My name is Louise, and I am a student at King’s College London, studying an MSc in Psychology & Neuroscience of the Mind-Body Interface – a course I was drawn to precisely because of the journey you are about to read. Years of navigating a body that was misunderstood by the medical system, and inevitably missed by me, sparked a deep curiosity about the relationship between the physical and psychological experience. I now have the privilege to study that relationship formally, because I believe that science and lived experience should inform one another. Image Source: gryffyn m on Pexels I was in my early teens when my body began raising alarms – over and over again – alarms no one else could hear. My heart would pound, my vision would dim, and the constant fatigue would ensure that I lay in my bed, as standing upright felt like an endurance test rather than a neutral position. I did not feel anxious before these episodes began. Fear came later and remained, purely as a response to what my body was doing, not as a direct cause of it. Still, the explanation offered to me was always the same: anxiety. Knowing It Wasn’t Psychological in Origin Years passed, and I reached early adulthood. This was the time when I began to look for answers independently. What I experienced didn’t align with what I understood and knew anxiety to be, with these episodes occurring even when I was calm, distracted, or simply standing still. There was no catastrophic thought or emotional trigger – just a sudden and overwhelming physiological shift. Image Source: Andrea Piacquadio on Pexels I began researching my symptoms because I trusted my own intuition and, most importantly, my own body. I listened to my body well enough to recognise that something physiological, not psychological, was faulty. That research led me to a term that finally described my reality: Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome (POTS), the most common form of dysautonomia (a group of disorders characterized by dysfunction of the autonomic nervous system, which controls involuntary functions like heart rate, blood pressure, digestion, and temperature) . The listed symptoms were all too familiar. The tachycardia (increased heart rate) and palpitations upon standing, dizziness, tremors, nausea, and near-syncope (a sensation one is about to fainting). For the first time my symptoms made sense. I was now faced with an important yet difficult task: self-advocacy. The Missing Link: A Connective Tissue Disorder In my early twenties, it was discovered, again through self-advocacy, that the autonomic dysfunction I had been experiencing was secondary to a connective tissue disorder: Hypermobile Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome (hEDS). (Connective tissue disorders are conditions that cause inflammation or weakness in the body’s structural tissues—such as skin, joints, bones, and fat). Ehlers-Danlos syndrome (EDS) is not a single condition. There are 13 recognised subtypes of EDS, each with distinct genetic causes and presentation. These range from the Classical type, which is associated with skin fragility and abnormal scarring, to the rarer Vascular type, which carries the risk of arterial rupture. The most common subtype – and the one that affects me is hEDS, which currently has no confirmed genetic marker. This diagnostic complexity is one reason the condition is so frequently missed or dismissed. EDS affects the body’s connective tissue, tissue that is found all over the body – a structural framework that supports blood vessels, joints, and organs. When that framework is “floppy” or unstable, circulation becomes inefficient – leading to blood pooling in the lower extremities, depriving the brain of oxygen. Thus, the autonomic nervous system is forced to compensate. In my body, that compensation looked like tachycardia, dizziness, a sense of impending doom, followed by pre-syncope. Not panic. Not imagination. But a nervous system struggling to regulate itself. Stress As An Amplifier, Not A Cause Stress and emotional upset do worsen my symptoms. That overlap is real, but it remains consistently misunderstood. Stress did not directly cause my condition. It amplified a nervous system that was already dysregulated. When the autonomic nervous system is compromised, it cannot differentiate between emotional and physical stressors – they activate the same pathways. This does not make the symptoms psychological – it makes them physiological responses to overload. Dismissed When Evidence Was Visible One of the most defining moments in my journey happened in A&E / Emergency Room. I presented with a heart rate of 185 beats per minute, a symptom measurable, visible and very scary. My heart rate was monitored for around three hours. Yet, instead of being further investigated, I was encouraged to speak to the mental health team. Image Source: Anna Shvets on Pexels I knew, with absolute clarity, that this would not help. Not because mental health care lacks value – but because my distress was not rooted in thought patterns or emotional dysregulation. It was rooted in circulation, posture, and an inadequate autonomic nervous system. The dismissal of my symptoms felt like it was easier to attribute them to mental health, than to understand. Reclaiming Trust in My Body Understanding the link between Ehlers-Danlos syndrome and autonomic dysfunction didn’t cure me—but it gave me back something vital: trust. I stopped seeing my body as dramatic or irrational. I learned that the alarms were not false because I was weak, but because the systems meant to regulate me were compromised. Knowledge didn’t erase my symptoms. But it replaced shame with context and gave me clarity to address my symptoms with medication and conservative practices – targeting physiology through increased fluid intake, compression wear, and heart rate monitoring. A Call for Integration, Not Assumption Mental health matters. But it should never be used as a shortcut when physical explanations are complex, overlapping, or poorly understood. We need healthcare that integrates mind and body without collapsing one into the other. We need more clinicians who listen when patients say, “This doesn’t feel like anxiety.” And we need space for lived experience to be treated as evidence, not an inconvenience. Because sometimes the alarm isn’t warning us about imagined danger. Sometimes it’s telling us that the system designed to keep us upright and safe is malfunctioning—and this deserves to be taken seriously. I am still learning — both about my conditions and about the science behind them. But I no longer need a clinician to validate what I know about my own body. If any part of this resonates with you, I hope it gives you the same permission it took me years to give myself: to trust the alarm.

The Vitruvian Man, Leonardo’s Study of the Human Body and a Portrait of Leonardo Attributed to Francesco Melzi. On 15th April, we celebrate the birthday and legacy of Leonardo da Vinci, a true Renaissance master whose boundless curiosity bridged art, science, and invention. With an extraordinary talent for observation, he redefined creativity, leaving a timeless imprint as both an artist and a scientist, inspiring generations to come. In his research projects he showed us that creativity is born from infinite curiosity, from observing the world closely, and from being a good friend of time, knowing that great art and scientific projects unfold over long periods of research. Leonardo da Vinci left the world incomparable treasures: his scientific manuscripts, with an estimated 13,000 pages of study, and masterpieces, which shine in museums around the world. He was both a visionary scientist and an immortal artist, uniting the rigour of investigation with timeless beauty. To honour his immense legacy on the day of his birthday, we reflect on the power of his creativity as both a scientist and artist, where his process of creation reached its fullest expression. But before that, allow me to briefly introduce myself. I am a psychologist and visual artist, currently researching the intersection between art, music, and neuroscience in the Mind-Body Interface MSc at King’s College London. Over the past 21 years, I have developed a pedagogical and therapeutic method in which the artistic dimension is grounded in his legacy, where the union of art and science stands as its foundational pillar. For me, offering this tribute holds profound meaning, as his legacy continues to illuminate both my creative path as an artist and my mission as a psychologist and researcher. Today, I bring a reflection on this great genius, drawing on the rich and timeless timeline presented by the Leonardo da Vinci Museum in Florence, where his creations as both artist and scientist are beautifully mapped. I also incorporate insights from Leonardo da Vinci’s Contributions to Neuroscience, an article conducted by neuroscientist Jonathan Pevsner, who explores da Vinci’s impact on the field. I invite you all to explore these links and join me on this journey of discovery. On 15th April, 1452, a brilliant mind was born; one that would refuse to choose between art and science. Leonardo da Vinci did not see disciplines, he saw possibilities. For him, creativity was not an expression; it was a way of understanding the world. To look at Leonardo is to encounter a mind in motion. He painted, but painting was never just painting. It was an inquiry into light, into anatomy, into emotion, into the invisible mechanisms that shape what we see and feel. Every brushstroke carried research. The body in his canvases were never separate from his relentless investigations of the human design. The same hand that painted the softness of a smile dissected the structures beneath the skin. The same eye that captured light on a face sought to understand how light enters the eye and becomes perception. In Leonardo, observation became a form of creative devotion. The Lady with an Ermine by Leonardo, around 1489 and his Study of The Cardiovascular System and Principal Organs of a Woman, 1509-10. But what makes his legacy extraordinary is not only what he discovered, it is how he thought. Leonardo’s creativity was restless, almost urgent. It did not accept limits, nor did it wait for permission. Instead, it invented its own paths. When faced with the mystery of the brain, he did not simply observe, he imagined new ways to see it. His famous experiment of injecting hot wax into the brain of an ox to reveal the shape of its inner structures was not just a scientific act; it was an act of creative courage. Leonardo da Vinci was a pioneer in neuroanatomy, detailing the cerebral ventricles and exploring the connection between the senses, movement, and perception. At the same time, his illustrations of the brain revealed the artist within each stroke, merging scientific precision with creative expression. The study of his manuscripts shows how, as both artist and scientist, he opened pathways to modern understanding of the brain. His contribution to neuroscience exemplifies this fusion of creative vision and rigour. The Brain by Leonardo from The Anatomical Drawings 1508-9. His studies of vision, for instance, were driven by both artistic fascination and scientific curiosity. He analysed how light enters the eye, how images are formed, and how perception emerges: questions that remain central to neuroscience today. His ability to translate visual experience into both artistic technique and scientific theory demonstrates a rare cognitive flexibility, where creativity becomes the medium through which knowledge is constructed. In this way, we get a glimpse into something essential: Leonardo’s art creativity was not separate from his science – it was the engine of it. Ultimately, Leonardo da Vinci embodies a model of innovation that is deeply relevant today. In an era where people focus on specialising in only one field, his work reminds us that true breakthroughs often arise from the integration of different perspectives and fields. Creativity, in this sense, is not merely about producing something new, but rather about seeing differently, connecting ideas, and inventing methods that did not previously exist. If you’re curious to know where Leonardo’s manuscripts are kept, and to have easy access to study and appreciate them, here is a roadmap to these precious treasures: The Codex Atlanticus in Milan, the largest collection of his drawings, spans multiple disciplines; The Madrid Codices in Spain focus on mechanics and engineering; The Arundel Codex in the British Library delves into mathematics, physics, and architecture; The Anatomical Drawings are safeguarded in the Royal Collection at Windsor; and The Codex Leicester, now privately owned but often exhibited, reflects his insights into water, astronomy, and geology. I encourage you to take a look, as each manuscript reveals a unique facet of the master’s mind, especially if you are eager to witness the scientist, the artist, and the genius within. In exploring his manuscripts, one can’t help but ask: Do you know why the Mona Lisa is Leonardo da Vinci’s most famous masterpiece? Mona Lisa was a commissioned artwork that he refused to hand over, becoming his most important scientific project that accompanied the master genius for much of his life. His lifelong project, it was with him when he died. With it, he explored vision and perception. The gaze that seems to follow you is an optical illusion, stemming from how we process her eyes. Through this fusion of art and science, he dedicated his life to studying vision and the nature of the gaze. But above all, Mona Lisa did not just accompany him, she watched him, and he, in turn, watched her back. Their exchange of looks witnessed every creative step, shaping the immense legacy we know today. That is why she remains his ultimate, most iconic masterpiece. Leonardo da Vinci, Portrait of Lisa Gherardini, Wife of Francesco del Giocondo, known as the Mona Lisa. Leonardo da Vinci exemplified a prodigious creativity, seamlessly intertwining art and science with a rare ease. He was a master at uniting two dimensions of human thought, being simultaneously an artist and a scientist. This brilliant fusion showed us that these fields not only coexist but strengthen one another. He opened doors we still walk through today, showing that the union of art and science not only illuminates the past but guides us toward the future. In a world that fears being constrained by emerging technologies, he reminds us that human creativity, nurtured by this fusion, is our greatest transformative force. I hope you have been moved by this exploration of Leonardo da Vinci’s legacy, witnessing how his boundless creativity, as both scientist and artist, continues to ignite our imaginations. His genius, transcending time, remains a living flame, sparking in us the courage to create, and to pursue bold, innovative paths of discovery. May his spirit of invention forever awaken our own creative potential.

I used to love Love Island. I remember discovering it at season two, and binge-watched the whole of series one just so that I was caught up on all of the gossip and the drama. I understand why people love the show — it’s a distraction from real life. Beautiful people lining up opposite other beautiful people to pick and choose who they fancy the most. We sit and stare at our screens as the drama unfolds each night at 9pm, an escape from the realities we are living. Especially during the pandemic, Love Island is a reminder of what life was like before the devastation; it brings some normality back. It’s something that the nation has grown used to — influencers in the making getting ready for their brand deals and their very own clothing lines. But I’m boycotting Love Island this year — and every year afterwards. And here’s why. In 2020, Caroline Flack tragically died by suicide. Before her death, the internet had been filled with hatred and trolling, but afterwards, everyone was preaching to ‘be kind’ in her memory. But when Love Island is on, people forget to be kind. I have already seen countless comments on social media sites like Twitter, commenting on the Islanders’ looks, mannerisms, relationships, and attitudes. Of course, the dealbreaker is that if people are going to put themselves on a show like this, they should expect criticism — but when does criticism turn into cyberbullying? Every year since Caroline’s death, when Love Island comes on, we are reminded of the Be Kind movement; but it seems that the message is lost as soon as the ‘previously on’ introduction comes on. Suddenly the Islanders are there to comment personally on. And I just can’t get behind it. Of course, this is a small section of the internet, but it’s still there, online, for the Islanders to read as soon as they’re off-screen and leave their luxurious villa to re-enter the real world. And let’s face it, many Islanders are probably going to name-search themselves to see what has been said about them. Photo by Ryunosuke Kikuno on Unsplash There has also been speculation as to how well the Islanders are assessed when it comes to their mental health, and whether they’re mentally healthy enough to take on the challenge to win the show. This has recently come into question when some Islanders got incredibly upset when the show revealed what had been said about them online. People are also questioning the mental health of the Islanders when it comes to how immediately invested some Islanders become in their relationships with other Islanders in just days. It’s not just this — but how we see Love Islanders react to other people entering the show. They compare themselves and immediately feel threatened and self-conscious when new beautiful people walk into the villa. It’s not healthy to feel that way towards people you barely know. It raises questions as to whether the show is picking up vulnerable people who struggle with insecurities and how they feel about themselves. And is this right to be on national TV when you aren’t confident in yourself, and when you can’t realise when people are treating you badly? I get it. Love Island has become almost a ritualistic watch; the same stuff going down every year, but we just can’t get enough of it. But ultimately, this always leads to cruel comments, laughs at peoples’ expense, and in worst cases, abuse. And this is why I’m cutting the show out of my life from now on. Not because I don’t enjoy the drama, the onscreen relationships, or the beautiful people — but because I don’t want to become absorbed in the lives of people who are potentially not well in themselves. When Caroline Flack died, we preached Be Kind constantly — it was everywhere. But it seems that every year Love Island comes on, people forget how to do that. It’s a vicious cycle of simple meanness. I’m not criticising anyone who watches and loves the show. I do, too. But for me, it’s time to turn over my TV when the Love Island theme comes on each evening.

Image ©  Yukiyasu Kaneko Have you ever thought about sound in the spaces you love to spend time in? When we talk about what makes a place great, we usually focus on how it looks. We notice the lighting, the materials, the layout. We might even comment on how it smells or feels to the touch. But we rarely think about how a space sounds, even though sound shapes our experience the moment we walk through the door. I started noticing this during an evening at a small Japanese bar in Hackney, London. From the outside, it's easy to miss. Just another modest spot on a quiet residential street. Inside, it's small. You sit elbow-to-elbow with strangers at the bar, and every few minutes the train rumbles overhead with a low constant hum. But somehow, it all works. Even when the place fills up, with candles flickering and people chatting all around, I can still hear the person next to me clearly without raising my voice. Glasses clink, plates move through the room, music hums softly in the background but nothing feels overwhelming. The space buzzes with life without exhausting you. Compare that to most pubs or bars in London. Hard floors, low ceilings, sound bouncing off every surface. Within an hour, everyone is shouting just to be heard. By the time you leave, you're mentally drained. I could stay at this bar for hours. Sound settled into the space rather than colliding. My background as an architect taught me to pay attention to how spaces look and feel. But sitting there, I realised sound only matters when the brief demands it. Galleries, theatres, concert halls. Everywhere else, it's often forgotten.   The forgotten sound Architecture has long privileged the visual. Buildings are drawn, rendered, photographed and published as images, while sound is far harder to capture or communicate. Light and material can be diagrammed, but sound rarely makes it onto the page and is often left out of the design process. When sound does come up in design conversations, it's usually treated as a problem to solve -something about insulation requirements, noise complaints or compliance standards. Rarely do we ask the more interesting question: how does sound make people feel and how does it change the way we behave in a space? Irish architect Michelle Delea speaks directly to this imbalance. She argues that acoustic design often gets treated as a luxury, something added at the end if there's budget left. But sound fundamentally affects how people use space. It determines whether conversations flow, whether we can concentrate and whether we want to stay or leave. Architects confidently work with invisible elements like light, air, and temperature, but many still hesitate when it comes to sound because it feels unpredictable. For the 2025 Architecture Biennale, Delea created  Assembly for the Irish Pavilion , a project that puts sound front and centre. Working with musicians and sound artists, she designed a space that deliberately reduces visual stimulation. Instead of demanding attention, it offers room to sit, talk and breathe. Sound isn't an afterthought. It's the core experience. The moment we enclose a space, we shape the air sound moves through. Whether we acknowledge it or not, we design sound every time we design space.   Buildings that listen Once you start paying attention, it becomes clear that sound is never neutral in architecture. Some buildings simply make this more apparent, using sound deliberately to shape how we move, pause and feel within a space. Kolumba Museum, Cologne, Germany           Tate Modern Turn Hall, London, UK          Jewish Museum Berlin, Germany | Image   © Rasmus Hjortshøj   | Image © Rikard Osterlund                                | Image © Denis Esakov   Peter Zumthor’s Kolumba Museum in Cologne is not silent, but sound moves through it gently. Footsteps soften, voices do not travel far, and the combination of brick, plaster, and wood absorbs just enough sound to slow you down. The building encourages attentiveness without enforcing silence. Tate Modern in London takes a different approach, allowing sound to shift as you move through the building. In the vast Turbine Hall, footsteps echo loudly, amplifying the sense of scale. Upstairs, in the galleries, sound tightens and becomes more intimate. Without instructions or signs, the architecture guides behaviour through acoustics alone. In the Jewish Museum Berlin, Daniel Libeskind uses sound to create discomfort rather than calm. In the empty voids, footsteps echo sharply off hard surfaces and silence feels heavy. Sound becomes part of the emotional experience, expressing absence, loss, and memory.   Denge, Kent, UK  | Image © Tom Lee      The Whispering Gallery, London, UK  | Image © Femtoquake     Sound-aware architecture extends beyond museums. On the UK coast near Dungeness, the Denge Sound Mirrors are massive concrete listening structures shaped to capture and focus distant sound waves, showing how form alone can manipulate acoustics. At St Paul’s Cathedral, the Whispering Gallery offers a more familiar example. Its dome was shaped so that sound travels along the curved surface rather than dispersing into the space below. The smooth, continuous geometry reflects sound sideways around the gallery, allowing even a softly spoken voice to carry clearly across the room, an intuitive understanding of acoustics long before modern engineering tools existed. In each case, sound was not treated as a problem to control, but as a quality embedded in the architecture itself.   Back to the bar This brings me back to that small bar in Hackney. It is not architecturally iconic, and there are no obvious acoustic interventions. The space simply doesn't fight sound. The ceiling gives noise somewhere to rise and disperse. Low seating keeps conversation intimate. Music, voices and background activity blend into a steady hum rather than competing for attention. Whether carefully designed or simply well judged, the space offers acoustic ease that many larger and louder places lack. It reminded me that comfortable sound isn't about eliminating noise. It's about letting it move well.   Learning to listen If architecture is meant to shape how we live, work and spend time together, it cannot afford to keep ignoring sound. A space can look beautiful and still feel exhausting if it sounds wrong. The places we return to often succeed not because they are quiet but because they let us hear without effort. Good sound design does not demand perfection. It simply asks for attention. Maybe architecture does not need to get quieter. Maybe it just needs to learn how to listen.

A Lived Experience piece written for World Parkinson’s Day Image Source: Hoi An and Da Nang on Unsplash The last time I saw my grandfather, he didn't look like himself. Or maybe, he looked like a version of himself I hadn't been given enough time to get used to. That's the strange tax of distance. He lived in Bangalore, and I grew up in Texas, which meant I didn't watch his Parkinson's disease progress the way my cousins did: steadily, incrementally, in the daily way that allows you to adjust. I saw him in intervals. Years apart, sometimes. And so each visit handed me a new before-and-after, a sudden reckoning instead of a gentle slope. The disease didn't announce itself slowly to me. It arrived in leaps. At the time, I couldn’t make sense of what I was seeing. I just knew something had shifted within him, and I didn't know by how much. My grandfather was a quiet man in the way that truly intelligent people sometimes are, not because they have nothing to say, but because they're selective about it. He didn't fill rooms with noise. He filled them with presence. He worked through crossword puzzles with the focused patience of someone who trusted that the right word would come, given enough thought. There was something deeply characteristic about that, the belief that careful attention rewards you. He raised three daughters in a time and place that didn't especially encourage women to be loud, ambitious, or certain of themselves. And yet that is exactly what he produced. My mother and her sisters are fearless. They are unwavering. They walked into the world like they had every right to take up space in it. His belief in them was so complete, it never required a word. Image Source: Robina Weermeijer on Unsplash I now know what Parkinson's disease does. I work in neurodegeneration research, so I have the vocabulary for it, the technical terms, the mechanisms, the pathways. But stripped of all that, what it comes down to is this: the brain gradually loses its ability to speak fluently to the body. Deep within the brain, the cells responsible for producing dopamine, the chemical messenger that keeps movement smooth and coordinated, begin to die. And as they go, the signals that tell your body how to move become unreliable, then absent. A hand trembles. A foot drags. Getting up from a chair becomes a negotiation. The face stills, losing small expressions. Sleep fractures. The voice drops to something quieter than it used to be. And eventually, the disease reaches further than the motor system, further than the body: into thought, into memory, into the person themselves. Parkinson’s Disease is the second most common neurodegenerative disease in the world, affecting more than ten million people. And yet there is still no treatment that slows it. What we do have are therapies that manage symptoms. The most established is Levodopa, a medication that has been the cornerstone of treatment for decades. Because the brain can no longer produce enough dopamine on its own, Levodopa steps in as a precursor: the body converts it into dopamine, restoring some of the chemical signal that movement depends on. It doesn't fix what is broken, but for many people it buys years of steadiness, of recognisable life. For others, when medication alone isn't enough, there is deep brain stimulation, a surgical procedure in which small electrodes are implanted in the brain and connected to a device, a little like a pacemaker, that delivers carefully calibrated electrical pulses. For the right patients it can meaningfully reduce tremor and restore a degree of control. Then there is the subtler, daily work: physiotherapy to keep the body moving, speech therapy to preserve the voice. None of it stops the disease. Researchers are closing in on earlier detection, on understanding the role of genetics and environment, on targets that might one day change the disease's course rather than just soften it. But we are not there yet. Tomorrow, April 11th, is World Parkinson's Day named for James Parkinson, who first described the condition in 1817. Over two hundred years later, we are still looking for a cure. But the field is shifting, and one of the most promising frontiers is early detection. There is a consensus that Parkinson's doesn't begin the day the tremor appears, but years, possibly decades, before. The earliest signs are easy to miss or explain away: a slight shake in a hand at rest, handwriting that has quietly shrunk, a sense of smell that has dulled without obvious cause. Trouble sleeping (particularly acting out dreams during deep sleep), stiffness that doesn't ease with movement, and a voice that has grown softer than it used to be can all precede a formal diagnosis by a long time. Individually, these changes seem unremarkable. Together, they can be the first language of the disease. Awareness matters because the earlier Parkinson's is identified, the more options there are: for managing symptoms, for planning, for buying time while research catches up. We are not there yet with a cure. But we are, slowly, learning to read the signs before the damage is too far along to ignore. Image Source: Parsa on Unsplash The cruel irony is that I understand what happened to my grandfather far better now than I did while it was happening. I came to this field after he was gone. The knowledge arrived too late to be anything other than a way of honouring him. There is a particular grief in watching a mind like his, orderly, curious, steady, become unreliable. The crosswords must have become harder first. Then harder still. The man who raised three daughters to be unafraid became someone who needed help with the things he'd always done quietly and alone. Science gave me a framework that now allows me to understand what was happening to him. What I think about most now is my mother. I can’t imagine what it felt like to watch a parent become unrecognisable. Not because they have left, but because the person you built yourself against, the person whose certainty helped form your own sense of self, is no longer quite there to confirm what you remember. You begin to grieve someone who is still alive. There is no clean word for that. My grandfather made my mother who she is. And she had to watch, up close and over the years, as the disease quietly renegotiated who he was. I wonder if I landed in the neurodegeneration space subconsciously because of him. I don't say that to make it redemptive. Grief doesn't work that way, and neither does science. But something happens when the abstract becomes personal. The disease is no longer just a mechanism. It has a face. It’s a man who did crosswords in the early morning, who never needed to say out loud that he was proud of his daughters, because they already knew. The research I do now is not just intellectual work. It is also, in some quieter register, a conversation I'm still trying to have with my grandfather. 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.

Image Source: SHVETS production on Pexels I’ve grappled with an eating disorder for most of my life. As a millennial, I grew up in a skinny-centric culture and watched shows like America’s Next Top Model, where aspiring models were berated for being anything more than size 0. And I berated myself for every pound I gained or failed to lose. In my 30s, I stand on the scale every day. On many days, I do it multiple times.   Like other millennials, I grew up watching cycle after cycle of Tyra Banks chastising young women, calling size 6s “plus size” and encouraging them to curb their eating. Like many other teenagers, I internalised her critique. Always considered thin by most standards, I began a lifelong battle with food before America’s Next Top Model (ANTM) premiered in 2003. I first applied the word “fat” to myself while looking down at my slightly rounded belly in the shower. I was eight. But I still didn’t translate that into dieting or avoiding the things I wanted to eat.   The mean girls in middle school were thin across the board. I sat on the outskirts of the social sphere, with no friends at my school. Isolated and lonely, I began altering my eating without even realising it. Instead of eating lunch in the bathroom to avoid the cafeteria, I stopped eating lunch altogether. I was 12. I was never overweight or even chubby. However, when I cut back on calories, I began paying closer attention to what I was eating and what I wasn’t. I counted calories. I weighed my food. And I became very skinny. ANTM Enters a Fatphobic Landscape At a time when research showed that mass media “promulgate a slender ideal that elicits body dissatisfaction,” ANTM premiered. The modelling competition reality show was created and executive-produced by supermodel Tyra Banks, who also served as the face of the series. Banks claimed that with ANTM, she wanted to champion diversity, including different body types. Yet the show still glorified extreme, unhealthy thinness, even conducting weigh-ins of the models on camera and in front of the other contestants.   This was the peak of my own eating disorder. At age 14, I binged ANTM like I binged food, watching cycle after cycle well into my early 20s. I watched it as I attempted to stop scrutinising my body, gorged on cheesecake and nachos at the campus dining hall, then shed the pounds after a difficult breakup, then regained the weight, then dieted back down, and so on. Just as the show went through cycles, so did my body.   Tyra Banks stayed on screen, calling size 6 models plus-size or, most cringe-inducingly, “fiercely real.” Meanwhile, she gave the “regular” models—those who weren’t considered plus-size—her version of tough love, critiquing their eating and minimal weight gain. Keenyah Hill (Cycle 4) was portrayed as a contestant who couldn’t control her eating. The camera would pan to her barely-there stomach, showing it jiggle ever so slightly in slow motion. In one episode, the contestants modelled as the seven deadly sins. Hill was assigned gluttony and lounged around, holding a doughnut. The panel critiqued her weight gain, with Janice Dickinson, who was a judge on the show, calling her look “piggy chic.”   Throughout the cycles, contestants occasionally faced criticism and were dismissed for being too thin. Anamaria Mirdita (Cycle 15), for example, was eliminated for supposedly being a poor example for others. While this may seem like Banks and her fellow judges were promoting healthier eating and a more positive image, the true message was likely more damning: there is an extremely narrow ideal of the perfect body. If your weight is too low, you’re a bad role model for other women. If it’s too high, you’re grotesque. Balance is an impossible standard to achieve. Image Source: Rosalind Chang on Pexels A “Reality Check” on the Culture of Extreme Thinness A recent study finds that 9% of the population, about 30 million Americans , will have an eating disorder during their lives. Mine has been a lifelong battle. At age 30, I suffered through a traumatic, long-distance situationship and lost every pound I had slowly gained in my mid-late 20s and then some. My face looked gaunt. Clothes hung off me. I didn’t look good. I hadn’t weighed myself more than once or twice a week in years. But now that I was “thin” again, I began weighing myself two, three, even four times per day.   Although ANTM ended its 24-cycle run in 2018, thin would never not be in style. GLP-1 agonists, originally used to treat diabetes, are now mainstream and prescribed to patients for weight loss. The side effects can range from annoying (diarrhoea and nausea) to bad (“Ozempic face,” giving patients a sunken look) to life-threatening (kidney failure, pancreatitis, and gallbladder disease). People at healthy weights may be eligible for the drug—again, promoting a culture of unhealthy obsession with thinness. I see ads peppered across Instagram and Facebook saying size 4s can take it. And I always take a second look.   “We have to recognise that society has brainwashed us all to certain beauty standards that are not always in alignment with health standards,” Dr Andrew Kraftson, a clinical associate professor at the University of Michigan Medical School, told The New York Times . “Just because someone can starve themselves to get down to a lower weight doesn’t mean that we should make that easier by giving them an injection to promote anorexia.”   In this landscape, Netflix released Reality Check: Inside America’s Next Top Model. The three-part docuseries is a reckoning of sorts. Banks makes empty and backhanded apologies, such as failing to call Hill by name, instead saying, “Boo Boo. I am so sorry.” Among other truly horrifying toxic actions, from filming a woman’s sexual assault to painting models as other ethnicities and races, the Reality Check shines a light on ANTM’s aggressive body shaming. Nobody interviewed for the docuseries, including Banks, took responsibility; they instead chalked it up to a product of the times. It wasn’t okay then, and it’s not okay now.   Image Source: Digitas Photos | CC By 2.0 A Not-So-Personal Phenomenon Did Tyra Banks give me an eating disorder? I can’t put the blame entirely on one woman, an individual I don’t know personally. But I did respond to a culture that promoted extreme thinness, one that persists to this day. Reality Check has resurfaced feelings I still grapple with every day.   I’m responsible for the anxiety of eating every morsel, for the two pounds I gain and lose here and there. But the toxicity in my relationship with food and my weight has roots in a culture that glorifies unhealthy thinness and suggests that my body is other people’s business. And I’m responsible for encouraging the notion of thinness as better. When I, an objectively thin woman, fixate on my weight, telling others—sometimes heavier people—that I’m not happy with my size, I’m suggesting they, too, should be aspiring to a certain aesthetic ideal, even if I think they look great. Our fatphobic culture is as toxic as America’s Next Top Model was. It’s not just Tyra Banks who is complicit; we all are. 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 blog contains mentions of suicidal ideation, which some readers may find distressing. I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder back in 2016. It didn’t come as a surprise; my mother also has bipolar disorder, and I had long been presenting with symptoms similar to hers. I had experienced episodes of both hypomania and depression — going from being on top of the world, running on no sleep and spending all of my savings — to feeling guilt, shame, exhaustion, and like I didn’t want to be here anymore. I have also been diagnosed with borderline personality disorder , which means I struggle with relationships and my feelings and emotions. Both of these diagnoses have been difficult to live with. However, I am on a mix of medications for these, which have been working well for the past couple of years. I still have episodes, but they are not as intense or as exhausting. But, I still struggle daily. And this is because I have an anxiety disorder  —  obsessive-compulsive disorder , postnatal depression and postnatal anxiety . I struggle with intrusive thoughts, panic attacks, anxiety attacks, and rumination. Living with OCD has been incredibly difficult over the past few years, resulting in four Crisis interventions over the space of six months. It has led me to feel heavily suicidal and experiencing suicidal ideation. It is a time-consuming illness that causes extreme levels of anxiety, which can make it impossible to do seemingly simple things such as leaving the house, sleeping, or going to work. Photo by Christopher Ott on Unsplash I’m currently going through a bad period of anxiety. But it’s not like feeling nervous or just feeling a little on edge. It’s that horrendous feeling of dread; the nausea; the headaches; the racing heart; the panic attacks. Every morning I take my medication in hopes of it going away, but it never does. While I don’t want to compare or diminish anyone else’s experience, for me, living with these anxiety disorders have been hell, and I wouldn’t want to wish one on anyone. I’m writing this piece because I want people to know how deeply anxiety disorders can affect you. I want people to know the severity of them — they can lead to suicidal ideation, self-harm, and even suicide. There’s this common belief that anxiety disorders ‘aren’t as bad’, as some others which are deemed more ‘complex’ than others. But as someone who has both, I can tell you that, from my point of view, there isn’t any competition. They are both extremely difficult to live with. I have recently had people write to me telling me that they feel ‘lesser than’, for having an anxiety disorder instead of something like bipolar disorder. But this shouldn’t be happening. Mental illness is not a competition, and all experiences are valid. I want anyone with an anxiety disorder to know that they are absolutely not ‘lesser than’. Their experiences are important and there should be no guilt or shame in having one. It’s devastating that people feel they cannot talk about their anxiety disorder because they’ll be met with comments such as ‘I feel nervous a lot too’, or, ‘at least you don’t have XYZ’. Photo by Elsa Tonkinwise on Unsplash Mental illness, regardless of the condition, should be met with kindness, understanding, and support. I myself have experienced stigma in regards to my anxiety disorder, with people comparing it to completely different conditions, forgetting that every experience is unique. People with anxiety disorders are not inferior to people with other conditions. And as someone with both, I think it’s really important to recognise this. I’ve been on both ends of the spectrum, and for me personally, I have had horrible symptoms and side effects with each illness, just in different ways. So I ask those who don’t feel anxiety disorders are ‘as bad’ as other conditions, to stop and reflect on how you might be making those who do have these conditions feel. Making someone feel like their conditions are lesser than can lead to them not speaking out and not seeking support and not seeking help from a mental health professional. These points of view can be dangerous and can lead to the person feeling even worse. It’s incredibly scary being trapped in your own mind feeling completely alone. So, let’s recognise anxiety disorders for what they are: mental illnesses. Mental illnesses that are valid and deserving of respect and understanding. The sooner we realise there isn’t — and should never be — any competition in regards to mental illnesses, the sooner those who felt too scared and ashamed to speak out in fear of being shrugged off, will seek help.

I’ve been writing personal essays ever since I first entered the world of journalism. Personal essays are pieces I enjoy writing, because I lose myself in the words. Throughout my career in journalism, I’ve focused on topics including mental health, sex and relationships, body image, and parenting. I’ve written features and reported on different subjects, but personal essays are something that I focus my work on, because it feels like telling a story. In all honesty, sometimes I feel like personal essays are the only thing I can write well, because I can use my experiences, meaning the words come from the heart. For me, it’s easier to write about something you have experienced yourself (a lot of the time) than to write about other subjects. But personal essays come with risks. You are putting yourself out there to the world and telling your story with honesty and authenticity. And this can make you vulnerable to online trolling, and people that perhaps you don’t get on with very well reading about your personal life. So, I think that with personal essays, you need to ensure you are totally comfortable with the words on the page. You need to be confident that you are happy for your personal essay to be published, and that there aren’t going to be any issues afterwards. So, I’ve created some tips for writing personal essays that I’ve learned along the way. Here they are. Don’t divulge too much into your personal life Yes, it’s a personal essay, but that doesn’t mean you owe the world your entire personal life. Remember that what you’re writing is going to be on the internet forever, so if you don’t want to include certain things in your essay, don’t feel pressured into doing it. Remember that your personal essay affects you — not the people reading it or the people publishing it. Take care of yourself when writing, and if you don’t want to include something personal in the piece, don’t. And don’t allow anyone to feel like you have to, either. By NordWood Themes on Unsplash Make sure you feel comfortable with what you have written The most important part of writing a personal essay is that you’re comfortable with what you are writing. Perhaps you included something and now want to remove it from the piece of work — and that’s totally okay. Please don’t allow something that you are not comfortable with to be published, because it is your name attached to the work, and your story. That means you should have total control of what is included in the piece, and what is not. Don’t feel forced into having your name attached to the piece of writing It’s okay to ask your editor if you can be anonymous. Sometimes, you want to write an essay, because it can be therapeutic and you want the world to know your story — without your name attached to it. It’s totally understandable because posting a personal essay can be a big step, and the internet is a big and scary place, and you are putting yourself out there into the world. If you are told no, think about whether you really want to publish the piece with the outlet that has commissioned it. It’s okay to decide that it’s no longer right for you and to move to a publication that will understand. By Isabela Drasovean on Unsplash Have trusted open communication with your editor Be open and honest with your editor. If you aren’t happy with some edits they have made, tell them. At the end of the day, it is your story to tell and you should be happy with the final piece. Have open communication with your editor throughout the process, so that you can get the piece to a point where it is exactly right for you. Don’t traumatise yourself for the sake of a commission This. Is. So. Important. Often, personal essays can be difficult to write and might reflect on a bad time in your life. I know that writing about mental health has been hard, sharing my experiences with the world has left me vulnerable; and sometimes the comments section leaves me regretting writing a piece (tip: never read the comments section). But if you are struggling financially or you desperately want a byline in a publication, the pressure to share parts of your story that make you feel uncomfortable can be overwhelming. But please, don’t traumatise yourself for the sake of a commission. Look after yourself when writing and take breaks throughout so that you can reflect on the piece as you go, rather than rushing to write and submit it. It is your life that you are detailing; your experiences. Writing should be a positive thing, something to help you clear your head, and look back on and feel proud of. It should be something that makes you excited and makes you feel happy. It shouldn’t be something that hurts you and upsets you as you write. When you’ve finished the piece, take a few days before submitting it, to make sure you feel content and comfortable with what you have written. There is no money in the world worth hurting yourself over.

I’m tired of feeling guilty for being a working mother. It’s something I’ve been dealing with for a long time, ever since I got back to my laptop six weeks postpartum. Going back to work wasn’t an easy decision for me , but it was a vital one, because my family needed the money, and we couldn’t make the rent on my maternity pay. We often focus on mothers who stay at home to care for their babies, not working. Which is also a valid decision to make, and one that is not easy. But all the viral posts I see relate to non-working mothers (even though raising a baby is a full-time job), and I see comment after comment saying how ‘easy’ people who work have it — because of the toilet breaks, not having to change nappies, and so on. There is little sensitivity to working mothers, and that’s difficult. I have received so much criticism for my choice to work ever since I sat down at my desk. Working in media as a freelancer means I don’t have the typical nine-to-five. Family members have commented on how I should ‘at least get a normal job’, and have shamed me for working while my baby is still young. Not that I should have to justify myself, but I work around my baby. Working from home means I am able to do that, and I also have a partner who helps me. I am lucky in that respect. Photo by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash But being a working mother doesn’t mean I’m less of a mother than any other. It doesn’t mean I don’t get the nappies or the sleepless nights or the playing. It just means that my life is a little different. I know that my son has everything he needs and that is the main thing. He is happy, healthy, safe, and loved. This is what is most important. I’m tired of the idea that working mums have it easy when we don’t, and it just reinforces the guilt that we already feel . I feel it constantly, questioning whether I’m doing the right thing, whether I should quit my job, whether I’m not giving my son enough. But this is often because I am focusing on what other people think, and not what I know is best for my family. Being a working mother doesn’t mean I want to spend less time with my son. It means I am doing what I need to do to support and provide for him. I wish there were more posts about working mothers, and the stigma we face as parents. I see it in TV shows a lot — Working Moms is a good example of this; the other mothers at the school gates giving dirty looks to the mother who is off to work. It’s not uncommon. Photo by Sincerely Media on Unsplash But it’s time to realise that as long as you are doing your best for your child, as long as they are safe and you are protecting them, as long as they are loved, that’s all you can do. That is what makes you a good parent. That is what makes us all valid and equal as mothers. I am proud to be a working mother — not because I’m working, but because I know I am making the best decision for my family, and for myself. Working is a part of who I am, and always has been. I really enjoy my job, and it’s not something I wanted to give up. And working from home has allowed me to keep doing this, so for that I am really lucky. Working is what makes me feel most like ‘me’, and that’s something I didn’t want to lose after pregnancy. I didn’t want to lose my identity. I am lucky that I now have two identities that intertwine: I am a mum, and I am someone who loves her job. Of course, I would give everything up for my son in an instant, but I’m tired of feeling shame for admitting that my job is important to me. I’m tired of the comments and feeling like I’m not good enough as a mother. I’m tired of being told working parents have it easy — especially when you have a baby. It’s time we all focused on our own lives and what works for us, instead of criticising other parents — this is massively problematic with mothers — and making ourselves feel bad. Being a parent is hard enough, and we will always feel guilty for things that we don’t need to feel guilty for, because we love our children and want to do our best for them and to give them everything that we have. So, instead of judging or criticising, let’s move forward and support each other. Let’s look at other mothers and notice what a great job they’re doing. And let’s realise what a great job we’re doing, too. At the end of the day, we’re all in this together. And that should be a wonderful thing.

Image Source: Gustavo Fring on Pexels It was November 2004 when I received my comorbid (that is, two disorders together) psychiatric diagnosis: Panic Disorder with Agoraphobia and Major Depressive Disorder. At age 14, this had been a huge relief and also the first time I encountered what the International Classification of Diseases (ICD) and the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM) were. For the first time, I had a valid explanation for my feelings of impending doom, my breathlessness and dizziness, and my rapid heart rate any time I mustered the motivation to venture more than 10 meters away from my home. I finally had an explanation for why all I wanted to do was stay in bed all day and why I had problems sleeping during the night. Unfortunately, this diagnosis had come 8 years too late. My memories of my symptoms as a child are less crystallised, but I remember that going to friends’ birthday parties was always a source of anxiety. The loud music, the crowded rooms, and the intense lights were all too much for me. At age 6, I wasn’t able to articulate my symptoms of panic attacks very well, so I described them as dizziness. I still tried to attend parties every year, but they would always result in the same outcome. I would call my parents telling them I felt dizzy, and they would come and take me home after 30 minutes or so. The same “dizziness” would also occur in the classroom a few times, as well as during long trips. When my parents took me to the doctor, the first course of action was a blood test and a physical examination. Nothing wrong was found so the doctor suggested that I might have a lack of vitamins contributing to my “dizzy spells”, and therefore I should take some supplements. And so, I did. The “dizzy spells” would come and go, and for the next 8 years I would just accept them. It was not until age 14, when my symptoms became severe enough that I had to quit school for a year, that I was able to describe my symptoms more accurately: and a visit to a psychiatrist, rather than a physical health clinician, seemed like the right place to turn. And so, in November 2004, when I received my diagnosis, my symptoms were severe enough to warrant medication – benzodiazepines for my panic attacks for a couple of months and antidepressants for my depression, which could also act as a longer-term solution for my panic attacks, alongside CBT. It took a few attempts to find the right dose of medication. After years of highs and lows, remissions and relapses, I was able to get back into education and regain good social functioning. Image Source: Polina Tankilevitch on Pexels These experiences have formed a lot of my motivation for the research I carry out today. When I think back to those years, I have a few questions: What if I could have been diagnosed at age 6 rather than at age 14? Would I have had a less strenuous path to recovery? What if, at age 14, I could have had a test that determined the right dose of medications, at the right time? Would I have been able to get back to being myself faster? Why did I have those experiences? I hadn't experienced trauma; I had a stable and loving upbringing, so why did I have a comorbid psychiatric diagnosis? From patient to researcher, I now try to answer these questions myself. In my work, I try to use Artificial Intelligence (AI) approaches to improve pathways for personalised medicine in mental health. My area of work is broadly structured around three foundational themes: Can we predict the onset of symptoms/a disorder before they occur? Can we better understand the mechanisms of disorders across the diagnostic spectrum? Can we provide patients with personalised options that increase patient choice? A good example of the work that I do was published in Biological Psychiatry in 2022. I have always been fascinated by the comorbidity in the same individuals of both depression and psychosis, because much of modern psychiatry is based on the (mis)understanding of how these disorders differ, starting in the late 19 th century. Emil Kraepelin, a German psychiatrist working under the leadership of Alois Alzheimer, dichotomised psychoses into manic-depressive illness and dementia praecox (the precursor of schizophrenia). Much of modern psychiatry is based on that original dichotomy. However, such clear-cut dichotomies rarely exist in mental illness. Comorbidity rates in psychiatry are very high and follow a rule of 50%: half of people who meet diagnostic criteria for one mental health disorder also meet diagnostic criteria for a separate disorder at the same time; half of people who meet diagnostic criteria for two disorders at the same time also meet diagnostic criteria for a third disorder; and so on. Moreover, there is a lack of accepted biological or genetic markers for diagnostic categories. It is therefore very important to understand whether the current diagnoses we have reflect clinical reality and whether they have a strong biological basis. Image Source: Google DeepMind on Pexels In my 2022 Biological Psychiatry article , I used AI to try to identify whether the diagnostic categories of depression and psychosis are rooted in biology and whether a biology-first approach could be better. I used brain scans detailing the brain structure of patients with depression and psychosis and fed those into an AI algorithm. I tasked the algorithm with finding groups of similarity based on brain structure without telling the algorithm which patients had psychosis, and which had depression. If the algorithm placed most of the people with psychosis in one group and most of the people with depression in another group, then that would show us that our current frameworks are biologically based. If the algorithm identified groups consisting of a mix of patients (so-called transdiagnostic groups), then our current frameworks would be failing to capture meaningful biological pathways. Our results showed exactly that. The algorithm identified two transdiagnostic groups. Moreover, these groups showed specific symptoms that are not usually associated with patients who belong to either group. These findings showcase a simple truth that exists in current clinical practice: while two people might have the same diagnosis, their neurobiology might be very different – yet they will be treated with the same medication; and while two people might have a different diagnosis, their neurobiology might be very similar – yet they will be treated with different medications. Taking things a step further, I wanted to see whether predicting symptoms with AI in these new, more biologically grounded groups could offer better insights. Since we had data from these patients nine months after admission, I tried to predict their symptoms using only their data at presentation. I found that I was able to predict their 9-month symptoms more accurately in this new biologically based separation compared to the traditional depression-psychosis separation. Astonishingly, we could do that using only data from a blood test and a few questions.   Mental health research still has some way to go before we are able to get patients in the clinic, ask them a few questions and/or run a few tests, feed those into an AI algorithm, and provide accurate diagnoses, prognoses, and medication doses. However, what we are seeing in this line of work is promising and makes me hopeful. My hope is that, in a few years, a 6-year-old Paris presenting with “dizziness” symptoms can have a blood test and get an accurate diagnosis and course of action. Or that a 14-year-old Paris receives a biologically based diagnosis rather than a comorbid diagnosis, ensuring he can receive the right treatment at the right time.

I am currently an MSc student at King’s College London studying Psychology and Neuroscience: Mind-Body Interface, and a placement study in the Stress, Psychiatry, and Immunology Lab within the Perinatal Psychiatry section. I am interested in how social and biological factors shape women’s physical and mental health across the lifespan. Throughout life, women often experience a series of shared transitions. From menstruation and reproductive health to pregnancy and motherhood, and later life stages such as menopause, quietly creating forms of connection and community. My own experience with menstruation was one of the first times I noticed how these unspoken communities began to form. First Period When I got my first period, it felt like a secret I was embarrassed to carry. I remember feeling confused, a little scared, and mostly worried that someone might find out. Others around me were secretive about their periods, and the topic never reached our conversations despite it being the most common teenage experience. At first, it didn’t feel like a shared experience at all; it felt isolating. I remember my mind being overwhelmed by the worrisome thoughts about bleeding through my clothes or needing to bring a tampon to the bathroom, and someone, especially a boy, seeing it. All in all, it felt like something you had to manage quietly and carefully to avoid being judged or noticed by others. The next day at school, I told a few of my closest friends, mostly because I felt the need to talk about it. What surprised me was how casually some of them reacted. Just like me, a few of them had already gotten their periods and just hadn’t mentioned it before. I had assumed I was one of the first, but I wasn’t. With this relieving revelation, came a feeling of comfort and a sense that there was a community to be found through the experience; you just didn’t know who was in it yet. Image Source: RDNE Stock Project on Pexels Among our friend group, the topic of menstruation slowly became something we could talk about, still quietly, but more openly with each other. We would complain about cramps, ask if anyone had a spare tampon, or exchange knowing looks when someone mentioned they were feeling unusually emotional that week. It was awkward at first, but it also created a strange bond between us. I remember when one of my friends got her first period about a year later. She was excited, almost proud, to finally get it. For her, it meant joining something the rest of us were already experiencing. But when she realised several of us had already got ours earlier but just hadn’t really talked about it, she seemed a little disappointed. She had imagined the moment as more of a celebration. In a way, she was right. Getting your first period isn’t just a biological milestone. Socially, it can feel like an entry point into a shared experience. PMS and Shared Understanding As we got older, the conversations deepened. Periods weren’t just about bleeding once a month; they were also about everything that came before it. Many of us started talking about premenstrual syndrome or PMS: the mood swings, the exhaustion, the random urge to cry over something small. Sometimes we joked about it, sometimes we vented about it, but there was comfort in realising other people felt the same way. Image Source: kamboompics on Pexels For some women, those symptoms are even more intense. Premenstrual dysphoric disorder (PMDD) can make the days before a period emotionally overwhelming, bringing severe mood changes, anxiety, or depression. PMDD can be diagnosed by tracking severe mood and physical symptoms over time, alongside reviewing a person’s medical history and lifestyle factors. Touching on these challenges became another way for women to connect with each other. Even when the intensity was different for everyone, there was still a shared understanding that the week before a period could feel like a completely different emotional landscape. These conversations often created an immediate sense of empathy. You could mention cramps or say you were having a rough PMS week, and someone would instantly understand. Interestingly, research on young people’s menstrual experiences has shown that many girls feel pressure to hide their periods, especially in school settings. Fear of embarrassment, leaks, or someone noticing menstrual products often makes menstruation something people try to keep private. Simultaneously, the literature also shows that girls frequently rely on each other for support, sharing supplies, advice, and reassurance when something goes wrong. In other words, menstruation often exists in a strange space between secrecy and solidarity. Support Between Women I saw just how universal that connection can be recently while travelling through John F. Kennedy Airport, in New York City. I needed a quarter for the tampon machine in the bathroom but didn’t have one. When I asked the women nearby if anyone had spare change, several of them immediately offered help, not only quarters, but tampons and pads from their own bags. One woman smiled and said, “We all know what it’s like. This is what girls are for.” None of us knew each other. We were just strangers passing through the same airport bathroom. And yet there was an immediate willingness to help, simply because of our shared experience. Image Source: Andrea Piacquadio on Pexels Gender Differences and Misunderstandings At the same time, it’s often hard to explain this experience to men. Many genuinely try to sympathise; however, it’s difficult to fully understand something you’ve never experienced physically or emotionally. Sometimes, periods are even used dismissively. A woman expresses frustration or anger, and someone jokes, “She must be on her period.” In those moments, menstruation becomes a stereotype rather than a reality. I’ve also seen that difference in understanding firsthand. Once, I actually passed out at work from severe period cramps and collapsed onto the floor. When I mentioned afterward that it was because of my period, some of the men I worked with looked confused and assumed it meant I had lost too much blood. But that wasn’t the case at all; it was simply the pain. My close friend, who also worked there, and another female coworker immediately understood. They didn’t need much explanation for how intense cramps can be. They had experienced it themselves. Hidden Communities Periods are often treated as something to hide. But over time, I’ve realised they quietly reveal something else: how willing women are to show up for one another; whether it’s a friend handing you a tampon in a school bathroom, a coworker helping you when cramps become overwhelming, a roommate bringing you a heating pad, or someone sharing their own struggles with PMS or PMDD just to make you feel less alone, there’s an understanding that doesn’t require much explanation. Image Source: Hannah Busing on Unsplash Looking back, getting my first period didn’t just mark a biological change. It quietly introduced me to a community I hadn’t known existed, one that shows up in whispered conversations between friends, sympathetic looks across a room, and small acts of generosity in unexpected places. It’s a reminder that sometimes the experiences we’re taught to hide are the very ones that connect us the most.

I’m writing this for anyone who is currently overwhelmed or feeling like they need to take a step back. From anything. From the internet, from your work, from your social life, from your family situation. It’s okay. Sometimes it can be hard to take a step back from things, because it means making a commitment to look after your mental health. But these commitments are important and are not in any way a reflection on you being a bad friend, partner, or person. It is important to take breaks when you need to, to stop yourself from reaching burnout. And it’s okay to talk about your reasons why. Photo by Cottonbro on Pexels You don’t need to pretend to make other people feel more comfortable. It is okay to talk openly about your mental health. Unfortunately, despite it being 2021, there is still so much stigma around mental health issues - and maybe there will be some people who don’t understand. But are these people who are worth a place in your life? It’s good to take space to focus on what is and isn’t making you happy. Whether things in your life are right for you. Be it coming off of social media to protect your mental health, taking some sick pay from work because you are struggling with the workload, taking some space from the people who are making you feel pressured and overwhelmed. There is absolutely nothing to feel guilty for; mental health is just as important as your physical health. You wouldn’t feel guilty or ashamed of taking time off to focus on your health if you had a broken leg. And I hate that analogy usually - but it is true and one of the best ways to open your eyes and realise just how unprioritized mental illness is for many people due to feeling it is not as important or not as valid. But it is. For anyone who needs to take a step back at the moment but doesn’t know how, I’ve created a handy guide on how to be open and honest while protecting your feelings. Photo by Taryn Elliot on Pexels Write a letter to those you want to step back from Whether that’s a boss or a family member or a partner, sometimes things can be best said written down, because it gives you a chance to reflect on what you’re saying and can help you to communicate properly. Focus on the main reasons why you need a break Make sure the break you’re taking is reflective of what you’re looking to achieve. Are you looking to rest? Then make sure you rest. Are you looking to keep your circle small? Then communicate with the people in your life to explain your reasons - ghosting hurts so it can be best to have an open and honest conversation, and you can shut it down at any time. Don’t add any more pressure onto yourself If you’re finding something too scary or overwhelming at the moment, maybe leave it. If you’re not ready to talk, that’s okay. It’s okay to just say you need to take a step back to protect your mental health - you don’t need to justify yourself. Look after you You are the most important person in this scenario, and it is okay to focus solely on yourself. Remember that you are important and valid and worthy - and you deserve space to heal and recoup.