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As someone always on the move, buses have become my third place. Here’s why I’ve relied on public transportation my whole life, and why it’s one of the few spaces where I can stop and reflect. Author's own image When I was in college, my school hosted a week full of welcome events for new students, a way to welcome or welcome us back, to campus. One of my favourite events was One Bus Away, which highlighted all the places you could visit that were one bus away from the campus — and there were many of them. Wallingford, Fremont, Green Lake, and more were all within reach with the tap of my transit card, and it became clear that the bus would be my vehicle for seeing the world. Seattle has been home for me ever since, spanning the place I came back to between my roles as a writer and marketer in and out of tech. Ten years later, you can still find me planning bus routes for the week ahead, whether I’m bussing to work or happy hour for small business owners or a new BIPOC-owned restaurant. A lot of my brain space hinges on when the next bus is coming, and I use the time in transit to work on any projects I have for the week. Sometimes, I’ll challenge myself to edit an entire Q&A before I get off at my final stop, or I’ll read a book for an author I’m interviewing. At first, I was proud of myself for finding ways to be productive, but I realised it left me feeling exhausted. Image by Gerrie van der Walt via Unsplash During a conversation with my writing coach, she asked me about where I find space to rest. As someone who jams in tasks between meetings and uses my lunch breaks to make calls and run errands, I didn’t see much liminal space. But then it occurred to me: the bus. It was my gateway to seeing the world, whether I was headed to a museum, airport, or a workout class. I wondered if it could also be a place of reflection and solace.    I realised that the bus could become a 'third place', a term coined by sociologist Ray Oldenburg . This refers to places where we spend the most time outside of our homes and workplaces/schools. In an ideal world, a third place. It could be somewhere where I was forced just to sit and “be”. In my case, the bus could be where screens, to-do lists, and WiFi must wait, leaving me with my thoughts. Over time, I learned to treat the bus as a place where I didn’t have to “produce” or “create” and could just listen and journal. My phone and notebook started filling up with reflections on whatever was on my mind. Sometimes, I’d list things I was grateful for like podcasts about modern romances and getting an alternative milk at no extra charge. I’d read books by authors of colour who inspire me and highlight some of my favourite sentences and concepts to inspire my own writing. These moments helped me focus on what I needed. Embracing the bus as a third place enables me to use that time to listen, create, or do nothing at all. I’m still learning that rest is inherently productive and that I don’t have to fill every moment with a new project. What helps is knowing that creating space to think will make me creative and productive when I’m ready. Sometimes, the bus is a place where I come up with story ideas about how my wife and I created our own wedding traditions as a queer couple as well as tips for negotiating your salary. Other times, I’d just look out the window to notice new businesses or do some people-watching. It made me realize that a third place can be just about anywhere if you’re intentional about it. A lot has changed since I started taking the bus everywhere. I don’t rely on the exact same bus routes and have had to invest in noise-cancelling headphones to protect my peace. But my love for the bus has never waned, even when I have to run after it because I know the next bus won’t be for another 15 minutes or the crystal clear bus logic that if I’m early, the bus will likely be late and if I’m late, that’s the one day the bus will arrive all time. Through it all, I’m grateful for all the places that buses have taken me and all the stories they have inspired. Image by Connor Gan via Unsplash 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 my 8-year-old daughter was diagnosed with leukemia, my sense of self collapsed. The identities I’d long held dear– writer, friend, woman with aspirations– were abruptly overshadowed by the singular, consuming role of caregiver . In the three years of treatment that followed, I became a person defined by vigilance, exhaustion, and a relentless drive to keep my child alive. Caregiving for a child with cancer feels like walking a tightrope over a void. There’s no break from the unyielding demands and no safety net below to catch you if you tumble. Every day brought another round of medication schedules and treatment decisions, and I felt overwhelmed by the impossible task of offering comfort to my frightened child who was asking existential questions I couldn’t bear to answer. Reading to my daughter in the hospital. Photo by Elizabeth Austin Initially, I didn’t notice how my new existence was unraveling me. Survival-mode autopilot took over. Adrenaline kept me going through sleepless nights on the hospital’s miserable pull-out chair and daily outpatient visits, but as our crisis stretched into routine, my body and mind began to protest. Anxiety quietly embedded itself into every corner of my life. Even at home, far from the beeping monitors, my thoughts raced with “what-ifs.” A fever became a medical emergency. A rash could mean relapse. Fear rewired my brain, and each moment felt precariously balanced between control and catastrophe. During one of my drives to the hospital, I realized I was entirely depleted. I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to keep going, and I was ashamed of my weakness. The guilt of admitting I needed care, too, was suffocating. My daughter was fighting for her life. It felt selfish and demanding to feel anything but gratitude that she was still alive, but caregiving can be merciless, and no amount of guilt could shield me from its toll. The Hidden Cost of Caregiving When a child has cancer, the natural and common response is an immediate rallying around them. Everyone I interacted with wanted to know how my daughter was doing, which made sense, but far fewer asked after my mental and physical state. I was sinking into a deep depression, made worse by the fact that my struggle felt invisible. People meant well when they told me I was “so strong,” but their words only made me feel more isolated and ashamed. Strength had become a mask I wore to reassure others even as my mental health crumbled beneath it. Playing Go Fish in the hospital. Photo by Elizabeth Austin My eventual crash and burn didn’t hit like a tidal wave. It crept in quietly, piece by piece: my sleep shortened to a handful of hours a night and my days were blanketed by panic. Irritability gave way to despair. By the time I acknowledged the depths of my exhaustion, I felt that I was beyond saving. My body made the consequences clear. Panic attacks seized me without warning; my heart raced uncontrollably; insomnia rendered rest impossible. It wasn’t a metaphorical breakdown—it was physiological. The Stigma of Asking for Help Admitting that I couldn’t handle my daughter’s cancer on my own was challenging. I’ve been a single mother for most of my kids’ lives, and there has never been a question of whether I’m able to push through the more difficult parts of our lives. The myth of the selfless caregiver— endlessly giving, without complaint or need— runs deep. I felt like I was betraying the person I am to my kids by seeking support for myself, but I couldn’t keep running on empty. I started opening up to friends about how I was feeling. I let my facade down and began to unpack the fear and resentment I’d been trying not to feel. I mourned out loud the life I’d paused indefinitely, and I admitted to being lost in the shadow of the profound loneliness that comes with being a full-time caregiver. I realised that everything I was feeling didn’t make me selfish or weak– it just made me human. French pastries: the ultimate small joy. Photo by Elizabeth Austin The more I opened up to people about how I was struggling, the more I realised that self-care isn’t indulgent. It’s a lifeline, and I learned to lean into it. I found ways to squeeze moments of self-care into even the most demanding days. I’d journal for ten minutes, step outside and take three deep breaths of fresh air, or ask a friend to drop off a hot meal when I was too depleted to cook. These small solaces became anchors for me. They didn’t resolve my pain, but they made the weight I was carrying a little more bearable. Beyond Survival Even now, years after my daughter’s remission, we live in the shadow of her illness. For me, the vigilance never fully fades. Her routine clinic visits for bloodwork stir up memories of nights spent in the fluorescent-lit hospital room. The phrase “lumbar puncture” still raises my heart rate. Caregiving rewires you, and the scars remain long after the crisis has passed. Still, healing is possible, though it is often slow and uneven. I try to find joy in the mundane. There is a casual comfort in listening to my kids bicker about whose turn it is to feed the cats. There is joy in a mug of tea before bed at night, safe and comfortable in our home. While I’ll always carry the emotional residue of those difficult years, I’m learning to allow myself to rest. 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 you hear a cancer diagnosis hurtling at you, your mind spins to somewhere far away. The door of the clinic, clamped shut away from everyone else’s ears, only leads to more hospital mazes, the rational side of you knows. But the panicking dreamer inside you is convinced it could be a portal throwing you elsewhere, idyllic, or just your old life. Then your psyche will push you to another faraway place – the future – that’s not looking rosy. You see something impossible to vocalise – your future whipped away in a blink, ending before beginning.   I’m Ellie, and in 2011, I became one of the approximately 2,300 young people diagnosed with cancer annually in the UK. Mine was the fairly common blood cancer, Hodgkin Lymphoma, and I was 15. Although this was almost half of my life ago (now I’m in my late 20s) – all starting 14 years ago this month – and it’s left my life physically, it hasn’t entirely. Ellie and Taylor Swift while she was on cancer treatment When many of us realise cancer has unwelcomely entered our realities, we presume it will end badly. People still associate this umbrella of diseases with death, despite more promising pictures being painted about survival. There’s a lot to take in during the immediacy, then interim, but even when you’ve collated your questions, reassessed what your life might resemble and tried to recalibrate, there’s an element you’ll probably miss off until you’ve been in the cancer club for quite some time. It’s something I think should be closer to the fore for many members of the demographics swept up by these diagnoses. Patients, survivors, clinicians, nurses and the public come under that. After all, when was the last time you paid much attention to late-effects? Understandably, you might not know what these are. As Ashley Ball-Gamble, CEO of Teenagers and Young Adults with Cancer, tells me: “Young people diagnosed with cancer can be left with lifelong side effects of it and its treatment, such as heart problems, mobility changes and cognitive difficulties. “Sometimes these late-effects don’ t begin until months or even years after treatment ends.” These subsequent years taught me cancer doesn’t end when treatment does, yet late-effects remain an overlooked category. I feel this is a gap needing to be bridged, especially because of the sobering statistics surrounding cancer incidence. I’m not alone in this, as my case studies ahead show. They will join me in covering a precis of our experiences and late-effects so far. Changing perspectives  If you respond well to modern medicine, what happens next? There is growing awareness that cancer survival isn’t linear, but there's still not enough on how late-effects emerge long after you’re discharged from your oncologist’s office. When follow-up scans stop, new problems can start. Then they might form new backdrops to your life. Those diagnosed in early years should enjoy decades of good health, seeing the need for this even more after our initial diagnoses. On a purely medical level, the reasons for this disparity can add up – for now. Until recently, there weren’t many survivors of young adult cancers. Cancer Research UK says the five-year population-based survival for young people’s cancers increased from 74% in 1997-2001 to 87% in 2012-2016. Pre-1970s, survival was even rarer, meaning limited time and research poured into late-effects years on. But this means a hefty proportion pay the price. The National Cancer Institute estimated 60% to 90% of childhood cancer survivors develop chronic conditions, sadly rising to 20% to 80% of survivors experiencing severe complications during adulthood. Ellie campaigning for stem cell donors via Marrow at university Lymphoma lurking When diagnosed with lymphoma, I didn’t know much about it, despite encountering it in my GCSE class, and knowing it was common in young people. But I soon started to learn a lot. I did know how its symptoms had made themselves known to me repeatedly throughout the school year, not caring that I was just trying to focus on getting through Year 10!  My life is now approaching a crossroads where half contained no cancer, and the rest has held it in close confines. This isn’t to say I responded poorly to treatment. Formally, I haven’t been a patient since the year I became one, avoiding relapses and invasive treatments such as stem-cell transplants or radiotherapy. Instead, I gratefully completed four cycles of IV-chemotherapy, plus steroids and oral chemo with minimal complications, then continued with my teens.   But as Teenagers and Young Adults with Cancer (TYAC) points out , late-effects can affect the heart, hormones, lungs, bones, concentration, mobility and fertility. This is without the normal re-navigation into society, education, employment and relationships, and sits separately to the real risk of reoccurrence. I have fairly regular cardiac monitoring and occasional check-ins with Endocrinology, set to increase during pregnancy, as chemotherapy can damage the heart. But through the fault of no one in particular, not much else. My immune system still feels sluggish, including a recent glandular fever that stuck me on drips in A&E. However, cancer has stayed with me in other ways. Much is from choice – I’m passionate about helping others handle their journeys, raising awareness, and chronicling cancer. Also, I’m not alone in thinking our histories deserve more focus now we’re ‘moving on’. I spoke to case studies at different stages of life, but both also in remission from lymphoma, about how their relationship with cancer has morphed, not vanished. Survivors say “My experience as a young adult cancer survivor will stay with me, altering my path, including education, health (physical and emotional), and relationships. It inspired me to pursue a new career, alongside young people with cancer. I’m studying this now, having completed a degree on teenage and young adult cancer”, reflects Helen Haar, who’s 28 but was diagnosed with Non-Hodgkin Lymphoma at 20. “Late-effects as a young adult can be hard to come to terms with. I’m monitored yearly for cardiovascular issues and breast screening after having radiotherapy so young. I’m also seeing if my fertility has been affected by chemotherapy. I wasn’t given chance to freeze my eggs, so this will give answers I’ve wanted for years. This will be hard, as I’ve always wanted a family, and the possibility it may not become reality gets more real every day. “I recently returned to counselling, as my cancer journey consumed a lot of thoughts, eight years later. Through a charity that supports the mental health of those affected by cancer, I found comfort telling my story from start to present to someone impartial, giving me space to open up.” Helen continued: “The late-effects of cancer on young people can be isolating, feeling low and lost. It’s important more is done to support those who transitioned from teenage and young adult to adult services, and are investigated for late-effects, physically and psychologically.” Similarly, Helen Allen had Hodgkin Lymphoma in 2007. However, five years ago, she felt similar symptoms, like night sweats and fatigue.  “The first time chronic fatigue was mentioned was during my tenth annual check-up. I looked up my symptoms and coincidentally also researched those of menopause. I had lots of them, but still the fear it could be the cancer returning.   “I’m on HRT (Hormone Replacement Therapy) now, but fatigue still takes me back to pre-cancer diagnosis, wondering what was wrong.” Together, we can use World Cancer Day to call for greater awareness of both mental needs, through counselling, and physical, via more knowledge and screenings for young adult cohorts. We see this in other disease demographics, so it would be promising if youth cancer survival followed suit. Ellie at an exhibition at the Tate Modern where she showcased one of her cancer essays. 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.

I was at university when cancer came into my life, and it’s never left. Like a malevolent black toad sitting on my shoulder, it will be with me forever, whether it kills me or I eventually die of something else. I was at my student digs, a small, terraced property just up the hill from Brighton’s Elm Grove, when my father phoned. It was back in the day when all five housemates shared a single landline, and you had to have even the most intimate conversation while standing in the hallway. Dad’s sister had been experiencing some vague symptoms, he explained. Eventually the surgeons opened her up and … he didn’t finish the sentence. I already knew how it ended. He went off to Israel to see her. She died while he was there, with my cousin’s wedding hastily scrambled forward so that he could attend during his stay. My mother used to say that my father’s family had ‘all this cancer’ running through it, unlike her own oncologically pristine one. At the time, I regarded this as just a bit of Hungarian one-upmanship, a way of putting down the German side of the marital alliance. But in this, as in so much else, she turns out to have been right. Author's own images, captured with a film camera. My mother was right after all I was working as an Assistant Producer at the BBC when it all began to unravel. The younger of my aunt’s two daughters got breast cancer at thirty, her sister at forty, and by now, my mother is beginning to look strangely prescient. The mutations BRCA1 (BReast CAncer gene 1) and BRCA2 (BReast CAncer gene 2), which put carriers at higher-than-normal risk of breast and ovarian cancer, were actually being discovered  around the very time my cousin was having a lumpectomy. We could all see the way the disease was climbing its way along the family tree, taking pot shots here and there. By the time I got tested in 2003 it seemed like a foregone conclusion. I was faced by two pleasant young female doctors. “I don’t suppose by any chance you are an Ashkenazi Jew?” the red-haired one asked with a soft Irish accent. Something was off about that, I turned to her Asian colleague. Very few non-Jews know the difference between the Eastern European Jewish ethnicity we insiders refer to as ‘Ashky’ and the Sephardis whose origins lie in Spain, or the Middle Eastern Mizrachis. But she knew because this was scientific fact: turns out that amongst the baggage we brought over from the ‘heim’ or homeland, there is a risk of being BRCA carriers more than six times higher  than the population on average. I just shrugged like Tevye in Fiddler on the Roof , resigned to this unwelcome part of my heritage.   The diagnosis I couldn’t avoid  I had my ovaries removed as a precaution, but six months later, I found a lump on my right breast. The timing couldn’t have been worse. It was the end of December, and though Christmas clearly wasn’t much of an issue, we were just about to celebrate my daughter’s bat-mitzvah. This coming-of-age celebration involves a synagogue service and a big party with dinner and dancing. I insisted on keeping my diagnosis secret because I didn’t want anything to deflect attention away from our girl, and though I knew it was the right thing to do, I could see what enforced silence was doing to my husband. He looked like a man on the rack. Gaby giving a speech at daughter's bat-mitzvah. Author's own picture. While I submitted to surgery then chemo, then more surgery and more, a cancer charity provided counselling for both of us. Mine was a middle-aged South African lady in a long skirt, who offered an amicable but superficial chat. My husband drew the long straw — his counsellor was so utterly transformative that under her influence, he began taking the slow steps to start training and, several years later, emerged with an MSc in counselling and psychotherapy. But, I wanted to shout, I — yes me — I was the one with cancer. It didn’t seem fair that he got the good counsellor, and I got the rubbish one, but as Tevye would tell you, some are destined to be impoverished milkmen and others get inspirational counsellors. I don’t think anybody who experiences cancer can just leave it behind, the fear that it will come back occupies a permanent space in your head. But if you carry a gene mutation that means you are biologically at higher risk of contracting breast, ovarian and various other cancers, then you are physically in lockstep with it forever. It is inscribed into every cell in your body, and like many other carriers, I’ve found that deeply troubling. Gaby after chemo. Author's own picture. A 2004 UK study  shows “ persistent worry in younger female gene carriers”, and it continues, “worry about cancer was not assuaged by surgery following genetic testing”. Angelina Jolie may have done a wonderful thing by talking openly about her preventative mastectomies, but women who follow her lead may not worry any less about getting cancer. These findings were partially confirmed by 2022 US research  which stated that “Anxiety and stress were significantly worse in  BRCA1/2 -positive women compared to comparable US female samples ”. Even worse than living with the anxiety on your own account is the fact that you also have a fifty per cent chance of passing this to your children. One of my three is a carrier, the others haven’t tested yet. Talk of the sword of Damocles… Author's own pictures A trail of scars Meanwhile, my body bears witness to my story. I was offered a nine-hour operation to take flesh and muscle from my back to craft new bosoms, but the album of photographs I was shown wasn’t enticing. First, the patchwork of different skin tones, then there would be significant scarring on the back too — both these things struck me as major downsides. I’d long found my breasts a burden — the catcalls and groping started when I was in my early teens, the weight of my 32Ds gave me backache and all my life I’d longed for a more Twiggy-like silhouette. I’d even considered breast reduction surgery. So here was my chance. The outcome was mixed. I have no nipples and scars across my chest, which, twenty years later, are faded. Implants inserted under the muscles have given me smaller breasts than I had before, though not as small as I wanted because, I think, male surgeons find it difficult to hear women saying that they want small breasts. I had a preventative mastectomy on my left side, but for some reason, the surgeon decided to make the incision there in a different place, leaving me decidedly uneven. It’s unsurprising that studies have shown that breast cancer and its treatment affect body image negatively , but there are positives too. This study talks about resisting appearance pressures and self-worth going beyond appearance , but overall I actually prefer  my new shape — my breasts were beginning to droop after having three children, now they are fixed to my chest and I don’t even really need a bra. I feel lighter — I feel like a survivor. Gaby after chemo by the sea. Author's own picture. 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.

A Journey Through Loss and Longing Getty Images for Unsplash It’s been almost three months since my mom passed away from cancer and I’m only just beginning to grasp the magnitude of her loss. So much of her life is infused into the objects around me, all poignant reminders of a love that feels irreplaceable and hauntingly absent. I now find myself crying all the time, each tear a cathartic release carrying a memory or a regret. Some days, I feel exhausted and overwhelmed by my emotions, but I am glad to be at the point of grief where I can acknowledge what has happened and really just miss my mom. For a while after she passed away, I didn’t feel this sadness. I arrived home from work only moments after she had died (which is something I think about often) and the first comprehensible emotion I felt was relief. Long before my mom passed away, I also had anticipated her passing, and this left me feeling guilty because, although I didn’t want to imagine my mom’s death, I’d catch myself thinking about it a lot as I watched her manage her diagnosis. I think these emotions are the uglier, less spoken-about sides of grief because they expose our emotional complexity. Grief is often described as involving five stages : Denial , or a feeling of numbness or incomprehensibility towards the loss. Anger , or feeling that the loss is unfair. Bargaining , or feeling regretful about what you never got to do together, or feeling hopeful that they may return. Depression , or feeling hopeless, upset, heartbroken, or stuck (the stage I’d describe myself as currently in). Acceptance , feeling at peace with the loss. Importantly, these stages aren’t experienced linearly. Everyone experiences grief differently, reaching different stages at different times, and in various orders. Often, the intensity of each stage is determined by the loss, what the person meant to you, how the bereavement occurred, and what options were available at the time to process the grief. For example, some people who lost relatives during the COVID-19 lockdowns have described the difficulty  they had with the grieving process, by not having the opportunities to say goodbye to their loved ones, attend funeral services, or connect with family members and friends. The experience of grief is different with every bereavement. There are other, less spoken about, emotions not listed in the five key stages of grief that are still very much associated with bereavement . These include feeling confused or disorientated as you try to understand who you are without this person. Also, relief, perhaps because the person was living in pain. Relief that my mom had died at home and in as little pain as possible: her only two wishes. Relief that my mom would no longer be in distress, and relief that I would no longer have to watch her be in pain. There’s an analogy made about grief, by Lois Tonkin, in her paper Growing Around Grief , which considers how the feeling of grief and loss doesn’t get smaller but rather feels  smaller as we continue to live and grow around it. The phrase "the hole grief leaves doesn't go away, we just grow" means that when someone experiences a significant loss, the grief they feel creates a lasting "hole" in their life that never fully heals, but over time, they can learn to live around that pain and continue to grow as a person, incorporating the loss into their life without letting it define them. Image source: What's Your Grief? I find this a comforting way of looking at grief because it acknowledges how impactful connection and loss are in shaping who we become. It seems that throughout history, humankind has grappled with the reality of mortality, often seeking ways to extend life or avoid the pain of loss. This struggle reflects our deep desire to hold on to what we love. However, in my own journey, I’m finding it comforting to accept that change is the only certainty, and death is the one guarantee we have in life. Embracing this truth allows me to honour my connections while also recognising the natural cycle of life and loss. Right now, I really feel the gaping hole in my life from the loss of my mom, but I understand that this hole will be part of me for the rest of my life and I can celebrate my mom’s life and carry her spirit with me in the things I do. Building on the discussion of bereavement, it's important to recognise that grief can also manifest before a loss occurs, known as anticipatory grief. This form of grief  often brings a different set of emotions, as we grapple with the reality of impending loss and the anxiety that comes with it. It allows us to process our feelings and prepare ourselves for the inevitable, highlighting the deep connections we hold with our loved ones even before they are gone. When my mom received her terminal cancer diagnosis, I felt confronted with the immanence of my mom’s passing. The National Cancer Institute  lists this among some of the common symptoms of anticipatory grief: Depression Heightened concern for the ill person Rehearsal of the loved one’s end-of-life Attempts to adjust to the consequences of the loved one’s end of life Anxiety and worry Increased irritability Mourning changes in the loved one’s personality or physical appearance When my mom's vocal cords were damaged by cancer, it felt like I lost a part of her that was truly special. She had a beautiful singing voice that brought so much joy, and not being able to hear her sing anymore was something I struggled with. I missed her voice in a way that is beyond description. Being quite stoic in her worldview, my mom told me that whilst she missed being able to sing, this was the universe’s way of telling her to listen more. Album cover for "A Cloud Never Dies" I think about this often: how my mom found wisdom and lessons in the adversity and hardship she faced. Seeing parts of her infused in my own personality reminds me of an aphorism by global spiritualist leader and peace activist, Thich Nhat Hanh . He asks us to think about clouds, and how clouds are impermanent, but the essence of the cloud remains when it turns to rain, and the rain drains into a river, which runs into the sea. This beautifully illustrates how loss does not mean erasure; the person’s essence is simply taking a new form, carried by the people they knew. 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: Discussion of Miscarriage and Prenatal Mental Health My name is Christina. In 2021, I wrote about my journey with chronic illness and mental health. While new challenges have emerged, that blog still offers valuable insight.   No One Prepares You for the Pain Not the emotional kind, though that’s its own battle, but the physical pain. The kind that breaks you, that makes you question everything. The kind that makes you wonder if deciding to have a baby was a selfish choice when your body is already at war with itself.   People talk about the joy of pregnancy, the glow, the excitement. But what happens when pregnancy feels like losing yourself? When every day is a new reminder of what your body can no longer do? When you already live with an illness that has stolen so much: your passions, your energy, your freedom, and now, pregnancy feels like yet another loss, something else your body might take away from you?   Understanding Prenatal Depression When mental health during pregnancy is discussed, which is still often a taboo, the focus tends to be on postnatal (which refers to the period after giving birth) depression. But there are other perinatal mental health conditions , including perinatal obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD), anxiety disorders, and post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). These are less commonly talked about, and many people have never even heard of them. In this blog, I focus specifically on prenatal depression . This condition affects up to 20% of pregnant women and can be triggered by a mix of hormonal changes, stress, and pre-existing mental or physical health conditions.   Photo by Yulia on Adobe Stock Pregnancy is supposed to be this sacred, untouchable time. But when your body is already fighting a chronic illness, pregnancy feels like another battle. If left untreated, prenatal depression can have serious consequences , affecting not just the mother but also the child, increasing the likelihood of emotional and behavioural difficulties later in life.   My husband and I decided to have a baby because my health had improved, and I didn’t want to wait until I was older, risking further complications. It felt like the right time, a window where my body might cooperate. But even then, I wasn’t prepared for what was coming.   Symptoms of Prenatal Depression According to the NHS, symptoms of prenatal depression include:   Persistent sadness or low mood Fatigue so crushing, no amount of rest helps Feeling disconnected from your baby, like it’s happening to someone else Excessive anxiety or fear, especially about the pregnancy Guilt—for struggling, for not being overjoyed, for not being enough Feeling like you can’t do this Thoughts of self-harm or suicide Financial instability during pregnancy intensifies hormonal imbalances and mental health challenges. These stressors like housing insecurity, unhealthy relationships, and economic hardship increase self-blame and make the emotional and physical burden heavier.   Coping with an Expected Loss No one tells you how common miscarriage is. It happens in 1 in 8 pregnancies yet when it happens to you, it feels like the loneliest thing in the world.   The Role of Progesterone in Pregnancy Happily, I got pregnant again soon after. At 12 weeks, I started bleeding again. The scan showed a low-positioned yolk sac , a structure that provides nutrients to the developing embryo before the placenta forms. The NHS response? Codeine for the pain. A suggestion to go home and wait for the inevitable miscarriage. But I refused to accept that. I sought a private gynaecologist who prescribed progesterone supplements, a simple, accessible treatment that could have saved my first pregnancy. Image source Unsplash Progesterone helps maintain the uterine lining and supports fetal development . Low levels increase miscarriage risk. And yet, for years, the NHS would only offer progesterone after three consecutive miscarriages.   Thankfully, due to women fighting for better care, the NHS now prescribes progesterone after just one miscarriage . But it's not enough. We shouldn’t have to beg for care that should be standard.   The Science Behind Prenatal Depression  Professor Carmine Pariante and his team have shown that prenatal depression disrupts the immune system, triggering inflammation . Cytokines , molecules that regulate immunity, interfere with serotonin and dopamine, affecting mood and emotional stability.   It's not just mental. It's physical. Depression, inflammation, and pregnancy all intertwine, affecting the body and brain in ways that can't be willed away. The hypothalamic-pituitary-adrenal ( HPA ) axis, which controls the body's stress response, also gets thrown off balance. High cortisol levels don’t just affect the mother, they impact fetal brain development, increasing the child's risk of neurodevelopmental disorders .   I wish I had known this earlier. I wish someone had explained that this wasn't just in my head—that my body was literally attacking itself. Maybe then I wouldn’t have felt so much guilt.   Honouring Women, Mothers, and Unspoken Struggles Image source @babylemonprints March is a month that carries meaningful significance. It is a time when we celebrate International Women's Day, recognising the strength, resilience, and contributions of women around the world. In the UK, it is also the month we honour mothers on Mother's Day, and coincidentally, a day before my 30th birthday. But while these occasions celebrate the beauty of womanhood and motherhood, they also serve as a reminder that many women suffer in silence, through pregnancy complications, loss, and battles with their bodies. The stories of these struggles are often left unspoken, but they deserve to be heard. Enduring the Struggle, Welcoming Life After months of pain, uncertainty, and a body that felt like an enemy, my daughter arrived. The labour was traumatic, the kind that leaves scars. But somehow, she was healthy. She made it. In the future, I hope to share more about this experience to raise awareness about the challenges of childbirth and the importance of proper support. It’s all great in theory—catchy titles, strong statements—but what truly matters is action. Here are practical ways to offer support. How to Support a Pregnant Woman in Pain Small Gestures Matter: Bring flowers, a cup of coffee, or a reminder that they're still a person beyond this pregnancy. Don't wait for them to ask for help—just be there. Help With the Practical Stuff: Clean the house, cook a meal, or, if you can't do any of these, send them a voucher to order something online or a cleaning service. Give them one less thing to worry about. Listen Without Judgement: If they say "I'm struggling," don’t dismiss it as hormones. Believe them. Encourage Professional Help: If symptoms persist, gently encourage speaking to a GP, midwife, or therapist. Create a Support Network: Connect them with other mothers who get it—from work, the gym, or mutual friends.   Reflecting on My Experience Believing my symptoms were just hormones or pre-existing conditions, I didn’t seek help. I thought it was temporary, something to endure. But looking back, I see that small gestures—kindness, understanding, and support—made a difference. Today is a bad day. But tomorrow, I will keep fighting. "And if I am a rock, I will crack,  And if I am a stalk of wheat, I will bear fruit,  And if I am a tear, I will laugh." — Odysseas Elytis   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.

Aditya Akella Aditya is a 17-year-old student at St Paul’s School in London and a dedicated young carer from Kingston upon Thames. He looks after his younger brother, who has severe autism, ADHD, and is non-verbal. His personal experiences have fuelled his passion for raising awareness about disability and the challenges faced by young carers. Committed to driving change, Aditya has spoken on prominent public platforms, including the House of Lords and the Old Bailey, as well as on podcasts and radio interviews with the BBC and other media outlets. He has also contributed to an international Japanese documentary aimed at reducing stigma and increasing awareness of young carers’ struggles worldwide. An aspiring economics student, Aditya hopes to leverage his knowledge to shape policies and decisions that improve the lives of young carers both in the UK and beyond. His ultimate goal is to create a more supportive and inclusive society for those who dedicate their lives to caring for loved ones. This week gave us all the opportunity to take part in Young Carers Action Day 2025 -organised by the Carers Trust to highlight the role of Young Carers in the UK. You may be surprised to learn that there are over 120,000 young carers aged 5-17 in the UK. Behind each and every one of those young people is a unique and deeply personal story: some may be supporting a disabled parent or sibling, some may be looking after a loved one with a long-term illness, or some may be helping a relative with an addiction. The types of responsibilities vary from carer to carer, and how they cope with their situation differs vastly. However, if there is something that young carers almost all have in common, it’s the need for a break - the theme of this year's Young Carers Action Day 2025. A young carer with her grandfather and brother. Credit: Tony Woods At the outset, it seems like a very simple conclusion to make. Young carers spend a lot of what should be their free time on caring activities, from physical assistance to mental support to bringing medication on time. Whilst other children their age are using this time to relax, socialise and enjoy their youth to the fullest, young carers often feel that their “childhood liberty” has been somewhat compromised. Moreover, the impact on the educational achievements of young carers is rather significant, with young carers attaining nine grades lower that their peers in the GCSEs , and being 38% less likely to attain a university degree . This makes sense, given that young carers miss on average 23 days of school every year  owing to caring responsibilities. Hence, when carers often talk about the need for a break, it is natural to assume that they simply just want time off their caring duties. However, when we take a closer look into the everyday lives of young carers, it starts to become apparent that the engulfing yearn for a break stems from a much more serious matter. A teenage carer with his mother. Credit: Tony Woods Before I delve into the intricacies, it makes sense for me to share my own personal experience as a young carer. I look after my younger brother, who at the time of writing this is 11 years old. My brother has been diagnosed with severe Autism and ADHD, the implications including being non-verbal, having little safety awareness, and being completely and utterly reliant on his family for almost every basic task. As such, my day-to-day responsibilities include feeding him, looking after his hygiene, keeping him out of harm’s way, constantly monitoring his activity, and trying to meet his garbled demands. Whilst I truly enjoy the brotherly bond we possess, I admit that at times it is extremely tiring, both mentally and physically. This emotion is common to every single young carer, despite differences in responsibilities, which brings me onto the overarching focus of this article. The author addressing an audience at the Old Bailey. Credit: Aditya Akella It is clear that the need for respite and a physical break from everyday caring duties is necessary. However, the issues that young carers face are a lot more than simply looking after the person in care. Perhaps the most prominent setback that is common in the caring community is the mental fatigue experienced. Caring duties are often non-stop for a lot of young carers, and anxiety about the state and safety of the person in care is a paramount concern. In my case, for example, I am always wary about the safety of my brother, especially when we go outside or in crowded public areas. Yet the qualms of young carers (arguably) tend to be more about the future than even the current situation. After several years of caring, handling the needs of a relative/family member becomes second nature (though not necessarily easier). On the other hand, uncertainties and worries about the future security of our loved ones quickly becomes the most significant thought young carers experience. From my own personal experience, I am always concerned about how to support my brother when he becomes older. Questions I ask myself include how can I protect my brother from an intolerant society, how can I financially support my brother when my parents are older, how do I know who to trust around my brother, how can I manage my future relationships and family of my own, or even how can I regularly socialise and get out of the house? The author with Sir Ed Davey at a young carers event in the House of Lords. Credit: Aditya Akella   The mental pressures placed on young carers are intense, and the situation becomes exponentially exacerbated when you understand that these worries are embedded into them from their early childhood. In fact, a study published in the National Library of Medicine concluded that young carers are more likely to report chronic mental health problems than non-carers . In the UK, 38% of young carers claimed they have a poor mental health  condition. No young person deserves to experience the level of frustration and anxiety about such a grave matter, but perhaps the real injustice lies in the fact that these young carers often do not have access to the right facilities to support them effectively. I, for one, am quite fortunate to have had access to the Kingston Carers’ Network (KCN ) and their Young Carers Project for many of my childhood years. I benefitted hugely from their support and activities such as the Young Carers Conferences they organise. Having opportunities to take a day off with other young carers in my area and relax has certainly provided the necessary respite I craved during caring fatigue, and it is clear to me that the other young carers feel the same way. However, I believe that the framework to give young carers a break can be taken to the next level by addressing the long-term mental tribulations they face. Instead of just giving carers a break from their caring duties, it’s important to give them a break from the persisting psychological struggles too. This can be implemented effectively by going against the status quo, which currently centres itself around a “one size fits all” approach from counsellors who offer little relatability to young carers. Emotional support can only be attained if the young carer can relate to the person offering support. One solution is to establish a system wherein young carers who feel left out by their society and schools can talk to older carers. This would be beneficial because the common experience increases the likelihood for an open, honest conversation. Furthermore, a carer with genuine caring experience is likely to provide more relevant and empathetic advice, something which appears to be almost entirely unavailable. The advantage of this “buddying” system is that it can be implemented in schools as well as youth groups including KCN, making personal connections more accessible to young carers. The key thing to consider when implementing these types of approaches is reliability. Young carers experience a range of emotions more volatily than other young people, so the standard setup of one meeting every two weeks is ineffective. A better approach would be to enable young carers to comfortably seek advice at any given time, especially when their situation become overwhelming. Another solution that may take us one step closer to giving carers a break from their mental struggles is to allocate regular activities during the school week which allow them to improve their overall wellbeing. For example, studies show that there is an approximately 20% to 30% lower risk of developing depression for those who participate in daily physical activity . Young carers may not have the time outside of school hours to exercise and improve their mental and physical wellbeing, so allocating certain slots during the school hours can help young carers develop a regular routine of self-care. The author at a Carers Trust event. Credit Aditya Akella Overall, it is imperative that we continue to promote networks which provide occasional respite days for young carers, such as the KCN and other local projects. It is equally important that we consider mental breaks for young carers as well. Through buddying systems or providing wellbeing activities, young carers can alleviate their worries about the future of their loved ones. A break should not just be seen as a one-day relief, but rather an emotional support system that can encourage open conversations and actually tackle their long-term anxieties. 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.

The Weight of Quiet I’ve always been someone who finds solace in the quiet moments—the kind of person who thrives in the stillness of a library or the comfort of a one-on-one conversation. Growing up, I was the observer, the listener, the one who preferred to absorb the world rather than dominate it. But when I stepped onto the university campus, I realised that my quiet nature, which had always felt like a safe haven, was now a barrier. The bustling hallways, the loud cafeterias, and the constant pressure to "fit in" felt like a foreign language I couldn’t speak. Social anxiety wasn’t just about being shy—it was a deep-seated fear that I didn’t belong, that my voice didn’t matter. This is the story of how I learned to navigate that fear, not by changing who I am, but by finding the courage to let others see the real me. Isolation can be a trap, but small steps can lead to connection | Image by Zhivko Minkov on Unsplash. My initial weeks at university were a blur of avoidance. I’d arrive early to lectures to claim a seat in the back row, headphones shielding me like armor. Cafeterias? Impossible. The clatter of trays and laughter felt like a spotlight on my inadequacy. Even group projects sent my heart racing—what if I stumbled over my words? What if they realised I was too much or not enough? One memory still stings: a classmate invited me to a coffee meetup. I spent hours rehearsing casual phrases in the mirror, only to cancel last minute, blaming a migraine I didn’t have. The guilt afterward was suffocating. I wasn’t just missing out on friendships; I was erasing myself from my own story.   The Academic Toll The loneliness seeped into my grades. Skipping discussions meant missing key insights, and my essays lacked depth without peer feedback. My tutor once wrote, “Your ideas are strong, but why do you hesitate to share them?” That note became a turning point—a quiet plea to stop hiding.   The Breaking Point: Asking for Help The day I finally emailed the university’s mental health service team, I had written and erased the message three times. “I’m struggling to connect,” I wrote, each word feeling like an admission of failure. But the counselor, Dr. Lee, greeted me with warmth that disarmed my shame. A Lifeline in Small Steps Breathing techniques and mindfulness can help calm the mind before social interactions | Image by David Kennedy on Unsplash “Social anxiety isn’t a flaw—it’s a survival mechanism gone rogue,” she explained. Her words reframed my fear: my brain wasn’t broken; it was overprotective. Together, we crafted a plan: Micro-Exposures: Attend one event a week, even if just for 10 minutes. Grounding Techniques: Practice breath-work before social interactions (4-7-8 breathing became my anchor). Journaling: Track moments of courage, no matter how small. “Progress isn’t linear,” Dr. Lee reminded me. “It’s about showing up, not perfection.” The Experiment: Finding My Tribe Step 1: The Book Club Finding people with similar interests can be the first step towards building meaningful connections | Image by Alexis Brown on Unsplash I joined a small philosophy book club, drawn by the promise of structured conversation. At the first meeting, my hands trembled as I turned the pages. But when I mumbled a comment about Camus’ absurdism—a philosophy that explores the conflict between humanity's search for meaning and the universe's indifference—a girl named Priya grinned: "I thought I was the only one who felt that way!" Her validation was a spark—a reminder that vulnerability could be a bridge, not a burden.   Step 2: Volunteering as a Shield Signing up to tutor first-year students gave me a role to hide behind. Focusing on their needs quieted my self-consciousness. Slowly, I learned to laugh at my own mistakes— “Sorry, I mixed up Kant and Kierkegaard... again!”—and discovered that humility, not perfection, built trust. Step 3: The Power of ‘And’ I adopted a mantra: “I’m anxious AND capable.” It wasn’t about erasing fear but acknowledging its coexistence with courage. When I confessed this to a classmate, they surprised me: “I use that too! My version is ‘I’m overwhelmed AND here.’”   The Shift: Connection as a Practice During a late-night study session, a classmate named Raj noticed me hovering at the edge of the group. “Hey, we’re ordering pizza. You in?” His casual invitation felt like a lifeline. Over slices, I learned he’d battled anxiety too. “I used to eat lunch in the library bathroom,” he admitted. His honesty dissolved my isolation—I wasn’t the only one faking confidence.     As I opened up, others reciprocated. A girl in my seminar shared how meditation helped her panic attacks; a senior confessed he’d nearly dropped out freshman year. Each story chipped away at my shame, revealing universality in what I’d thought was unique brokenness.   Lessons Learned: Science Meets Survival Research shows social rejection activates the same brain regions as physical pain. My anxiety wasn’t “dramatic”—it was a primal alarm system. Understanding this made a difference for me to reframe my responses as biological reactions, not personal failures. Mel Robbins’ 5-second rule (acting before overthinking) became my hack for attending events. Science supports this : interrupting rumination with action disrupts anxiety cycles. Smiling, even forced, tricks the brain into releasing dopamine. I started smiling at strangers on campus—a barista, a librarian—and their returned smiles became tiny doses of connection.   A Letter to My Former Self (And to You) Dear Anxious First-Year James, You think silence is safer, but it’s a slow suffocation. Those people you idolise for their ease? Many are just better at hiding their tremors. Courage isn’t the absence of fear; it’s the decision that connection matters more. To the reader clutching this article: Start small. Sit in a crowded café and read. Say “I’m new here” to one person. Your voice matters—even if it shakes.   From Survival to Thriving Today, I host a weekly study group in my dorm. It’s far from perfect—sometimes we debate Nietzsche, sometimes we rant about cafeteria food. But in those moments, I’m no longer an outsider. I’m part of a tapestry of imperfect, striving humans. Social anxiety didn’t vanish; it softened into a companion whispering, “This matters.” And in that space between fear and hope, I found my place. Connection begins with small gestures, such as a smile or a casual conversation | Image by Radik 2707 on Unsplash 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.

Photography has always been more than just a hobby for me—it has allowed me to process emotions, navigate difficult moments, and connect with the world around me. My name is Isabella; I’m a London based photographer and have been using photography as a creative outlet for as long as I can remember. I grew up in Italy, Ireland, and The Netherlands, which I believe also contributed to my obsession with photography, as it has been the only constant in my life. In this piece, I reflect on how photography has shaped my experiences, helping me slow down, observe, and find meaning in both the mundane and the extraordinary. Photography as Therapy The power of photography goes beyond aesthetics; it serves as a tool for emotional processing, a means of staying present, and a way to foster deeper connections with others. Whether through capturing everyday life, documenting challenging moments or sharing images with loved ones, photography has the ability to ground us in the present while preserving snapshots of the past. Photography is one of the few ways I can slow down, reflect, and focus. Various forms of photography have allowed me to process emotions and experiences. When I first picked up a camera, I had just moved to London and used street photography as a way to become more observant while exploring the city. As my style evolved, I grew captivated by photographing ordinary scenes—an interest that deepened during the Covid lockdown. Finding beauty in everyday objects and moments transformed my approach to each day. Rather than feeling trapped, I discovered countless ways to document my surroundings and create art from home. Another form of photography that helped me through difficult periods was self-portraits. The act of setting up a scene and placing myself in it provided the space I needed to reflect on my feelings. By becoming the subject of the image, I externalised my emotions, gaining a fresh perspective and feeling as though I were an observer of my own experience. Photo by isabellasarchive Photography in Difficult Moments In one instance, my partner fell ill during a trip abroad. I was extremely anxious, being in a new country, seeing him hospitalised, and spending nights alone in a hotel while waiting for him to be discharged. While visiting him in the hospital, I noticed details of the room: the monochrome interiors, the way the light softened in the late afternoon, and the sun setting through the curtain. Without thinking, I pulled out my camera and started documenting the scene. Focusing on these small visual elements made me feel like I was experiencing the room through my lens rather than being stuck in it. I was able to disconnect my emotions from my surroundings, and it felt like I was merely experiencing the room through the images, as if I were flicking through a photography book. This gave me the time and space to process my feelings and allowed me to think clearly. While my partner stayed in the hospital overnight, I stayed at a hotel alone. Being away from him, all I could think of was that the worst had happened, and my feelings of anxiety and stress returned. I once again turned to my camera as a way to process my emotions. A few days prior, I had created an "ice headband" to place on my partner’s head, as he had been bed-bound with a fever before being hospitalised. Remembering how the ice melted on his head, I decided to create self-portraits with the remaining ice. I balanced ice on my head, used the blue light from the freezer, and handheld my camera arm-length away from my face. The process grounded me, giving me something tangible I could control. Photo by isabellasarchive Photography as a Tool for Mindfulness, Especially While Traveling While traveling, it’s easy to be overwhelmed by all the new sights, experiences, and people you meet. It sometimes feels like you’re absorbing too much content to slow down and appreciate your surroundings. Photography has been a great way to deal with the overwhelming feeling of becoming out of touch with my surroundings while exploring a new place. This doesn’t only apply to flashy new destinations; it’s also helped me stay mindful on simple camping trips, where the slow, calm days blended together, and it felt like time was slipping away from me. During a camping trip, I began carrying my camera everywhere, even while walking from the tent to the bathrooms. By doing so, I became really aware of my surroundings: the sounds of the campsite, and how the sunlight shone through the tents at different times of the day. Having my camera with me made me excited to wake up at 6 a.m. to experience the misty campsite before anyone woke up, to listen to the sounds of birds singing, and to capture the morning dew on the grass. Photo by isabellasarchive Photography as a Way to Connect with Others Photography has become a way for me to show affection to those closest to me and document nostalgic moments. I tend to take photos of the people I’m closest to in a very unposed and natural way, aiming to fully capture their essence. Photographing family and friends offers a form of closeness that’s hard to capture through other means. It also gives me the chance to capture them in different settings, rather than relying on typical selfies or smile-filled group photos. I find beauty in capturing the quiet, ordinary moments—like the time my siblings cut each other’s nails or my friends brushed their teeth. Connecting with people through photos has also allowed me to control feelings of time passing quickly, and fears of losing people closest to me. Photography allows me to appreciate the small moments spent together and makes those interactions that much more special. Photo by isabellasarchive Photography has been my way of slowing down, processing emotions, and deepening my connections with the world around me. But more than anything, it has given me a way to be present: to truly see and appreciate the details of life that might otherwise pass me by. I encourage anyone reading this to explore photography or to find their own creative outlet, something that allows them to pause, reflect, and engage with their surroundings in a meaningful way. Whether it’s writing, painting, music, or even just journaling, having a medium for self-expression can be a powerful tool for mindfulness and emotional clarity. In a world that often moves too fast, creativity gives us permission to slow down and truly experience the moment. 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 article contains references to suicidal ideation. I remember my diagnosis; Bipolar Type 1 with Schizo-affective tendencies, and the initial wave of anger that came with it. I knew there was something but why did it have to be this one? Like the actual one thing I could die from, if I don’t keep on top of it? Ironically, dying was all I’d really wanted to do up to that point, or at least, as far as I could remember. It wasn’t that I hadn’t found a beam strong enough to support my weight yet—I was too worried I’d mess it up just like I’d messed up everything else in my life so far. The diagnosis came as a sharp wake-up call. I was going through a divorce, and I was not allowed to see my son as much as I’d like to, and part of all that was my fault. For so long, I’d struggled in silence—battling the voices in my head and all the intrusive thoughts that came with them. The moments where I would lock myself in my room, only to emerge 24 hours later, laden with bin bags and every piece of furniture rearranged, all the way to the moments where I would stare at the wall all night and couldn’t even muster the energy to care.   I thought these were just things that everyone experienced, and they were just so much more on top of things than I was. The anger I felt toward myself for my perceived inability to function like a “normal” person—the same anger that I had started to project outwards—suddenly had a target. Not something I could fight, but something that I could control and learn to work with. My mental health wasn’t my fault—just like it isn't for anyone else—but it was, and it still is, my responsibility. A responsibility that I then took semi-seriously. I tried to be a bit more upfront with my thoughts and the voices, but I was still embarrassed by them.   Then I had my first real episode—a complete Schizophrenic break. 'A moment of depersonalisation and de-realism', is what the Doctors called it. Image Source: Unsplash  I think it was the stress of the divorce, losing my job at a studio that I loved and then some past beliefs that weren’t congruent with my current life. Jokingly, my partner says she spoke with a demon that night —although I don’t remember that night at all. Whatever happened, the episode scared me enough to try harder and take my mental health much more seriously. I knew I had to be better for the people in my life, which meant forcing myself to be more open with my thoughts and feelings. At first, it was hard. It was so hard to change almost 30 years of learned behaviour and talk to my family about suicidal ideations and other things that no parent wants to hear from their child. I had to explain how I viewed the world and what every little piece of it meant to me so they could begin to understand my thought patterns.   My new partner has been a rock through all of this. I think witnessing someone go through a complete meltdown helps cement a bond—it’s almost like that friend you made at university after a particularly messy night. They have seen you at your worst, so you don’t feel the need to hide anything from them. I think that level of companionship truly helps that “us against the world” team dynamic.   Even now, 3 years later, my partner and I have our monthly meeting where we go out and act like shareholders in the business of our life. It’s almost a date—well, actually, it is a date—but it feels liberating to know that we’re both in a safe space to give and receive feedback, where any little niggle can be aired. Image Source: Unsplash Although my relationship helped, my biggest reason for growth was my son. My new partner would be fine if I didn’t sort myself out—yeah, she might get sick of me and leave, but she’d be fine. But my son needed me. I remember looking into his eyes one day when he was barely a year old and thinking, I need to make sure he isn’t here when I kill myself . I don’t want him finding the body….that’ll mess him up. As if having your dad kill himself while you’re at nursery would somehow avoid any trauma. Sometimes it’s hard to do something for yourself, even if that’s just making time, and it can feel selfish to put your wants before someone else’s. But my son became my audience. Everything was for him. Now nothing was selfish—everything was selfless. There were times I didn’t want to get up, and I couldn’t muster the strength for me, but I could for him. My son was 5 when I had my first big episode. I vividly remember him telling me how much it scared him—not because I was scary, but because he just couldn’t understand it. He asked about all the pills I was now taking, and I had to explain that I had a poorly brain, just like he might take medicine if he had a poorly tummy. We worked through it together. We’d talk about feelings and emotions, especially since he was at an age where he was beginning to struggle with his own thoughts and understanding of the world. Colossal things that seemed huge to him—like which girl in his class would be his girlfriend or whether Oreos or cookies were better. My diagnosis also came with a small blessing: I had to listen more and react less, which only served to bring us closer together. We introduced the idea of "spoons"—a way to explain when you just don’t have the energy to do things anymore. It might sound strange, but teaching him to understand my problems helped me realise what they were and how I could handle them. In the process, I also gained a deeper understanding of him. Maybe he was just being a grumpy 5-year-old, or maybe he, too, was out of spoons. It might sound sentimental and cliché, but breaking down and rebuilding myself made me a better person. I had a reason to face my challenges—my Son. Sure, there were times I didn’t want to do it. If I didn't want to do it for me , I could do it for him . Image Source: Unsplash Mental Health can often feel like an overwhelming burden, like drowning in an ocean. But really, it’s more like a fish tank someone left on your doorstep. You have to change the water every now and then, feed the fish, and make sure your cat doesn’t get into it. Sometimes, you don’t even have the energy to do one of those things. Sometimes, it might even spring a leak. But you don’t keep that tank clean for your sake—it’s for the fish.   And just like that fish tank, while it may feel overwhelming at times, you still have to take care of it—because ultimately, the responsibility lies with you , even if it's not something you asked for. Mental Health is never your fault …but it is your responsibility. 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.

I’m a reporter, journalist and producer for the biggest broadcaster in the world. It sounds impressive but what is it really like to work in a high pressured competitive cut throat news environment whilst being an ambitious workaholic who experiences imposter syndrome? I’ve worked in daily news, reacting to breaking news stories whilst running on pure adrenaline, as well as lengthy complicated legal investigations which can consume your mind for months, both are exhausting in their own way. But even more so, when faced with unstable future prospects and a whole queue of people ready to replace you.   Changes in the industry The media industry has dramatically shifted in the last 5 years, with job cuts being announced regularly across both the journalism and radio industry. At times, it can be hard to maintain some optimism for the future. With the rise in people listening to podcasts according to OFCOMs latest statistics , this shifts the industry, creating a tangible knock on effect on staff numbers, with many who have experience working in radio, making the transition to podcasts, but it is a competitive market. It is no surprise that many people I know have chosen to continue journalism almost as if a “side hobby” with more journalists taking on other part time work to support their income  or even pivoting their careers away from media altogether, to careers with a better working life balance, better stability, better pay and better positions, moving to areas like academia, public relations, property and teaching. But what is it like for those who stay? What is the mental health like of those who don’t have a permanent contract but jump from short term contract to the next unstable job opportunity, narrowly dodging unemployment each time? Or who relentlessly pitch ideas on email to not get a reply back? How does it affect their confidence and their work? As someone who’s never been on a permanent contract in the media industry, I have never felt the stability and security that kind of life offers. Those who jump from fixed term contract to the next, are on a hamster wheel of applications and have the continuous lingering fear of: where to next? With every unsuccessful job interview and with every rejected email, although I pick up my weary soul each time from the process, as if a phoenix rising from the ashes of resentment, I lose a piece of my heart for the industry.  Image by SEO Galaxy on UnSplash “It’s not heart surgery” With less jobs opportunities available coupled with less opportunities for work to be commissioned, alongside less stability but still pressure on wages, the combination of these factors can be a tense mix. For anyone working in the already competitive industry, the stakes are much higher. Will your idea top the podcast charts? Can your story gather millions of views? The nature of the work as a journalist is built on the importance of factually correct information, accuracy and attention to detail but what if human error pops up? What are the consequences for someone who can be easily replaced? I was once told by a commercial radio presenter, “Vicky, it’s not heart surgery” . I understand at the time he was trying to calm my nerves and imposter syndrome, that it doesn’t matter if there is a 10 second delay to press play on the next song, or if you have to fade out a song early to get to the news on time. They are only minor moments that won’t have catastrophic consequences – but since that conversation, the station was bought out by a major competitor and although not heart surgery, I have experienced the importance of every line and every word to be factually correct in programming, and believe me, it feels as stressful as a complex operation. Image by Nataliya Vaitkevich on Pexels Above and beyond With the pool of opportunities smaller, the stakes higher and the competition fiercer than ever before, it might come as no surprise that journalists will go to greater lengths to advance their career. I’m not talking about anything as scandalous as something that could end up on the plot of your favourite daytime TV show, no, I’m talking about the lengths that journalists will go to with the level and amount of work they put in, sacrificing other aspects of their life and to their own detriment. I spend my evenings applying for jobs, updating my website and creating content for my social media platforms. I’ve missed evening Spanish classes because of feeling exhausted from being on the road for work, too tired to attend gym classes or too busy stuck in the cycle of applications to watch the latest TV. Slowly but surely, the extra work I take on, the uncertainty about where I’ll be working in a few months’ time and the continuous pressure of having to perform well so I remain in the job, takes its toll. The impact of long term stress, causes you to be distressed. And so, my old friend burn out, rears its ugly head.   Image by Tara Winstead on Pexels My old friend, burn out The feeling of burnout starts at first as if an intruder in the night, creeping into your house, tiptoeing around your belongings, trying to avoid too much of a disturbance, but it ends with your entire life turned upside down. At first, the skipping of lunch breaks to catch up or staying an hour late here or there to hit a deadline doesn’t make a difference, but the compounding extra work that you put in just to pitch more stories to other outlets, to apply for jobs or to advance your career slowly starts to take its toll. The weariness sets in, followed by the headaches, the muscle aches, the exhaustion, and then the anxiety, the catastrophizing and finally, the overthinking. Was that email too informal? Why did I put so much chilli in my carrot soup? Am I even good enough to be here? The alarm goes off in the morning yet last night’s 12 hour sleep doesn’t make a dent on how exhausted you are, your stomach feels like an empty pit of hunger which can’t satisfy you, and you double up each tea you consume with two tea bags. You cling to the cups of caffeine as if it’s your antidote, your elixir to this zombie like slumber that you live your life. You’ll tell yourself to have a restful evening tonight and the next night and hopefully the symptoms will disappear… for a while. One thing I always try to do when I know I’m approaching the edge of burn out is sleep and eat as much as my body needs to feel functional again. When I speak with friends and family, they support me, reminding me that my health matters most and deadlines and applications, will have to wait. I feel like much of my career I am constantly battling burn out – first with freelance life, now with fixed term contracts, only resting when absolutely necessary, treading across the fine line between both worlds carefully as I continue to apply for more work, pitch more ideas or push myself to advance my career. Its emotionally, mentally and physically  draining and as another of my fixed term contracts is due to finish in a few months, I ask myself, is the industry the problem or am I the problem? Should I continue to pour my heart and my soul into an industry that doesn’t love me back? 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.

Photo by Alex Pasarely on Unsplash When I started a relationship in my first year of university, I didn’t know it would unlock a journey of pain, growth, motherhood, bitterness, and healing. I was an excited 17-year-old filled with wonder, naivety, and curiosity, believing the world could align based on the prayers and wishes I put out into the universe. One of these was to fall in love with a boy who’d eventually become my forever person. And everything was going well—I met a boy who was also looking for his forever person. On the surface, we wanted similar things. But our methods were like day and night. Mine were passionate; his were distant. The enthusiastic dates turned into broken promises, and the nights we spent sharing sweet nothings turned into nights of longing, at least on my part. And before long, all we had between us were scattered encounters of passion, one of which turned into a child and a key turning point in our lives. I knew I was pregnant on my 19th birthday. At first, I didn’t believe it. However, test after test confirmed it - I was indeed pregnant. He wanted an abortion as soon as he learned of the news. For him, this must have been the point he checked out of parenting. He was no longer interested in me; I suddenly lived too far, my visits interrupted time with his friends, and my phone calls were now bothersome. Behind the unanswered phone calls and ignored messages, I was changing. I was learning to juggle school, pregnancy, and work. Suddenly, I was setting goals and pursuing them because my life and well-being depended on them. I was learning to shift my perspective of love from the butterfly-inducing fairy tale version the movies sell us, to the intentional work it takes to love another. Although I didn’t know it then, my refusal to have an abortion was the first intentional choice I made in love. At the time, it was made from religious conviction, but below the surface, it was also an act of choosing myself - deciding to believe in my ability to care for a child, regardless of the outcome. Luckily for me, it was an easy pregnancy and birth. The first few years of the child’s life were also not too difficult. Of course, there were a few sleepless nights, some sick days, and exhaustion. But what plagued me the most for a significant part of my parenting years was the father’s constant refusal to participate in his child’s upbringing, not as my partner, but as the child’s father. It’s one thing to deal with being rejected, but it's another to deal with your child being rejected by their parent. It keeps you up at night longer than a colicky baby; it’s a puzzle with no pieces that seem to fit each other, and it turns you bitter. It makes you jealous when you see other children accompanied by their fathers. It makes you angry every time someone asks about your child’s father. It wears you down when you turn inwards and wonder whether you might be the reason why the dad wants nothing to do with your child. You replay the film of your relationship: the promises, the days of imagining a future together, the night you agreed on the number of children you wanted... Sometimes, you’ll look at your child and see him – in his smile, the way he crosses his legs, or the shape of his head. But you don’t hate these things, so how could he not at least love the half he gave this child? What do you do when you finally realise that he has no intention of parenting his child? That it's not the shock of an unplanned pregnancy holding him back, nor financial struggles keeping him from helping you out? How do you accept that you are now the “bitter single mother” – the one who’s allegedly to blame for the high number of incarcerated men, the rising rates of poverty, and the increase in infidelity rates among married couples? Photo by Felicia Buitenwerf on Unsplash It took me years of reading, self-reflection, journaling, venting, reframing, and radical acceptance. It was accepting to see things as they were, not as I’d wish they were. It was looking at myself, giving myself credit, and taking accountability for not knowing or doing better. It was realising that, even if I could go back, I would probably make the same choices I did back then. Most importantly, it led me to put the blame where it rightfully belongs. I no longer burden myself with my child’s father's absence in his life, and I do not seek to take up the role of a father. Whenever questions come up about his parentage, I give genuine and age-appropriate answers. My answers are neither laced with blame nor anger, nor do they make the child feel responsible for his absent father. I have a lot to figure out. There are questions I still don’t know how to respond to, but parenting has taught me to cross every bridge when I get there, to find the resources I need to work through every stage, and above all, to drop the shame associated with being a teenage mom or a single mother. It has been a long journey, but it has taught me that I could not have been chosen to be the mother of a boy if I did not have the resources, emotional capability, and maturity to raise him into a responsible adult. It has taught me to take responsibility for my actions and dreams. I have learned to see my son as a manifestation of myself and an independent human being with thoughts, opinions, and dreams different from mine. Beyond motherhood, my experience has shown me that life might not work out as you anticipated: people will come and go, relationships will fail, you will need support from people you know and others you don’t. Some nights are harder than others, but eventually, the dawn breaks. Most importantly, I have learned that love is a choice; one that shows up, stays intentional, seeks good, pursues growth, remains sure, stays consistent, and weathers every storm. 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.