume was disengaged or unaware of his surroundings. Yet beneath the surface, there exists a vibrant world within children like him, filled with thoughts, feelings, and creativity that often go unnoticed. While we may lack the specific tools to access this rich inner landscape, we must recognise its existence and embrace the potential waiting to be uncovered. I felt as though my role was to connect, to listen, and to genuinely see these remarkable children for who they truly are.   As the number of children diagnosed with Autism Spectrum Disorder (ASD) continues to rise , our perspective on this condition must evolve, particularly within the educational environment. Too often, children with ASD are overlooked or confined to narrow categories, feeling the heavy burden of these labels. To me, ASD is not simply a developmental disorder; it's a unique aspect of identity that adds tremendous value to each child's individuality. By embracing and believing in these children, we unlock their vast potential, allowing them to teach us profound lessons and inspire us to achieve far beyond what we ever imagined possible. With the right interventions in place, we can create a supportive framework that facilitates the integration of children with ASD into mainstream schools — a cohesive initiative that enriches the experiences of all students. From engaging reading games to vibrant colour-coded sentences, there are countless ways to foster growth and understanding across the classroom, ensuring that every child can thrive in a nurturing environment. I deeply hope for a future where society embraces a compassionate understanding of children with ASD, recognising that they are not deficient but rather remarkable individuals brimming with untapped potential. When we truly see their unique perspectives, we open ourselves to valuable lessons and insights that enrich us all. Working with Jake inspired me to finally open my laptop and start writing — something I had long considered a distant dream. Through helping him, I remembered the little girl inside me who didn’t have anyone to believe in her. The child that the teachers had dismissed was still there, waiting for someone to acknowledge her potential. That child was me. This is my story about the remarkable little boy who taught me more about myself than anyone else ever has. 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.