Out of all of the organs, the human brain is the most complicated and one of the least understood. It’s responsible for all of our behaviours, thoughts, feelings, processes — everything that makes us human. That’s one of the many reasons I find the brain and neuroscientific research so fascinating, and why so many scientists study it! Sometimes our brain does funny things, almost like it’s glitching. When you walk into a room and suddenly completely forget why you walked in there (the "doorway effect"), open the fridge and stare blankly at the contents for no apparent reason (the most likely boredom effect), or when you feel like you have had this exact experience before, despite knowing you haven’t. Sound familiar? That’s because it is! That "strange feeling that in some way you have already experienced what is happening now", even though you know logically that you couldn’t have, is the eerie phenomenon known as déjà vu, literally French for "already seen". Lasting briefly, only for a few seconds, déjà vu is an overwhelming sensation of familiarity, where we feel like we’ve already been in the specific situation we’re in. It is such a strong short-lived feeling but incredibly odd in the sense we are aware that we couldn’t have possibly previously had this experience. But why does this happen? Do we all experience déjà vu? And why does it feel so weird? Déjà Vu Out in the Wild Déjà vu as a concept has been around for over a century. French philosopher, Émile Boirac, was one of the first people to use the term, back in 1876. Since then, déjà vu is much more common in our everyday lives, having taken on new meanings, infiltrated pop culture, and eluded researchers trying to pin down its origin. With roughly 60% of people experiencing déjà vu at some point in their lives, it has solidified itself as a mysterious and bewitching brain blip, spurring speculations of us living in a simulation. With several songs titled after it, most notably by Beyoncé, Dionne Warwick, and Olivia Rodrigo (which I was only slightly obsessed with a couple of years ago), déjà vu is often linked with past memories and dreams of a significant other, something almost ethereal and magical. But it’s also used in a different manner by Rodrigo to ask her former partner if he experiences déjà vu with his new partner, since everything they’re doing together is "recycled" from his relationship with Rodrigo. Plenty of movies and TV shows also play on the concept, intertwining it with time travel, dreams, and enthralling science fiction: Groundhog Day (and the countless modern variations), The Matrix, The Truman Show, Inception, and even one titled after ‘Deja Vu’, featuring Denzel Washington as a federal agent, who uses a device to look four days back in time through a time warp to try and prevent a terrorist attack. When conducting a search on PubMed, a free search engine used to access scientific articles, and sorting the results by most recent, I found that even scientists use the term déjà vu in the titles of their papers when revisiting specific research topics. It can definitely draw attention to the article and makes the title a little spicier, as in to say, "Have we been here before"’ and stress the importance of the area addressed. Examples from this year alone range from Monkeypox to dangerous dogs to P-CABs (Potassium-competitive acid blockers — drugs for acid reflux). The Neuroscience Behind Déjà Vu: How Does it happen? Like many brain-related experiences, there isn’t one single explanation for déjà vu. It’s really difficult to record and study déjà vu as a scientist, due to its sudden and fleeting nature. Since it is always described retrospectively as a ‘sensation’ or ‘feeling’ by study participants and there are no physical manifestations of déjà vu, it has been challenging for scientists to recreate it in the lab or determine one conclusive cause. There are over 40 theories attempting to decode déjà vu. Most of the theories share a similar idea, that déjà vu happens when parts of the brain tell us that a past experience is repeating itself. The four most prevalent theories are: Attentional: suggests when our attention is divided, we take in environmental information subconsciously, so that when we return to full awareness and pay attention, we feel we have seen it all before, resulting in déjà vu. Dual-processing: suggests that when our brains are processing information, two cognitive processes which are usually in sync become briefly asynchronous, so there is a slight delay resulting in us interpreting the late information as a separate event, hence déjà vu (e.g. familiarity and retrieval could become uncoordinated). Neurological: suggests that déjà vu is a manifestation of neurological dysfunctions, involving small seizures or changes in the timing of communication between brain cells (neuronal transmission). Memory: suggests that during déjà vu, our situation is objectively familiar, but we have forgotten the reason why it’s familiar, as if our brain is trying to retrieve a deep and distant memory by checking against our past experiences but there is no recollection of it, leading to that uneasy feeling — this can be triggered by a very small amount of sensory information, like a distinctive smell that we recognise. The formation and retrieval of memories, including auditory ones such as music, takes place in an area of our brain called the temporal lobe. It encases the hippocampus (learning and long-term memory formation) and the amygdala (the emotion processing centre), and is also seemingly responsible for integrating memories with our senses: taste, sound, sight, and touch. Those who have suffered temporal lobe epilepsy, seizures caused by disrupted brain cell activity, have reported experiencing intense déjà vu before seizures, reflected in clinical reports. In these instances, déjà vu acts as a forewarning of an epileptic seizure event. It has also been suggested that dopamine, "the Kim Kardashian of molecules" (as dubbed by British clinical psychologist, Vaughan Bell) and happy hormone, may be involved in the experience of déjà vu. Our temporal lobes are also responsible for discerning familiarity, and dopamine is an excitatory neurotransmitter or brain chemical involved in this process. This could potentially explain why we experience déjà vu more often when we take dopaminergic drugs, which increase our dopamine levels. Who Experiences Déjà Vu? If you’re constantly tired or stressed (same), you’re more likely to experience déjà vu as fatigue and stress impact our memory, which is a potential cause of the phenomenon. When you’re fatigued, your brain doesn’t have sufficient time to regulate, so you’re more likely to have incorrect or uncoordinated cognitive processing. Young people are also more likely to experience déjà vu than the older population (sorry if you’re young and tired and stressed), supporting a theory which suggests that our brain cells randomly misfire. The younger your brain, the higher the level of excitatory activity taking place. One of the most consistent findings relating to déjà vu is that as you get older, you’re less likely to experience déjà vu. The frontal part of our brain which fact-checks the information we are processing becomes a little less efficient with age, as it’s less able to notice errors. Conclusion Sometimes our brain does funny things, almost like it’s glitching. Wait! Sorry. The next time you experience déjà vu, remember that it’s a totally normal human thing, and we don’t really know where it comes from just yet!

I was depressed in my teenage years, but I didn’t know it. For most of the time during what are meant to be the happiest years of your life, I was in survival mode, looking to get from day to day unscathed. I’d lie in bed wide awake on Sunday night in dread, knowing that the sooner I fell asleep, the sooner I’d be awake again, having to face yet another week. My social life, watching local football team Sutton United aside, was non-existent as I couldn’t find the energy to talk to anyone new. In hindsight, I was clearly struggling, but at the time I thought what I was going through was normal. If you’d said the words ‘mental health’ to me, I’d have looked at you as though you were speaking a foreign language. I turned 13 in 2011, barely ten years ago, but still a time when mental health was never really a concept talked about outside of a psychologist’s office. I wouldn’t have bought a book about mental health when I was struggling. When you don’t understand a problem, you don’t really want to acknowledge it — it’s an alien concept and you don’t have the time or inclination to change that. However, I did buy plenty of books about football. That’s where my second book, Match Fit: An Exploration of Mental Health in Football, comes in. Writing, unsurprisingly, was something I initially got into for the mental health benefits it brought to me. Having finished my exams in my first year of university I faced the prospect of months of nothingness ahead, months where my mind might start to play tricks on me. To avoid this, I channelled all my energy into writing about my memories of watching Sutton United in the FA Cup over the years. I’d never intended to have it published, but thought I might as well try once I’d put 45,000 words down on paper. The result was Six Added Minutes, which came out with Goldenford Publishers in November 2019. Having used writing to the benefit of my own mental health, the next stage was to try and help others with theirs. My aim with Match Fit is simple — I want to use football as a means of normalising conversation around mental health. To do this, I’ve conducted interviews with more than 60 different people from the football family. Each of them bravely opens up on their own mental health story, whether they’ve struggled badly for years or just have the odd ‘off’ day. There are voices from every type of participant in the beautiful game, from former England internationals to those who play hungover on a Sunday morning. Each individual story is poignant and inspiring in equal measure. Take the story of Grenfell Athletic, for example. The morning of 14th June 2017 brought shocking scenes to the entire nation as flames ripped through a high-rise tower block in West London. All in all, 72 people lost their lives, with virtually everyone in the community personally knowing one of the victims. Amidst the devastation, local man Rupert Taylor was determined to help however he could. He decided to set up a local football team for survivors and other locals to give them something to bond over and an opportunity simply to talk. When I spoke to Taylor, he explained that having the team to lean on had helped several of his players out of a very dark place. The team is still going today, a non-medical intervention to help a group of people deal with the psychological impact of one of Britain’s deepest traumas of the 21st century. With regards to the top end of the football pyramid, Marcus Bent spoke particularly emotionally on his struggles to come to terms with retirement from professional football. Bent is well known by fans of the Premier League, featuring for eight different clubs in England’s top league. An athletic striker, Bent was unprepared for all the time he suddenly had on his hands when his spell with Indonesian club Mitra Kukar came to an end. Lacking purpose and feeling a void inside of him, Bent fell into an addiction to cocaine and hit rock bottom when he was arrested outside of his Surrey home. Much like myself, Bent did not have much of an understanding of mental health at this point, but help from Sporting Chance, a residential clinic specifically for professional sportsmen, helped him to turn his life around, as did the therapeutic experience of working in a charity shop nearby. The main thing Bent emphasised in our conversation was how keen he was to use his own experiences as a warning to other footballers, preventing them from falling into the same trap he did. The chapter that resonates most with me is one that looks at how supporting a football team can impact upon your mental health. I’ve been a diehard supporter of Sutton United since I was just eleven years old and have always found the routine of going down to Gander Green Lane every other week something of a lifeline. I spoke to Alan Pringle, an assistant professor at the University of Nottingham, who has conducted extensive research into the topic. This interview was an intriguing experience, as if Pringle was able to read my mind and see all of my highs and lows on the terraces over the last 13 years. It can be hard to give an eloquent answer when asked why we are such big football fans, but Pringle would have no issue with this question at all. All of these stories have one thing in common — they revolve around talking about mental health within a sport that is stereotypically macho and unforgiving. I hope the variety of different experiences encapsulated within Match Fit will help the reader acknowledge their mental health, be it good or bad. We all go through tough times at some stage of our lives, and even if we don’t have a diagnosed mental health condition, it’s important to talk and be kind to ourselves. If anyone reading Match Fit does feel they need help, then the book can hopefully act as a signpost and point them towards services that are there for them. Essentially, this book is for the teenage me and for those struggling with their mental health who perhaps might not even know it. If it helps just one person, then the hundreds of hours I’ve put into the project over the last three years will all have been worth it.

A deep dive into Professor Susan Duty's research Susan Duty is a Professor of Pharmacology and Neuroscience and the Co-Head of the Department at Wolfson Centre of Age-related Disease at King's College London. Her research focuses on understanding and finding improved treatments for Parkinson’s, which is the second most common neurodegenerative condition. I am Gargi Mandal, a research assistant at the Stress, Psychiatry and Immunology lab, and an editor at Inspire the Mind. Prof Duty was one of my lecturers during my undergraduate studies, and she always encouraged us to think innovatively and ask questions, whilst ensuring that we honed the fundamental pharmacological concepts. However, it was only during her inaugural lecture, which was a wonderful account of her personal and professional life, that I discovered that she had been diagnosed with breast cancer a year before she taught my cohort. I was inspired by her tenacity to keep moving forward in the midst of personal challenges, and I wanted to know more about her research experience and career path. I would like to share our conversation with you. We started by talking a bit more about Parkinson’s, which affects approximately 145,000 people in the UK, as per 2020 estimates. Its prevalence is on the rise and 1 in 37 individuals alive today in the UK will be diagnosed with Parkinson's in their lifetime. Moreover, there is currently no cure for Parkinson’s and available treatments cause various side-effects. Thus, there is a strong drive to develop new treatment approaches. This is the focus of Professor Duty’s work. Parkinson’s is characterised by the presence of both motor symptoms, namely resting tremor, rigidity, stooped posture, and slow movement; and non-motor symptoms, such as fatigue, memory, and thinking (cognitive) impairments, depression or anxiety, sleep problems, and pain. Pain is a specific area of Prof Duty’s research. Prevalent in up to 80% of individuals with Parkinson’s, pain may be caused by increased inflammation in the brain. Damage to the nervous system triggers the release of inflammatory mediators, which normally fight pathogens, but in people with Parkinson’s, these mediators may alter regions of the brain that control pain signaling and can be the underlying trigger for a variety of pain states. Indeed, a recent study by Prof Duty’s lab showed that the levels of an inflammatory cytokine, Tumour Necrosis Factor-alpha, were increased in people with both Parkinson’s and pain. Furthermore, Parkinson’s is a progressive condition, meaning that it becomes more severe with time, and an active area of research for Prof Duty is finding treatment approaches that slow or stop the progression of Parkinson’s by protecting neurons of the Substantia Nigra (a dark region in the brain which modulates movement and reward functions). In Parkinson’s, there is a substantial loss of cells in this region and one avenue of hope in Parkinson’s research is by targeting certain receptors or increasing cell survival factors (factors that help cells grow and promote normal cell development), to prevent cell death, thereby slowing the progression of the disease. Professor Duty’s team has contributed to this area of research, specifically by targeting metabotropic glutamatergic receptors (mGlu4Rs, which are highly concentrated in the substantia nigra) to reduce cell death. Glutamate is an excitatory neurotransmitter, and when present in large amounts, it can be toxic to neurons and increase cell death by increasing calcium inside the neurons. Prof Duty’s team demonstrated that stimulating the mGlu4Rs resulted in reduced glutamate release and decreased cell death in rat models. These rats also had good motor outcomes in comparison to the rats where the mGlu4Rs were unstimulated and had fewer/no side effects, showing that activating the mGlu4Rs directly in the brain protected the loss of neurons in the substantia nigra. There are ongoing clinical trials in which drugs that target these mGlu4Rs are being tested in humans. In addition, Prof Duty’s research has also shown that increasing survival factors, such as fibroblast growth factor, which are cell signalling mediators that promote normal cell development, help to protect cells in a dish and cells in the substantia nigra of animal models from toxin-mediated cell death. This further contributes to the hope that such research may lead to new drug developments that could help to slow the progression of Parkinson’s and improve patient quality of life. Prof Duty’s impact is not limited to her research. She is also an exceptional educator and has received Teaching Excellence Awards from King’s College London and the British Pharmacology Society in recognition of her innovative education. Her dedication to teaching is inspiring; Prof Duty would go above and beyond her research interests in her commitment to teaching and reading extensively about the field of Parkinson’s. This informed her holistic view of Parkinson’s treatment benefiting both her research and teaching, and I have personally benefited from her comprehensive lectures which enabled me to get a well-rounded understanding of the field. As a person who dons many hats, including researcher, teacher, mother, and mentor, I wanted to ask how Professor Duty remains motivated. Throughout her career, she has taken inspiration from students, mentors, and her own children. Indeed, it is impressive that she has such a successful career alongside parenting. During her daughters' formative years, being in academia provided her with some flexibility, allowing for a suitable work-life balance. Furthermore, Prof Duty stated that she is encouraged by the positive changes that have occurred in academia which enable more mothers, like her, to pursue a career in research. However, she recognises that more changes are required including improving support for women returning from maternity leave. Indeed, supporting and recognising the value of women in STEM, such as Prof Duty is essential to allow them to continue to make such invaluable contributions. Professor Duty has inspired me to not shy away in the face of new challenges and to say yes to opportunities that come my way. The barriers she has faced and overcome in her career demonstrate her dedication to research. It is essential to have role models, such as Professor Duty, for women in STEM, to help foster a sense of belonging for other researchers and to inspire the next generation of scientists.

Article written by Amina Begum, Riddhi Laijawala and Gargi Mandal - Assistant Editors of Inspire the Mind. South Asian Heritage Month runs from July 18th to August 17th every year. It was first introduced in 2020 by the South Asian Heritage Trust, with the aim of commemorating and celebrating South Asian cultures, histories, and communities. This year’s theme is “Stories To Tell”, and is dedicated to celebrating the stories that contribute to the South Asian Community. In this article, we have stories from three Inspire the Mind writers and editors, on how they stay connected to their South Asian Heritage. Connecting with others through language My name is Amina, I am a British Muslim Bangladeshi living in London and a researcher at the Stress, Psychiatry, and Immunology (SPI) Lab. As part of South Asian Heritage Month, I wanted to highlight my experience on the beauty of language and communication. Growing up, my parents always told me to speak my mother tongue Bengali and I am grateful that my parents were able to teach it to me. I never realised how important and valuable fluency in Bengali was, until I volunteered to help with the NHS vaccination program during the pandemic. I volunteered in a Bangladeshi-populated area at a GP in East London, where I had the opportunity to meet many different people from the Bangladeshi community, especially those who did not speak English. I was able to converse and explain the vaccination procedure in Bengali to them (which is what I would usually do in English for all my patients). For me, being able to connect with a group of individuals in a way that they understood was a remarkable experience. This experience reflected the importance of ensuring that healthcare is more comprehensible and accessible for ethnic minorities via the power of language. Altogether, I am grateful that I can speak both English and Bengali in the UK, because it has helped me connect with others, especially within the healthcare settings. Language is not only a way for me to share my roots but also allows me to provide a way to help others. I hope that this article can inspire us to speak our own languages in public, especially living in the UK, and in a multicultural city where many different languages are spoken. The sharing of culture beyond borders My name is Riddhi, and I was born and raised in India. As I moved from Mumbai to London a couple of years ago, I often found myself thinking about how I would continue to stay "in touch" with my South Asian Heritage. Now, as a researcher, writer, and assistant editor, I find myself reflecting on how I have done so. I was extremely fortunate to have a diverse group of friends in my student accommodation building as an MSc student. Our accommodation would often organise events which were representative of diverse cultures around the world. My first Diwali (the festival of Light in Hinduism, Sikhism, and Jainism) away from home is something I’m going to treasure for a long time to come, because it is one that I celebrated with friends not only from India, but also from Canada, Iran, Pakistan, and the UK. We danced to Bollywood music, ate gulab jamun, and had a night that none of us will forget. I am incredibly grateful to my friends for giving me the privilege of sharing a snippet of my culture and heritage with them. When I think about another such instance, I remember a spontaneous evening in the midst of writing up my dissertation, when my close friends from Canada and I stopped by a store selling a childhood favourite snack, 'Kurkure'. My friends were intrigued by the names of the flavours, and I gave them an in-depth description of flavours, favourites, and other details (and that is a story for another time!). To my pleasant surprise, they thoroughly enjoyed it, and I felt like I had shared a piece of my childhood with them. Finally, I fondly remember a more recent event at the British Association for Psychopharmacology’s Summer Meeting in Manchester a few weeks ago, where I danced with my fellow South Asian colleagues, researchers, and other academics from diverse backgrounds to a popular Punjabi Bhangra song and had the chance to celebrate my Indian heritage through music. These specific instances are all but a fraction of the wonderful memories I’ve created while celebrating my South Asian Heritage in the UK, and I look forward to sharing it and integrating it further, not only in my personal life, but in my career as an academic as well. The cumulative nature of culture I am Gargi, a Research Assistant at King’s College London, and I am originally from India. I was born in Delhi, a large metropolitan city in the north of the country, but my family is from West Bengal. Contrary to what the name would suggest, this is an eastern Indian state, and was one of the first places where the East India Company was established, and I can draw a lot of parallels between how London was laid out to how Kolkata (the capital of West Bengal) was designed. Similar to the area where Buckingham Palace, Green Park, and Westminster Abbey are situated next to the River Thames, in Kolkata, the Parliamentary Buildings, Victoria Memorial Building, and Maidan (a large park) are all clustered together close to the Hooghly River. Additionally, Bengali culture is an amalgamation of the Nawabs or Mughals of Bengal, the Independence movement, and Buddhist/Bhutanese practices, amongst many others. For me, growing up was a blend of numerous cultures. In Delhi, I would converse in Hindi or English with my classmates and swing to the rhythm of Punjabi music. My after-school hours involved learning melodies composed by Bengali Nobel Laureate Rabindranath Tagore and watching films by Satyajit Ray during the weekends at home. I also moved to Dubai during my formative years, where I made friends who were from all around the world and learned more about Arab culture and traditions. Together, these experiences have truly influenced the kind of person I am today. At present, my background has enabled me to feel at home in London, a multicultural melting pot. Here, I have been able to show my Irish partner snippets of my life growing up; from introducing him to fish curry in Brick Lane (where you’ll also find some signage in Bengali) to showing him Charulata by Satyajit Ray at BFI Southbank, as well as teaching him to speak some Bengali. It has also helped me better understand my partner’s Irish heritage as we share historical similarities of famines and revolutionary periods, and we continually learn from each other’s cultures. I have seen diverse communities come together as one whilst growing up, and to me, having South Asian Heritage means stretching my hand to people across the globe. To conclude, our cultural backgrounds have enabled us to connect to people on a different and more personal level, even in professional settings, and celebrating our heritage with others has been a way for us to remember our roots. South Asia is a geographical region that is made up of diverse countries, cultures, and traditions. By celebrating South Asian Heritage Month, we have shared our stories, in an attempt to share with our readers a small part of our culture, and highlighted what it means to each of us. Whether it be through language, food, music, and film, each of us has had unique, and meaningful experiences of what it means to be a South Asian in the UK.

Diversity vs. Norm The university I work for — a large, renowned, London-based, and part of the prestigious Russell Group — prides itself on being "one of the most diverse institutions in the world". With students from over 170 nationalities, it’s hard to call that an exaggeration. In my non-academic role, I am involved in helping academic colleagues "diversify" and "decolonise" the curricula, which means making the programmes more "inclusive of the experiences and histories of those with protected characteristics" and "erase systemic barriers in our society through fairer and more equitable distribution of curriculum content" (I borrowed the definition from Diverse Educators). Nowadays, attention to diversity is of paramount importance within, and without, the higher education system — and for so many good reasons that it would take the whole article to list them all. Sensitivity for the issues surrounding diversity is in fact so deep-rooted in our culture that it may seem the norm. This, of course, creates an interesting conundrum, because "diverse" is exactly what doesn’t fit in the (claustrophobic, we feel, and perhaps even politically problematic) idea of a "norm". And yet, although we may not like the concept, our societies still rely heavily on the idea of "normality" to function. Where does this idea come from? Why do we find it so problematic? And where does the history and practice of psychology sit in all this? Two books published in 2022 help us answer these questions. What is normal? What do we talk about when we talk about normal? In Am I Normal? historian Sarah Chaney rightly points out that the term is ambiguous, as when we ask ourselves if we are normal "sometimes we’re considering if we’re more or less average", whilst "on other occasions, we’re wondering if we’re healthy", or just "wondering if we’re like other people". These three overlapping levels (normality as average, normality as physical or mental health, and normality as a practical tool to compare ourselves to others) are exactly what makes the idea of a norm, and of normality itself, so problematic. In her book, Chaney reflects on the fact that before the 19th century the term "normal" was only applied to mathematics: as Jonathan Mooney writes, "'normal' comes from the Latin word 'norma' which refers to a carpenter’s square, or T-square", and therefore "building off the Latin, 'normal' first meant 'perpendicular' or 'at right angles'". It was only when the Belgian astronomer Adolphe Quetelet published his Sur l'homme et le développement de ses facultés in 1835, giving birth to the concept of social physics, that the mathematical notion of normality was applied for the first time to human beings. "Driven by the rapid rise of statistics", continues Chaney, in the second half of the 19th and the 20th century "normality became bound up in our laws, our social structures, and our ideas of health", with a number of troubling consequences: first of all the fact that "the scientists, doctors and scholars who attempted to measure and standardise humanity were overwhelmingly white, wealthy, Western men, who were exclusively heterosexual (at least in public)", and that "they tended to support the status quo (...) and marginalise other groups in the process". As the Harvard evolutionary biologist Joseph Henrich showed, however, what he calls "the WEIRD people" (that is, Western, educated, industrialised, rich and democratic) constitute only 12% of the population and yet write 96% of the subject studies in psychology and 80% in medicine. The norm is normal for a tiny minority. Is the norm always bad? We shouldn’t however fall into the mistake of thinking that "norm" was always a bad word: as for many other things, the idea of normality applied to human societies was born with positive, even utopian intentions. In The Information Society, for example, Belgian sociologist Armand Mattelart demonstrates convincingly how the idea of social normality grew among the Enlightenment philosophers as a way to fight the privileges of the rich: for example, by setting the "normal price" for a kilogram of wheat. The standardisation of society, Mattelart continues, is what made it possible to manage a world of growing complexity, and for medicine to find cures that apply to the majority of the population: statistics, the evolution of science and technology, and the development of the idea the "average man" (l’homme moyen theorised by Quetelet), all contributed to the creation of societies where minimum living standards could be applied. The price to pay, however, was a society more interested in the average man than in the actual, living human being, and a social environment where being different from the norm became more and more suspicious. The dangers of the normal A third and probably more insidious danger of the idea of normality is discussed by Canadian-Hungarian physician and author Gabor Maté in his latest book, The Myth of the Normal. The book opens with a quote from Erich From: "The fact that millions of people share the same vices does not make these vices virtues (...), and the fact that millions of people share the same forms of mental pathology does not make these people sane". Maté moves his argument from a question: How is it possible that "in our modern world, at the pinnacle of medical ingenuity and sophistication, we are seeing more and more chronic physical disease as well as afflictions such as mental illness and addiction?" What if "chronic illness — mental or physical" was "a function or feature of the way things are and not a glitch", "a consequence of how we live" and "not a mysterious aberration"? It’s a valid point and, I think, a very important one, that strongly resonates with the 1960s critics of psychiatry such as R.D. Laing and Franco Basaglia: what if illness, be it physical or mental, was nothing but a normal reaction to an utterly abnormal society? Would it be fair, in that case, to "cure" the individual of an illness brought upon him by his or her social environment? Or would that "cure" be an intrinsically reactionary act — an act, that is, that imposes an abnormal normality upon the normal abnormality of the human being? Especially because, as Matè writes, "for better or worse, (...) humans have a genius for getting used to things, especially when the changes are incremental". This is exactly what normalising means: make something normal, even if it wasn’t normal in the first place. Psychological practice and normalisation Psychology and psychiatry have always played a crucial, and somewhat controversial, role in this process. If, on one hand, it’s indubitably true that, as Chaney writes, "for Freud, we are all neurotic, right down to the very fringes of the normal curve", it’s also true that early psychoanalysis contributed massively to the definition of what is considered "normal" and "abnormal" in the life of the mind, often drawing clear lines where boundaries had been traditionally blurred (think, just to name an example, about rites of possession). On the other hand, once again, it was the very definition of normality, of a "standard mind", or an "average mind", that made the development of the mental health professions possible at all — and with it, the possibility to alleviate the pain of real, flesh-and-bone people. Despite the (justified!) suspicions we may have today about the whole idea of a "norm" and "normality", especially when it comes to mental health, we should never forget that we are walking a fine line when we discuss the subject. Normal people may not exist in reality, as Chaney says, but they may be a useful abstraction. Unless, of course, we don’t follow the trap of believing that abstraction is the reality and that everything we live through is normal just because it’s familiar.

This article contains spoilers It’s safe to say that Barbie has taken the world by storm. With a marketing campaign seemingly tinging everything pink, it has been hard to avoid the buzz surrounding the highly anticipated film. Try googling ‘Barbie’ and even your screen will turn pink and sparkly (seriously, try it!). I recently joined the masses of people donning pink garments and heading to the cinema to see what all the thrill was about. After intentionally trying to avoid spoilers myself, I went into the film not knowing what to expect at all. I assumed it would be a wholesome trip down memory lane to sitting on the floor of my very pink childhood bedroom, playing with my Barbies in their Barbie Jeep. In reality, what I watched was a film that perfectly encapsulated how it feels to be a woman in this day and age, and that is exactly why I loved it. Wrapped in a blanket of comedy, the film got deep and incredibly meaningful, taking our childhood icon and transforming her into a feminist figure validating our current experiences of womanhood. Director Greta Gerwig explores the two ends of the Barbie-spectrum, playing with both the glorification and the criticism of Mattel’s Barbie brand. With the film already surpassing the $1 billion dollar mark at the box office, I think it is safe to say that many people have already seen the breakout film. But, in case you haven’t had the opportunity yet I want to avoid as many spoilers as possible, but there is some important context you need to know: We first join ‘stereotypical Barbie’ (played by Margot Robbie) in the pink and perfectly plastic world of Barbie Land. In this world, surrounded by her Barbie friends and subsequent Ken’s, Barbie is under the impression that they have changed the world for the better for women. Their diversity and impressive range of careers have supposedly shown real-world girls that they can be whoever they want to be and do whatever they want to do. They rule the world. But things soon start to change when Barbie starts to have somewhat of an existential crisis (including the addition of sudden flat feet and cellulite, of course) and is forced to head to the real world to find her owners and get to the bottom of her new feelings. If you’ve read some of my other articles on Inspire the Mind, you would be no stranger to the fact that women’s safety is something I am very passionate about. I loved the touches in this film that summarised so well the contrast to the male experience as Barbie and Ken first hit the real-world rollerblading across the Venice Beach Boardwalk. Ken (portrayed by Ryan Gosling) starts to realise that he has more of a place as a man in the real world, where men appear to have a lot of power; while Barbie is immediately placed in unease with leering looks, catcalling, and sexual harassment in stark comparison. Along the way, Barbie meets owner Gloria (America Ferrera) and her daughter Sasha (Ariana Greenblatt) ultimately learning the root of her new emotions. What stood out to me most was one moment in particular. In fact, the very moment I decided to write this article. While Barbie is struggling with feelings of inadequacy, feeling that she is not good enough for anything or to be interesting, Gloria, our real-world woman, steps in with a monologue perfectly detailing the push and pull of womanhood. The expectations vs reality. The struggle of feeling like we should be doing things a certain way, but also never feeling like we are getting it right. “It is literally impossible to be a woman. You are so beautiful, and so smart, and it kills me that you don’t think you’re good enough. Like, we have to always be extraordinary, but somehow we’re always doing it wrong. You have to be thin, but not too thin. And you can never say you want to be thin. You have to say you want to be healthy, but also you have to be thin. You have to have money, but you can’t ask for money because that’s crass. You have to be a boss, but you can’t be mean. You have to lead, but you can’t squash other people’s ideas. You’re supposed to love being a mother, but don’t talk about your kids all the damn time. You have to be a career woman, but also always be looking out for other people. You have to answer for men’s bad behavior, which is insane, but if you point that out, you’re accused of complaining. You’re supposed to stay pretty for men, but not so pretty that you tempt them too much or that you threaten other women because you’re supposed to be a part of the sisterhood. But always stand out and always be grateful. But never forget that the system is rigged. So find a way to acknowledge that but also always be grateful. You have to never get old, never be rude, never show off, never be selfish, never fall down, never fail, never show fear, never get out of line. It’s too hard! It’s too contradictory and nobody gives you a medal or says thank you! And it turns out in fact that not only are you doing everything wrong, but also everything is your fault. I’m just so tired of watching myself and every single other woman tie herself into knots so that people will like us. And if all of that is also true for a doll just representing women, then I don’t even know.” The monologue shared a reality of societal pressure and the impact it can have on us, and was almost cathartic to many who have heard it and resonated so much. I won’t spoil the rest of the film for you, but it channelled all of this frustration and put it back in our hands, uplifting us with a sense of empowerment and togetherness that was very much needed. While the contrast between the perfect bubble of Barbie Land may seem stark in comparison to the reality of the real-world above without the context of the rest of the film, Gerwig shows us the best parts of being real women in the real-world ending with a prominent line, “I want to be a part of the people that make meaning, not the thing that is made.”

It is inevitable that as the National Health Service (NHS) celebrates its 75th birthday this year, there is likely to be a spate of books on its history, future, critique, etc. Adding to this is a book releasing this week - Conversations about the NHS, which I have had the privilege to develop. Bookended by a chapter on the past and present of the NHS and its future, published by Routledge, the book contains interviews with 14 stakeholders: four members of the House of Lords, the editor of the Lancet, the past President of the Royal College of Physicians of London, past Chair of National Institute for Health and Care Excellence (NICE), past Chair of British Medical Association (BMA) Council, past Chairs of BMA’s junior doctors committee and trainee psychiatrists, along with representatives from the Patients Association-an organisation which will receive all the royalties of the book. As we celebrate one of the greatest achievements in this country, it is crucial that we not only look back at its lifetime and its successes but also look at where it has not succeeded and what are the lessons. This ought to help us ensure that it continues to deliver world-class service in the future. Like any 75-year-old individual when we look back at our lifetime, we recognise that there are moments of pride in our achievements, be they personal, social, economic, or political but also of regret of all the things we did not do or we could have done better. NHS is unique in lots of ways, but it has had to cope with changes in societal demands and expectations coupled with the introduction of inordinate advances in investigations and therapeutic interventions. These in combination with a healthcare system-free at the point of need inevitably have contributed to increased longevity in general, although it has slowed down over the pandemic period. Bambra and Marmot in their evidence to the Covid inquiry chaired by Baroness Hallett noted that austerity imposed on the country since 2010, has had a disproportionate effect on ethnic minorities. Over the past few decades, medicine has advanced in technology and therapeutic interventions from antibiotics to MRI scans, precision medicine and genomics, NHS has tried to keep pace, but has it always succeeded? Society too has changed dramatically leading to changing patient and social expectations of healthcare. So if we were establishing NHS today, would we do it in the same way? Probably not. And if we were starting now, what would we do differently? If we look back at Beveridge's five giants: want, disease, ignorance, squalor, and idleness, none of these have been totally eliminated. Homelessness is increasing as is poverty and consequent squalor. Rates of childhood poverty have gone up. Another area that needs building up is social justice and equity of access. In addition, the capability to be healthy needs to be recognised and built up. It involves individual, family, community, and national level interventions, with clear messages on education and information. Healthcare needs and demands rights but equally importantly these come with individual, family, and community responsibilities. There needs to be an open discussion and exploration of these ideas to make sure that the NHS is fit for purpose. NHS has done wonders in increasing the longevity of the population but this brings with it certain challenges. It has helped people live longer who are likely to have multiple complex co-morbidities. This in turn raises issues of care whether it should be provided by generalists or specialists and other issues of demand and supply. Demand for healthcare has been increasing exponentially whereas resources have not caught up with it. However, resources are only one albeit an important factor. For a considerable period of time, health has been seen in isolation whereas it should be linked with education, employment, housing, justice as well as social determinants. An awareness of and preparation to manage geopolitical determinants must be borne in mind. The lessons for the NHS must include interlinking from parental learning about child rearing and development to elimination of poverty, overcrowding, and unemployment will contribute to better health. Public health needs to be an integral part of the NHS. Between the capability to be healthy and inclusive nature of social justice and equity and inclusive public health, the NHS needs to think outside the box. It needs to engage with communities, community organisations, faith leaders, teachers, and others depending upon local needs. Working with the possibility that there are likely changes in the workforce, the arrival of AI, newer grades such as specialist nurses and associate physicians, and pressure on generalists in primary care versus specialists in secondary and tertiary care, any future vision needs to take these into account. Rights versus responsibilities especially in the context of the capability to be healthy are important aspects of healthcare which require an open debate and discussion. In Conversations about the NHS, all the stakeholders see similar problems: lack of workforce planning, lack of integration of social care and healthcare, challenges faced by primary care, etc, however, there are some innovative solutions. Lord Crisp highlights that by the time people get to the NHS, it may well be too late so he proposes health creation. This means that public health and health (physical and mental) need to be linked together. The past Chair of the BMA Council suggests that NHS should be run by an independent board on the lines of the Board of Bank of England. Two past chairs of Junior Doctors Committee (Rajiv Wijesuriya and Sarah Hallett) also suggest that integration between health and social care and workforce planning is crucial. Lord Alderdice, a medical psychotherapist, suggests that integration of social and health care with a focus on responsibility to be shared across the community. Sir Ian Gilmore echoes that there needs to be community responsibilities as well. Sir David Haslam emphasises that medicine should be done with the patients and simply not to them. Richard Horton notes that model of primary care and secondary care set at the time of the establishment worked at that time but no longer does so. He proposes that we may need to consider community settings where generalists and specialists come together. A similar point is made by Baroness Meacher. Baroness Neuberger also emphasises that health needs to be integrated and not seen in silos. Two trainee psychiatrists Max Pemberton (who is also a columnist for Daily Mail) recommends a merger of physical and mental health whereas Daniel Poulter (also a Conservative MP) proposes that education about health is a must from an early stage. Rachel Power from the Patients Association recommends joint decision-making with the patients. Lucy Watson (previous Chair of Patients Association) suggests using retired individuals to support information sharing and supporting the staff. The book is out later this month and hopefully will generate interest and debate on individual, community, and governmental responsibilities on the one hand and healthcare workforce expectations and medicine’s social contract on the other. Discount is available on the purchase of the book. If you go to this website and look at the discount code, it will give you 20% off - https://www.patients-association.org.uk/news/professor-dinesh-bhugra-gives-royalties-from-latest-book-to-the-patients-association

Monsoon was in its full glory, unleashing the inherent power and magnificence of nature. Stars wore the blanket of blue-grey clouds and went off to sleep. Lying down in my bed, I was listening to the symphony of raindrops. The rhythm of falling raindrops is the best lullaby for my no-reason-required anxiety-ridden mind. The calmness rush it sends down my veins is inexplicable. When Haruki Murakami said that rain has the power to hypnotise, I think he was talking about the mindfulness that seeps in when you watch rain long enough. I also think that the same applies to all of nature’s sounds. All of a sudden, a silver-branched streak appeared in the sky; thunder rumbled, echoing through the dark sky. It didn’t break the flow of my calmness, as one would expect. It was like a blossom of delight for me and continued the bliss I was experiencing. Why would I like the sound of a roaring thunder? Turns out I am not alone. There is a word coined for it by John Koenig — chrysalism. He defines it perfectly, “the amniotic tranquillity of being indoors during a thunderstorm, listening to waves of rain pattering against the roof like an argument upstairs, whose muffled words are unintelligible but whose crackling release of built-up tension you understand perfectly”. For some people, it’s not just relevant when they are inside their cosy cocoon, but they love thunder even outside. I am a writer with Inspire the Mind and other magazines and nature is both therapist and muse for me. I believe there is magic interspersed in every element of nature, only if we can be still enough to experience it. Pink Noise Some psychologists argue that the sound of rain or a thunderstorm can appease the brain’s demands, which then calms us down. Psychologists explain the concept of "pink noise" as the frequency that engages the subconscious without distracting it. Rain, wind, and other storm noises fall into this category. Studies indicate that pink noises help people with anxiety to have restorative sleep. Not only adults but also babies get a deeper and longer sleep. Additionally, several studies on pink noise have even shown that sleeping with it can also improve short and long-term memory. The idea here is not to romanticise the destructive power of storms or incessant rains that are causing floods and hint at the climatic change effects scientists have been warning about for decades. The focus here is the link between physiology and psychology, and how nature carries huge potential to heal us. Nature’s soundscape is full of such therapeutic powers. Splashing ocean waves crashing on the rocks, rustling winds through the trees and leaves, chirping birds, babbling brooks, the distant rumbling of thunderstorms, pattering rainfall on a forest canopy, woodland sounds, gurgling rivers, snow crunching underfoot, buzzing bees, rustling reeds in a marsh, fluttering wings of birds in flight; these are just a small fraction of the vast symphony sounds found in the nature. I could go on and on. Each ecosystem has its unique auditory palette which evokes moments of serenity. Studies and Research Science agrees. A 2016 study by researchers at the Brighton and Sussex Medical School concluded that natural sounds physically alter neural pathways in our brains, helping us to reach a calmer state of mind. Once your mind knows that it experiences calmness from rain or snow, the effect is reinforced. According to a research review in the April 2021 Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences, it is established that nature sounds could have profound health and well-being benefits. Water sounds, such as a gurgling brook or a steady waterfall, turned out to be the most effective at improving positive emotions, while bird sounds were best for lowering stress and enhancing mood. No wonder those chirps are the best way to get up in the morning. Ok, not the rooster alarm call though. That’s best as a warning signal. What about the music? It certainly works but if a comparison has to be made, nature’s sounds have an edge. We have adapted to natural soundscapes for aeons. Many such studies prove the link between nature healing our mental state. Not only that but being deprived of nature is potentially harmful. Why does this matter? Dr Gould van Praag explains that understanding how our body and brain respond to natural sounds can help in creating more relaxing environments for people to live and work. It can also help with the development of new treatments for people suffering from anxiety and depression and help people in environments where sensory monotony is an issue, or where they may feel anxious, such as hospitals. Interestingly, even thunder therapy is recommended as a complementary tool to help manage stress and anxiety. During the Middle Ages, the hospitals in Europe were set with a garden, as nature was considered essential to support the healing process. Modern scientists have increasingly reached the same conclusion to make healthy changes within their environments. The NHS Forest Project in the UK is working with healthcare sites that have seeded a range of innovative projects to facilitate the use of green space for health and wellbeing. But nature doesn’t work on our whims and fancies, so we tried simulating these sounds to hear them when needed. It does show promising results but unfortunately, does not work well for me. Researchers believe that apart from the effect of the evolved association between a calm state and the perception of nature, there is also a fractal component of nature that we recognise, that helps the brain to distinguish real from fake. There is no prescription needed from the doctor to reap the benefits of Mother Nature. Step out from the boxes and walk amid the nature spaces. I know I am more productive and happy on cloudy, windy, rainy days than the blaring sunshine ones. If only I could conjure all my nature-witch powers and make clouds of my own! Sigh! What is your favourite nature sound?

Eco-anxiety. Eco-anxiety has been defined as “an extreme worry about the current and future harm to the environment caused by human activity and climate change” (source: Oxford Languages). However, this term refers actually to much more, and researchers are increasingly trying to understand both the emotions that we are all experiencing in response to ecological crises like climate change, and the ways in which these emotions might be valuable for our psychical, psychological, and moral wellbeing. I am Valentina, a post-doctoral researcher at the Department of Pharmacology and Biomolecular Science at the University of Milan, in Italy. I live in Bergamo, a town 45 minutes away from Milan, and this is not the first time I am writing about something I personally witnessed here, as I previously shared my experiences of living in the city most hit by the COVID-19 pandemic in Italy. It also isn't the first time that Inspire the Mind covers climate-related topics, such as Eco-anxiety is escalating with relentless climate change, How is Climate Change Affecting our Mental Health?, or even, On Love & Loss of Our Flora & Fauna. Living and working in the north of Italy, I have experienced a rollercoaster or weather conditions. Unfortunately, Italy is no stranger to weather extremes. Various corners of Italy witnessed several weather catastrophes. One of the latest occurred in May, in the northern Italian region of Emilia-Romagna, where immense floods submerged entire villages and cities, killed 15 people, and left thousands homeless and desperate, losing everything. My testimony regards another Italian northern region, Lombardy, where sadly the past three weeks will be remembered for a very long time. Indeed, the whole region experienced sweltering heat, but amidst the scorching temperatures, an unexpected twist occurred as a severe storm and tornado swept through the region, damaging many cities, and leaving people putting the pieces of their homes, cars, and industries back together. The Italian summer is often characterized by long stretches of hot weather and clear skies. However, the intensity of the heat experienced over the past weeks has been particularly noteworthy. The temperature in Milan has been no lower than 30 degrees Celsius for many days in a row, and during the evening and night, there was no rest. Cities were empty apart from a few tourists, who were brave enough to face the hot trying to enjoy what our beautiful cities have to offer, despite the weather. Pavements and roads became scorching, causing discomfort and health hazards to pedestrians and motorists alike. I personally suffer from this hot weather in the laboratory, where our air conditioning stopped working during the worst days. On the other hand, friends of mine escaped from the cities for short holidays at the seaside, but they were not as blessed as they were expecting, as the temperature was not dropping anytime soon. For example, in the southern regions of Italy, such as Sicily and Calabria, temperatures reached record highs, exceeding 40 degrees Celsius. As of the current date, Sicily is facing devastating wildfires, posing a significant threat to the island's natural beauty, and prompting urgent efforts to contain the blazes and protect local communities. But then something changed and just like in movies, we have been thrown into a new scenario, that made everything even worse. Just when Lombardy thought it had experienced enough of the relentless heat, a catastrophic weather event struck the northern regions of Milan and Lombardy. On the evening of July 21st, the first unexpected tornado tore through Milan suburbs leaving a trail of destruction in its wake. But this wasn’t the end, because, on July 24th, a massive storm hit Milan itself, creating an apocalyptic scene. The storm's high winds uprooted trees, damaged buildings, and caused widespread power outages. Homes and businesses suffered significant structural damage, leaving many residents displaced and struggling to cope with the aftermath. The night of this last storm, I remember being woken up at 4 a.m. I was looking through the window, and I was scared. The sky was floodlit with lightning. And I clearly remember the aftermath, as I was riding my bike to work, I witnessed uprooted trees every ten meters, cars destroyed, and debris all over the streets. Public transport (busses and trams) were shut down, and railways suffered from severe delays. Unfortunately, my family was directly affected by this storm, and are still suffering the consequences. The entire basement of my family home was flooded. I received a call from my sister, it was 11 pm, and all she said was, “There is water everywhere”. I couldn’t reach them because the storm was massive and would have been impossible to drive, with a hailstorm and tornado approaching shortly. A couple of hours later, they called me reassuring me that they were fine, but that there were firemen in almost every house in the neighbourhood. I started this personal piece talking about eco-anxiety, and I can say that it is real. This was my first time witnessing such a fast and catastrophic twist of climate events, and it makes me wonder (and feel anxious) about climate change. I really wish that this resonated with more people and that as many people as possible were thinking about this at the moment. In these uncertain times of climate change, it's essential to maintain hope, by embracing sustainable practices, fostering innovation, and uniting as a global community, so that we can collectively live in a more certain future.

Since the emergence of social media, debates have been consistently sparked about the line drawn between moderate use and a concerning degree of disengagement from real-life interactions. The most recent social media phenomenon that begs this question is TikTok's ‘bedrotting’ trend. ‘Bedrotting’ involves users spending extended periods of time using social media, sleeping, eating, watching TV, and other inactive hobbies in bed, perhaps paradoxically under the pretence of actually enhancing mental health. To many who have embraced it, 'bedrotting' is a form of self-care and offering a reprieve from the stresses of everyday life. When it comes to the social media aspect of 'bedrotting', we might question its role as a positive here. A recent study from Neyshabur University of Medical Sciences described the positive effects of social media which included “accessing other people’s health experiences and expert health information, managing depression, emotional support and community building, expanding and strengthening offline networks and interactions, self-expression and self-identity, establishing and maintaining relationships.” However, concern has been expressed at the potentially unhealthy levels of isolation and disconnection involved in ‘bedrotting’. The aforementioned study also found the negative implications of high social media usage included “anxiety, depression, loneliness, poor sleep quality, poor mental health indicators, thoughts of self-harm and suicide, increased levels of psychological distress, cyberbullying, body image dissatisfaction, fear of missing out and decreased life satisfaction.” In addition, while 'bedrotting' may pose several negative impacts on mental health, its effects on physical health must not be disregarded. This can be attributed to the sedentary lifestyle promoted through ‘bedrotting’ which can lead to reduced physical activity and compromised sleep quality. To better understand both the positive and negative impacts of ‘bedrotting’, I reached out to a 19-year-old ‘bedrotting’ enthusiast from Chelmsford named Ed. Ed has been practising ‘bedrotting’ since he started his new online job this summer. His typical day starts at 8:58 a.m., just two minutes before he opens his laptop to start work. Apart from a lunch break, his workspace remains his bed until around 6 p.m. If he's not going out with friends in the evening, he usually stays in bed until the end of the day. Ed is a regular 'bedrotter' usually practising from Monday to Friday, and he admits that the frequency of his practice has increased since he started working. Interestingly, he views this lifestyle as advantageous. To him, the comfort of working from his bed feels beneficial. "Getting paid to work from my bed [has] been pretty great," he told me, asserting that he can deliver the same quality and amount of work from his unconventional and cosy setup. However, in spite of Ed’s praise of ‘bedrotting’ he does concede that the lifestyle affects his motivation levels. He admits to feeling less driven while working from bed compared to when he goes into an office setting. Despite this, he keeps a regular sleep schedule, sleeping every day for 8 hours from 1 am to 9 am. When asked about the effect he believes ‘bedrotting’ is having on his social relationships, Ed explains that the potential isolation from 'bedrotting' is mitigated by his active social life outside his 'bedrotting' hours. He goes out as much as he stays in bed while awake, maintaining a balance in his life. Ed's interview afforded me a valuable new perspective into the nuanced reality of 'bedrotting'. It showed not only the allure of this emerging TikTok trend but also its disadvantages to motivation. Most notably perhaps, it demonstrates the possibility of practising ‘bedrotting’ without affecting one’s perceived mental health levels. Initially, I thought of 'bedrotting' as an inherently detrimental practice to mental health, given its sedentary and isolated nature. However, Ed's story shows that for some, 'bedrotting' can be integrated in a more productive way into people’s lifestyles. Whilst it's crucial to note that this does not eliminate potential concerns for others, the variation in experiences and responses to 'bedrotting' is a testament to the complexity of this trend. This serves as a reminder that moderation, social balance, and personal context are vital when partaking in trends such as ‘bedrotting’. Having said this, 'bedrotting' is not simply a trend on TikTok that we will eventually see become extinct. It's becoming a cultural phenomenon that is influencing the way that particularly Gen Z and even some millennials live. This shift in behaviour demonstrates a larger societal change towards remote work and social media consumption, which have been exacerbated by the COVID-19 pandemic. It is a lifestyle that will most likely become more prevalent as new technology such as the recent Apple Vision Pro (expected to be released in 2024) will enhance the convenience and appeal of 'bedrotting’. The reason I think the Apple Vision Pro will particularly cause ‘bedrotting’ to become more popular is that it is set to offer a ‘high-quality immersive experience’ that can be used from the comfort of a bed. The device will also have features that support work, entertainment, and social media, meaning it may further blur the lines between the physical and digital reality, potentially causing 'bedrotting' to be the new norm rather than a brief fad. Throughout the Gen-Z generation, the traditional separations between work, entertainment, and rest time are already becoming blurred in a way that is increasingly accepted and normalised. Despite the convenience of this trend, which seems so appealing to many, questions must be asked on a larger societal scale about whether merging our offices, bedrooms, and entertainment centres is a good idea. If this is the direction that we are heading in, we may face issues such as potential generational divides surrounding the differences in personal and professional boundaries. As we ponder these questions it becomes ever clear that the impact of 'bedrotting' extends far beyond a few individuals on TikTok, as it outlines our changing relationship with technology and space during this digital revolution that we are currently living in. In conclusion, 'bedrotting', isn't the straightforward Tiktok fad I had initially assumed it to be. Whilst, in theory, it is neither entirely negative nor entirely beneficial, it is clear that more people need to look into this lifestyle as I found that since writing this article very little to no work has been done on this. While the charm and perceived benefits of 'bedrotting' are appealing, such as the ease of working from one's bed, the negatives are not to be dismissed lightly. As a member of Gen-Z myself, I often find myself having conversations with friends about how our attention spans aren’t what they used to be, largely due to TikTok and other forms of social media. The key word for me in this entire subject is ‘convenience’ as we have the ability, through watching TikToks for example, to find unlimited amounts of entertainment, as the feed quite literally never ends and you can keep scrolling until you find something that interests you. This will affect our attention spans in all facets of life as things that previously seemed normal become more tedious and difficult to cope with. Examples of this cited by friends of mine are things as mundane as waiting for a bus, reading, queuing, and much more becoming almost painful to our overstimulated brains. I predict that we will continue to see increased diagnoses of depression and ADHD as binging social media content for extended periods of time becomes common practice. The 'bedrotting' phenomenon serves as a warning that digital trends redefine our lifestyles, posing challenges we must address for the sake of our future mental and physical wellbeing. References Sadagheyani, H.E. and Tatari, F. (2021), "Investigating the role of social media on mental health", Mental Health and Social Inclusion, Vol. 25 No. 1, pp. 41-51. https://doi.org/10.1108/MHSI-06-2020-0039 Ra CK, Cho J, Stone MD, De La Cerda J, Goldenson NI, Moroney E, Tung I, Lee SS, Leventhal AM. Association of Digital Media Use With Subsequent Symptoms of Attention-Deficit/Hyperactivity Disorder Among Adolescents. JAMA. 2018 Jul 17;320(3):255-263. doi: 10.1001/jama.2018.8931. PMID: 30027248; PMCID: PMC6553065.

Author's Note: The story follows the protagonist, a female lawyer in her early thirties, during a day that unfolds unexpectedly, leading her to reconsider what truly matters. We follow this unnamed character around the office, at a family lunch, and finally on her way back home, but in reality, we are always trapped by her catastrophic thoughts and observe her balancing act between fitting in and breaking free. We meet her tired and anxious but leave her on a train platform, flustered and exposed, yet inexplicably hopeful. The story touches upon themes of self-censure, body dysmorphia, and savage self-criticism, but leads to a place of unconditional acceptance of oneself. The story was shortlisted for the Bridport Prize 2019. You’re listening to Tristan und Isolde. The Liebestod swells in your ears and you anticipate the music’s climax so much that you feel your mouth watering. That is until the phone rings and plunges you back into the sickening morning rush of the Circle line. It’s your mother. You consider not answering, but then, what if it’s something serious, something about grandma? Remember the last time you didn't answer your mother’s out-of-the-blue calls? And so, you cave in. “Mum, everything ok?” “Hi honey, I was just calling to check whether we are still on for this afternoon…” You tell her, yes, you are still on, hasn’t your PA accepted the calendar invite already? And then you say you’re on the tube and the line will break because you’re about to go under, and your voice is annoyed as if your mother is meant to know where you are at any given moment. But before she can apologise or start defending herself for the abrupt call, you have already hung up, pretending that the train has indeed gone under. You smile at your clever little move and press play to let the Mild und Leise soar into your ears; the music a buffer that erases the feeling of your neighbour’s bag cutting into your calf, the nudging of another passenger’s elbow into your ribs, the acrid smell of coffee and stale breath and pungent deodorant. In your head, Margaret Price’s voice spirals impervious, as if nothing has happened, no interruption, no phone call, no intromission. The morning is busy and you barely have time for a bathroom break. Finally, you step away from your desk and go to the kitchen. While you’re preparing a cup of instant coffee, Sasha waltzes in; she is blonder, taller, and slimmer than you and her forehead is unnaturally smooth. She skims over you as she drops the artisanal teabag into the mug she is holding; the aquamarine on her left hand reverberates and bounces its light back into your eyes, blinding you temporarily. You make polite conversation, agree that work is simply too busy, bitch about the new partner who hasn’t deigned to walk the floor to introduce himself. When you’ve exhausted all the topics, she excuses herself, but as she leaves, her back already turned away from you, she throws you a quiet perfect outfit. You feel yourself blushing and then, when Sasha’s completely out of sight, smile a little. You always dress carefully and today is no exception. You wear a fitted Chanel suit jacket over a silk blouse and trousers and complete the ensemble with a matching purse. The jacket is a thing of beauty: green and blue tweed with four trademark pockets and gold, lion-head buttons. It isn’t new, but the bag is. A simple-shaped tote with short handles, made of thin cracked Italian lambskin; its iridescent hue catches the light - from teal to viridian - and complements the tone of the jacket perfectly. You have daydreamed about owning a designer bag for years – imagined yourself commuting to work, all your essentials packed neatly inside its bespoke pockets and pouches, sipping a cocktail at the Blue Bar with your artsy friends, the bag hanging on the back of a curvaceous mid-century chair, cutting a glamorous figure as you stroll through a Tuscan piazza during a weekend getaway, the sun enhancing the gold in your hair, the bag swinging from your hand. You’ve grown up collecting magazine cutouts of iconic bags and stuck them to your bedroom wall in a constellation of desires. You ventured into your mother’s closet every Friday afternoon, when she was at the hairdresser, to caress the weaved texture of the Bottega Veneta, lift the lid of the storage box to touch the metal chain of the Chanel flap bag, inhale the heavenly smell of the Valentino nappa clutch that made your knees weaken. In the months leading to your eighteenth birthday, you hinted so many times at that Chloé bracelet bag, so popular among your friends, and were confused when you received a long, slim case containing a precious watch instead. The bag would have been cheaper, you said. A bag is not a legacy, your mother had responded. After all of this longing, you were reckless in purchasing this purse, your first designer handbag. Payday, after a frenzied month at work, you entered the boutique and surveyed its walls lined with treasures. You pointed to the one you suddenly fancied: not a classic piece that you coveted over the years, the cornerstone of your future collection, but this season’s It bag. The shopkeeper suggested a different finish, like hardwearing textured leather; recommended going with a neutral colour, black is your best bet, she said. But right there, you didn’t care about durable, versatile options. Leaving the shop with that bag felt like losing your virginity all over again with the boy you met on a sailing trip, instead of sharing that moment with the faithful boyfriend you had been with for two years. For lunch, you ask Lesley to get you an egg sandwich, something easy to eat while you finish drafting a memo. She says, I thought you were meeting your mother for lunch and you say, no, she is mistaken, you’ll meet her after lunch, for coffee and a private viewing. You’ve got to eat now, so later you can pretend you aren’t hungry and avoid the repulsed look on your mother’s face whenever you tuck into the spaghetti or the mashed potatoes or any other food in carb form that you prefer over the green leaf salad she’d like you to order. For once, you can dodge her reminders that after thirty your metabolism does indeed slow down, and get that lovely, soft plum cake with your coffee, knowing that you’ve found yet another way of fooling her. She’ll be sitting in front of you, not knowing about the mayonnaise and the white bread tumbling around your intestines. You arrive at the Delauney’s on time and the receptionist informs you that your mother is already seated. Of course, your sister will be late, so you try to come up with an excuse to stand by the door and wait for her, but the waiter is showing you to the table and you’re left with no choice but to follow him. You walk through the panelled room with its Mitteleuropean furniture and the white linen, pass in front of the lit-up rosewood bar, crystal glasses dangling upside down from the brass bars, behind the grey pillars, and into the seductively dark dining room, until you reach your mother’s table. And there she is. She kisses your cheeks, enquires about work, compliments your outfit, very Jackie, she says, the presidential years. You start relaxing and think that, perhaps, it won’t be so bad, perhaps you are full of preconceptions; you want to believe that it can be nice. Maybe you can share what is actually happening - the promotion you didn’t get, that date you were so hopeful about and didn’t go so well and made you feel silly and think why bother at all - so you clear your throat and place your hands on the shiny table, one on each side of the rectangular white towel and are about to tell your mother all of those things that you can never discuss, not during your hasty weekly phone calls, not over the family Sunday lunches when your job is to dispel the individual anxieties and create diversions with your amusing little stories. Certainly not, never, to bring attention to you, to the exhausting drilling of your career, the loneliness of your home after another frenzied day when, after all the drama, you think you have achieved nothing, apart from shuffling documents around. “Mum…” “Sorry, I’m late! Have you ordered yet?” And your sister stands next to you with her cheeks flushed and the bouncy hair framing that perfect oval face. It’s your undeniably pretty, adorable sister, the one who lights up every room she enters. Lights up? She sets them on fire and turns them upside down, not merely lights them up. She is a flame, not a light bulb. She sits down between the two of you and kisses your mother while extending her hand to squeeze yours. The conversation quickly unfolds around the upcoming event of the year: your sister’s wedding. “So, Josh and I have decided it will be a gift-free event” “What do you mean gift-free? Surely you’ll have a registry and a honeymoon fund… didn’t you say you were considering Japan?” “Mum, we already have everything we need…we certainly don’t feel the burning desire for a three-tier cake stand or a butter knife.” “But Aunt Celia has already put aside the Victorian silver tray for you – you don’t really want that to go to your cousin, do you?” “Martha can have it – I really don’t have the aspiration, nor the space to own a silver tray” “You aren’t suggesting that people give you… money?” You and your sister exchange a rapid glance at the horrified tone your mother uses whenever the M word is mentioned. As if her cashmere cardigans magically appear in her closet, or the spa treatments she swears by could take place without a transactional exchange, or even the delicate spring salad she ordered could be afforded without swiping one of the many cards she carries in her designer bag. But money is only to be owned, never to be talked about. And a monetary contribution to your sister’s wedding is com-ple-te-ly unacceptable. “Look mum, most of our friends are still finding their way in life and it’s a big ask to add a gift on top of the travel expenses…” “How about a charitable registry?” you interject. “That’s an excellent idea! People could give what they feel comfortable and there are so many causes Josh and I are passionate about… Mum, perhaps you can help us select the right organisations? You’ve got such valuable experience with charities!” Your sister, the smooth talker. Always finding a way out of a tight corner. Two words and your mother’s swooning, listing organisations and themes, already forgetful of Aunt Celia’s coveted Victorian silverware. Your sister flicks you a quick, victorious smile. And you smile back because, of course, you love her. You can’t avoid loving her. Because she is that lovable and because she never, even once, threatened to tell how she got that awful cut on her shin, a wound that required nine stitches - but you do remember how your bike’s pedal crushed into the soft, delicate skin, lacerating it. If only you had braked, but you didn’t even try. That’s why scars exist, you consider, to expose our guilt, to remind us of what we did wrong, of the mistakes we made along the way. But shame and remorse are not the only reasons behind your love for her. It’s deeper than that. It’s the many nights she let you into her bed, her fingers wrapped around yours in the dark; the way she slept, almost immobile, knowing your insomnia could be triggered by any tiny movement; that fresh, gentle fragrance wafting from her body - the scent of clean linen and lavender sachets. She still picks up your calls too late in the night and too early in the morning. She’s still the only one you’d call. Your mother asks about the seating arrangements – she’s nonchalant in her enquiries, but you know she’s trying to make sure your father and his new family are not seated next to the bridal table. If she could, she’d have them relegated to the back of the dining hall. Or even strike them off the guests’ list. You’ve got to drop the bomb – you were waiting for the right time, but deep down, you know the “right time” is a myth - it doesn’t exist when it comes to maternal interactions. And so you dive in. “I’m sitting with dad.” You try to make your voice sound casual, don’t look up as you speak and add another spoonful of sugar to your coffee. “Is that so?” “I figured… you and grandma will be sitting with Josh’s parents, his brother and his fiancé… there isn’t really room for me – and I’d rather not sit with Martha and the other cousins…”, your voice trails off as you speak, ears feel clogged and temples pulse like jellyfish in deep waters. Your words are met with silence and force you to add more details. “Also, I don’t have a plus one and I’d rather not give Martha the opportunity to remind me about it all the way to dessert”, you continue, conscious that you’re arming your mother with fresh, shiny munitions, but hopeful that the pitiful image will convince her to go easy on you. Your sister looks at you with wide eyes; you know she’s thinking hard, trying to come up with a way to dispel the tension. “Darling, did you really need that second spoonful of sugar?” your mother says and she surveys you with a look that appears to contain the answer to your protracted spinsterhood. You’re genuinely sorry for her - but your attempts at compassion are met with resistance and every encounter leaves you deflated like an airbag after a collision. You know she doesn’t mean to hurt you when she comments on your bangs (too long), your lipstick (too dark), the way you swing your arms when you walk (so inelegant). But she does hurt you. She thinks the impossible standards she sets for you will protect you from things going wrong. You’ve touched her loneliness; the many days she spent in bed after your father left, these hours in the dark - hidden away - never to be recounted to friends, family, or the co-volunteers at the many charities she assists. These weeks of stolen fragility when she survived on a couple of spoonsful of soup per day; the maid dismissed so that nobody could witness her dismay. You picking up discarded laundry on her bedroom floor; drafting mental grocery lists on your way to piano lessons or while dropping your sister at her dance class; coming back, every day after school, to a tightly shut house, resolving to pull up curtains, open windows. Letting the light in, breaking the silence, maintaining hope that things would get better. So today, you answer your mother by picking up the coffee cup, lifting it to your lips and sipping your beverage. It’s definitely too sweet. You choke on it and start coughing, the cup trembles in your hand, overflowing, spilling liquid. You look down at the stains on your blouse. Before anyone can say anything, you stand up and excuse yourself to go to the ladies. In the privacy of the bathroom, you take off the jacket and the blouse. You run the cold water through the back of the stains and then rub soap on the fabric and let it rest for a moment before rinsing it. You look up and meet your reflection in the mirror; the dark shadows under your eyes appear more visible in the penumbra, you notice the skin of your arms hanging loosely instead of compactly wrapping around your triceps, you’re too aware of that lump of bulging belly fat, protruding under your visible ribs - no matter how brutally you exercise, you can’t seem to shed it. You hastily put the blouse back on, but the wet patch makes you shiver. You take it off again and fold it neatly between two soft tissues, then place it inside the bag. You wear the jacket and the lining feels cold on your skin, but as long as you keep it buttoned up, nobody can tell that you’re only wearing your bra underneath. You inspect the jacket to make sure that the coffee didn’t spill on it. It isn’t Chanel. You’re far too sensible to throw away a few thousand pounds on a piece of clothing, even an investment one. No, it isn’t real, but it’s a very good imitation – in fact, it’s so refined that its internal hems are lined with the chain that Coco Chanel herself had added to her models to make sure the jacket would hang perfectly straight around the body. The chain on your jacket is gold, in the same tone of the buttons. You’ve never claimed it to be an original. When someone pays you a compliment, you simply nod and thank them and then shape the conversation around other topics. After lunch, the three of you make your way to the private viewing. The atelier doesn’t look much from the outside. It’s located on a residential street and its entrance is similar to that of the neighbouring houses: a deep red Edwardian door with intricate stained glass panels. You step inside and find yourself in a narrow cubicle with an in-built metal detector; to enter the boutique, you must first ring a bell and wait for the scan to complete before the door to the showroom unlocks itself. Inside, the wooden floors are dark and shiny and the chandeliers are brassy and low and everybody talks in whispers, exchanging grave looks and polite nods, as if you were in some hospital waiting room, expecting to hear the results of a very complex medical procedure and not at a private viewing in a jewellery atelier. Your mother has insisted that your sister’s engagement ring is re-fitted here - the jeweller has known your family for a long time. Any other goldsmith in London would have been cheaper and quicker, but she only trusts Lafonte. The jeweller takes the measurements and inspects the ring, commenting on the light and the cut of the gem, and its unusual colour. Your mother wants to see earrings to complement the ring, something to be worn at the wedding; your sister recoils at the idea, but your mother’s adamant, she can’t possibly walk down the aisle just wearing that ring. It’ll be my treat, she says. The jeweller obliges by selecting a few small boxes from the display; he places them on the counter and opens them up to reveal an array of earrings sitting on velvet cushions. There are flower-shaped studs with rose gold petals opening around dusty pink diamonds, teardrops encrusted with sapphires, simple hoops decorated with diamonds, pearls dangling from white gold filigree and finally tiny exquisite birds with eyes made of emeralds and feathers of amethyst and quartz. Your sister, reluctant at first, is convinced to try at least one pair. She twists her hair up to see what it would look like with a bridal up-do and the birds swing delicately from her earlobes, enhancing the length of her neck. Your mother’s smile reaches her eyes - she’s always been proud of your sister’s beauty – her biggest achievement. You catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror, standing behind your sister, your lines not as graceful, your hair cut in a short bob, your signature hairstyle. You think of what an old ex-boyfriend told you once, that you are not immediately attractive; of your mother’s reassurance that, while your sister is such a classic beauty, your face grows on people over time. You walk away. At the other end of the long counter, an assistant is serving another client and, when you approach them, he acknowledges your presence with a nod. The client, a lady in her early fifties, with short grey hair and a svelte, dynamic figure, is looking at less prestigious pieces: silver and white gold rings with little mosaic designs. You notice a signet ring and enquire about it. It’s silver, but with a stylized gold star exploding in the middle of the round seal. It reminds you of that ring you bought in Corfu, one you used to always wear on your left middle finger. That’s the only piece of jewellery you ever really loved, the only one that meant something to you, because it hadn’t been passed onto you, or given as a graduation gift or offered as a promise that was left unfulfilled. No, that ring, you didn’t need it - didn’t deserve it - you bought it on a whim. You left it on the edge of the sink in a bathroom at a petrol station, on a very hot, sticky, day travelling back from France after a family holiday. When you realised the ring wasn’t on your finger, you implored your parents, nearly cried, to turn back. But, you were already running late to catch the ferry, your mother said, and the ring was almost certainly gone. It wasn’t that valuable after all. This ring is you in metal form, you imagine, cold, unassuming silver, but with a precious heart. The other client isn’t convinced, she’d like to see something else, something less minimalistic and the assistant moves further down the bar and unrolls a velvet jewellery case, unveiling different designs, talking about the merits of this and that piece. You’re alone now, the display case still open on the counter; the assistant must have forgotten to lock it up, or perhaps didn’t think it was necessary - that you’re allowed into the atelier is itself a proof of your honesty and of your purchasing power. You could buy this ring – it’s not that expensive and, besides, you’ve got money. You could even ask your mother to buy it for you – she’d be happy to, although she would try to steer you towards a grander design. There are many ways to acquire this ring, but you just take it. It’s easy - you barely look around - simply hover your hand over the display, lift the ring from its case and slip it onto your finger. It fits. You walk away, towards your mother and sister. “We’re going for the gold rose flowers – they’ll be marvellous with the dress”, your mother announces. “I couldn’t do anything to prevent it” your sister mockingly rolls her eyes, but then turns towards your mother and “Thanks Mum, they’re totally unnecessary but absolutely stunning and I love them.” Your mother pays and you leave the atelier together, escorted by the wishes and congratulations of the master jeweller. You’re meant to go to a fitting for your bridesmaid’s dress, but you say you need to go back to the office, something came up, you’ll arrange for another appointment. Your sister’s eyes half close and she tilts her head and you almost give in, but then your mother exhales and tells you that is quite unacceptable to cancel an appointment last minute, she didn’t raise you that way. You say it’s work mum. That’s always been your protective blanket - it’s school mum, it’s work mum, it’s my turn at the children’s charity mum - a duty, not a choice. You kiss your mother’s cheeks hastily and hug your sister, linger in the contact, whisper an apology in her ear. She smiles at you, says we’ll reschedule it, don’t you worry you won’t escape it next time. You walk towards the station instead of hopping on a bus. The clouds are low and dense, but the day is sultry, and by the time you reach the victory arch, you’re perspiring, a thin film of sweat over your face. When you’re finally comfortably seated, you hear the announcement that the train will be diverted and will not stop at your destination, passengers are advised to change trains and board the slow service. That’s all the way to the other end of the station. You check your watch; the announced departure is just a few minutes away. You stand up and walk against the hordes of people getting on the train, excuse yourself as you push forward and out of the carriage and then rush down the escalator. You reach the platform on time and walk quickly towards the access steps of the first carriage. It’s then that you realise, with a spasm of fear that you left your handbag behind. On that first train. How could you? You feel unsteady, embarrassment pours over you like a gelatinous substance that stops you from moving. You look around – everyone else is running to and from somewhere, backpacks safely on their backs, bags slung across shoulders, briefcases clutched in their hands. Nobody else could be so stupid to leave a bag like that behind. The most expensive thing you ever bought for yourself. You look up at the board; the train hasn’t left yet, you have five minutes. You dive back down the escalator, rush along the station towards the first platform. The jacket clings to your skin. Sweat forms behind your ears, on your hairline, at the nape of your neck and then rolls down your back in thick beads. At every step the heat increases and it’s getting unbearable. But you can’t stop, you must reach the platform before the train leaves. You don’t think, don’t even look down at your fingers that respond to an automatic command of your brain and undo each button as you keep on running. A gust of fresh air cools the skin of your stomach. The jacket is wide open on your chest area, the bystanders can catch a glimpse of your lacy bra, but you don’t notice anything because of the bloody train. You’re close, but the stiff fabric of the sleeves restrains your arm swing and limits the efficiency of your movements. So you take it off – one arm and then the other – throw it in the air in a precise arc behind you. The jacket falls on the ground, but you’re already metres away. You’re really running now. A mother covers the eyes of her child as you run past, but you don’t see them. A sudden spurt of speed, steady breathing and eyes fixed on the last set of stairs. Whistles, cheering and ‘what the fuck’ thrown at you, but you don’t hear them. You do the steps two at the time, pleased to discover a precision in your eye-body coordination that you didn’t know to possess. You’re there. On the platform. You hear the signal as you turn your head and spot the train. It moves. You imagine your bag sitting on the table against the window. It’s gone. Everything is in that bag: keys, driving licence, phone, the make-up pouch with all your carefully selected products, the mini tablet containing access to your appointments and contacts and passwords, the wallet with your cards and all that cash that you had just withdrawn at the ATM yesterday and that photo-booth picture of you and your best-friend taken in Berlin, many years ago. All lost. When you taste salt you’re not sure whether it’s tears or sweat. You bring your hands to your face. Your spine rattles and shakes and your calves burn, suddenly aware of the feat they’ve been through. You don’t know how long you stay there on the platform sobbing. And then you look up; you inhale and exhale slowly, one breath at a time as they taught you in meditation class. You can fix this. You bring your left index finger to your mouth and start biting your nail as you make a quick mental list: walk home, cancel the cards, get a police report as evidence you’ve lost the bag, call the cleaner who has a spare set of keys. You chew your fingernail. The items are jumbled in your head, don’t follow the right order, but you’re convinced now, you have it together. You move onto the cuticle skin, but your eyes fall onto the stolen ring on your middle finger. You stop the nail-biting and contemplate the ring, fidget with it, slip it off your finger, and on and off again. At that moment it hits you. The realisation. You’ve never liked that bag. You’ve hated it. The pretentious colour, the uncomfortable handles, the garish clasp. You’ll never buy something like that again. You wipe your eyes, slip the ring back onto your finger and smile.

Over the last couple of years, the phrase ‘social media’ has become typically synonymous with TikTok dances, hot Twitter takes, and podcast bros - we have endless content at our fingertips. On average, we use social media for 2 hours and 24 minutes daily, with 60% of the world’s population scrolling away. The top four most popular social media giants with the highest number of monthly active users, as of 2023, are Facebook, YouTube, WhatsApp, and Instagram. LinkedIn ranks in at 16th most popular, serving its unique purpose as a platform primarily focused on professional networking and recruitment, business and skill development, and sharing industry insights. With over 930 million members globally, LinkedIn is used by students, professionals, businesses, and more, for a variety of reasons. Launched in 2003, LinkedIn state their vision is to ‘create economic opportunity for every member of the global workforce’ and their mission is to ‘connect the world’s professionals to make them more productive and successful’. Compared to its more attractive, sought-after siblings, LinkedIn, initially a job search engine, has adapted over time to offer something for everyone, allowing users to establish their personal brands, market their services, and cultivate career-altering connections. LinkedIn differs from other platforms in many ways, one being the type of content we upload; the way we post and present ourselves on the feed tends to lean into professionalism and polish. As a Neuroscience and Mental Health Specialist, and a daily user of LinkedIn myself, I wanted to find out how the different type of content on the platform might impact users, and how the content is essentially received. In this article, we’re going to take a closer look at one of the more recurrent archetypes of posts on LinkedIn: the ‘excited to announce’, ‘happy to share’ posts. The posts: celebrating, connecting or conceited? Funnily enough, as a graduate I used LinkedIn to land my first full-time-big-girl role as a resourcer within the games recruitment industry, and naturally went on to become heavily acquainted with the platform in the following months. Having spent so much time on LinkedIn over the last 10 years or so, I have identified an unavoidable, unwritten custom, that I’ve participated in without even realising: announcing achievements. Excitedly, of course. Social media allows us to accentuate our wins, encouraging us to curate a highlight reel of our successes. And when it comes to our academic and professional lives, there are plenty of different achievements to be ‘thrilled to share’ with our connections. It could be a professional milestone, a new role, a promotion, a qualification, or shiny new certification. Why we post about our wins on LinkedIn differs from person to person. Do we post to seek validation? To look good? To share our elation at having tasted the fruits of our labour? Our achievements bolster our professional reputation and credibility within our networks and respective industries; they can earn us invaluable social currency, open doors and attract new opportunities. Our achievements inherently advance our individual journeys and are stepping stones towards both our personal and professional goals. Our achievements can bring us feelings of immeasurable joy, growth, and fulfilment. Our care motivates us to share. Informing our network of our achievements can make us feel more connected, seen and supported. So, we share our successes on LinkedIn for a number of different reasons, always with some level of self-involvement. The purpose behind the posts can vary, from enjoying the attention to inspiring others who might be in an earlier stage of their career. What’s clear is ‘excited to announce’ posts are commonplace on LinkedIn and are definitely here to stay. How do ‘excited to announce’ posts make us feel? Our social media content intrinsically reflects our identities and in doing so, provokes emotion from both perspectives: the content poster and the content viewer. LinkedIn allows us to keep up to date with the career achievements of our connections and reinforces that feeling of belonging to a community. Humans are innately social creatures, and we like to see what other humans are up to. This is especially true in the entrepreneurial-hustle-rise-and-grind-burnout culture that has swept social media in recent years, often perpetuated by the previously mentioned podcast bros. The social climate of LinkedIn is deeply associated with achievement culture. It is far more appealing to share our wins rather than our failures, to maintain our pristine image. As the poster, we’ll most likely share the success with a sense of pride and fulfilment. However, as a viewer, the impact of the post can vary. Constantly scrolling a timeline saturated with others’ achievements can potentially be quite demoralising and result in a 'compare and despair' effect. More specifically, young people experience a consistent struggle of trying to reach ridiculously high, unrealistic, and sometimes unattainable levels of success. This has been deemed a ‘strong achievement imperative’, where young people using social media feel heightened pressure to present themselves as ‘flawless’. These persistent pressures lead to feelings of ‘inadequacy, critical introspection and depression’, as well as ‘jealousy, loneliness, stress and anxiousness’. Adults also feel the burden of trying to keep up with our colleagues and peers professionally. When the content we see is disproportionately skewed towards achievements, it becomes difficult to visualise the journey to that desired destination. The journey, although hidden, often involves immense resilience, hard work, and a rude reality of rejection. The path isn’t always obvious, linear, or easily accessible. Pulling the curtain back to see the inner workings of success isn’t always pretty but is necessary to provide viewers with a bigger picture. The process and steps taken to reach the achievement are equally significant to, if not more significant than, the achievement itself. On the other hand, ‘excited to announce’ posts can be a source of motivation and inspiration. There are countless role models we can connect with on LinkedIn. Our mentors, supervisors, friends, and yes, sometimes even influencers, can indirectly push us to aspire to greater academic or professional success. For example, seeing individuals who look like us or come from similar backgrounds, succeeding in our field of interest can be a massive morale boost. Having the opportunity to support each other as we climb the proverbial corporate ladder makes the difficult journeys and eventual rewards a lot more worthwhile and bountiful. How ‘excited to announce’ posts impact us is fundamentally up to us, our own perspectives, and interpretations. We can decide how to react to this type of post. Nevertheless, the achievement-heavy landscape of LinkedIn has room for improvement. How do we find balance moving forwards? Finding balance on any social media platform, let alone LinkedIn, is challenging. Shifting the narrative to share our failures, as well as our successes, demonstrates our humanity. Struggles throughout our career journeys are inevitable, not fictional. Sharing both our wins and losses at least provides viewers with a clearer view. However, we cannot control how our content is interpreted. If you are experiencing more negative feelings whilst browsing LinkedIn posts, remember that it’s totally acceptable to take a break from the platform. We can take action to improve our relationship with social media platforms, like LinkedIn, by acknowledging and taking the time to understand what causes our negative feelings to emerge. I believe that authenticity, engagement, and transparency are key to progressing towards balance on LinkedIn. When we illustrate how our failures and trepidations were part of reaching the end result, and how they can be opportunities for growth, learning, and development, we shatter the façade of perfection, and invite our connections to see us as we are.