Image Source: Michal Renčo from Pixabay Growing up, I thought Dad was stoic. He always managed to keep his emotions in check, even when he was diagnosed with Myotonic Muscular Dystrophy, alongside my uncle and aunt. Even as he watched them pass away and felt his own muscles atrophy until he couldn’t leave the house any more, he kept a stiff upper lip like the British men of his generation had been taught to do by their fathers. When Dad died in 2025, I thought about his stoicism and how I was going to cope with the fact I’d lost him only weeks after I’d welcomed my daughter Freya into the world. The Stoicism I reached for to navigate this difficult period was a different kind to Dad’s keep-stum-and-carry-on attitude. It’s a kind I’ve returned to throughout my life during times of dealing with bouts of social anxiety that started in my teenage years but didn’t know how to name it. All I knew was the all-consuming, crippling feeling of wondering if I was good enough that eventually made me contemplate taking my own life at the age of 14. When COVID happened in 2020, those same feelings of being unworthy and trapped returned. I didn’t want to feel like that again, so I started listening to a lot of podcasts and found The Daily Stoic by Ryan Holiday. This was the moment I found a perspective that helped to address everything I’d been trying to cope with for years. I’m talking about the philosophy of Stoicism. I believe it has truly life-changing effects for creating a positive mental health routine. What is Stoicism? There’s a difference between ‘little s’ stoicism and ‘big S’ Stoicism. The former is a character trait, and the latter is a philosophy and way of living that can teach us how to regulate our emotions, while accepting that we can still feel our emotions and talk about them. The simplified story of Stoicism is that it was started by a bloke called Zeno of Citium in 300 BC. A wealthy merchant, Zeno was shipwrecked in Athens, and he lost everything so he needed to find a way to move forward. He found a bookshop and read a book written by Xenophon, a student of Socrates. Zeno asked the owner of the bookshop how he could learn from people like Socrates. The bookseller told Zeno to speak to a philosopher called Crates who had just walked past the shop. So, Zeno sat under Crates’ learning tree and developed his philosophy at a place called the Stoa Poikile (painted porch) in the market of Athens. Here, Zeno created a philosophy built on four principles of courage, wisdom, temperance, and justice. Zeno taught that we can only focus on what is within our control and that a Stoic must live in accordance with nature (which doesn’t mean walking naked through nature by the way). Simply, it means to be in harmony with human nature and to have a responsibility towards our communities. Stoicism isn’t about being passive or emotionless. Zeno created his philosophy to encourage practitioners to take an active interest in the world, whether that be in one-to-one relationships or on a big community scale to create impact. Image Source: Adrian Botica on Unsplash Eventually, Stoicism found its way to Ancient Rome where famous names like the politician Seneca and emperor Marcus Aurelius put it into practice as a way of living. In the modern day, there’s been a renewed interest in Stoicism thanks to authors like Ryan Holiday and his podcast The Daily Stoic. How Can Stoicism be Applied to Mental Health? I’ve experienced social anxiety on and off. In big crowds, I’ve felt trapped and paralysed and questioned my self-worth. I’ve struggled in my role as a dad, wondering if I’m doing enough. At times like these, I use a toolbox of Stoic techniques to soothe my nervous system. Here are some of my favourites: The View From Above This technique was a popular choice for Marcus Aurelius when he needed to take a big-picture view of a situation. In Meditations, he writes: “Think of substance in its entirety, of which you have the smallest of shares; and of time in its entirety, of which a brief and momentary span has been assigned to you; and of the works of destiny, and how very small is your part in them.” What he meant was to consider that there are people all around you experiencing the same anxieties and uncertainties. To see all of this from above by imagining you are looking down at yourself, then your city or town, then at the world as a whole, and realising that what you are experiencing is normal. By the time you’ve done this exercise, you can objectively see that how you react to a situation can be controlled. Image Source: Michal Renčo on Pixabay The Premeditation of Adversity Seneca liked using this technique to help inoculate himself against stressful situations. The concept is also called negative visualisation where you mentally rehearse a scenario and consider all of the setbacks that may happen. I’ll caveat this by saying that this technique may not be for everyone if you feel that imagining the worst-kind-of scenario would aggravate your mental health. But by the time you experience the situation for real, you may not feel anxious about it any more. If you still stumble, that’s okay. What matters is you were able to visualise different outcomes and attempt to respond to adversity. Contemplating The Sage Another Stoic idea is The Sage. This is a figure who’s become a Jedi master of the philosophy and is never ruled by fear, depression, or anxiety. There’s nobody like that in real life and that’s the point. The Sage is an ideal to aim for. When doing this exercise, I like to think of historical and fictional characters who have traits that I admire and that I can attempt to model. You can do the same by thinking about the traits of someone you admire and considering how you can apply them to your own life. This may be helpful when it comes to making decisions or taking a step back from a stressful situation. Using Stoicism in the Right Way So far, I’ve described Stoicism in its simplest terms. It’s a nuanced philosophy with lots of finer points that are easy to misunderstand without the right context and framing. At times, it may even be co-opted to push dangerous narratives that can damage mental health. A misconception is that Stoicism is a male-only philosophy. The truth is that Stoicism is a philosophy for everyone because it promotes virtue as the highest good, meaning that practising virtues like justice and wisdom creates a sustainable path to lasting happiness or eudaimonia (human flourishing). Ancient Stoics like Musonius Rufus advocated for women to be able to study philosophy as well. Unfortunately, a sub-culture of ‘Broicism’ has developed in certain parts of the internet. Influencers have distorted Stoic teachings into a form of toxic masculinity that targets vulnerable young men. Broicism strips away morality to push self-serving narratives of success and fragile alpha maleness. It’s vital to separate these harmful ideas from what Stoicism is as a philosophy so people of all backgrounds are equipped to use it ethically and appropriately for their mental health. When I think about Dad now, I’m grateful he was there and for the lessons he taught me. They are lessons I hope to pass on to Freya and to help create the space where she can find ideas that work for her exactly like Dad did for me. Stoicism might be a part of her own toolkit one day. But it doesn’t have to be. What I love most of all about philosophy is that it’s a sandbox to play in where nothing is ever set in stone. And Freya sure as hell loves sandboxes. This article has been sponsored by the Psychiatry Research Trust, who are dedicated to supporting young scientists in their groundbreaking research efforts within the field of mental health. If you wish to support their work, please consider donating.

There was a time, many years ago, when all I wanted was a quiet and safe life for myself and my daughters. I left an abusive marriage. Four turbulent years later, their father abducted them, taking them out of the country and out of my reach for more than two years. When they finally came home, we were no longer the same people. In the aftermath, I began writing our story in the margins of my life, after work, before school events, and between counselling sessions, trying to make sense of what had happened to us. After the release of my memoir about leaving domestic abuse and the movie adaptation of the abduction of my daughters, something unexpected happened. People began looking at me differently. People who might have overlooked me at social events when I lived a quieter life would now make a point of coming to talk to me. After a book group or speaking event, someone would linger, often wide-eyed, offering praise or pulling out their phone to look me up before they left. “You’re so brave,” they might say. Yet, I never quite recognised the person they were seeing. Photo by Vika Glitter on Pexels When Admiration Becomes Expectation The shift was subtle, but it stayed with me. Some of the admiration felt less like connection and more like expectation. It came with a quiet pressure to live up to a version of myself that felt incomplete. I would find myself wondering what would happen if people saw the full picture. Not just the survival story, but the rest of it. The impatience. The years of financial mistakes. The overwhelming moments. The very human parts that do not make it into books and movies. The truth is, I have been many things: resourceful, determined, exhausted, and even reactive. At times, more often than I’d like to admit, I have not been my best self. That is the part people do not celebrate. What Survival Actually Looked Like Behind the scenes, my story was far less polished. As a young woman determined to build a different life than the one I came from, I rushed into a marriage with the first man who showed real interest. We had two daughters, and over time, the relationship became unsafe. When I left, I believed I was doing everything right. My girls and I went to a shelter. I obtained a protective order and eventually a divorce. I relied on public assistance while finishing college, convinced I was building a better future for my children. What I did not understand was what could happen when someone leaves a controlling relationship. My children’s father retaliated in a way I could not have imagined. He took them out of the country. It took two years of searching, pleading, and relying on the help of others before I brought them home from Greece. By then, everything had changed. My daughters no longer spoke English fluently. They struggled to feel safe. Trust was fragile. Even my role as their mother felt uncertain to them. Not long after they returned, my mental health collapsed. The years that followed were marked by sleeplessness, anxiety, and a deep sense of instability. Poverty and unresolved trauma shaped much of that period. I scorched relationships. I struggled to regulate my emotions. There were long stretches where I did not like my life very much. That is not the version of survival that gets applause. It is, however, a very real one. The Problem with Putting Survivors on Pedestals Later, in my professional work with survivors of intimate partner violence, I began to notice something familiar. When people positioned survivors as strong or inspiring, it was often well-intentioned. Encouragement can be powerful. But it can also create pressure. “I knew you were strong enough to leave,” someone might say. It sounds supportive. But what happens if that person goes back? What happens if their path is not linear or clear? Research shows that many survivors leave and return multiple times, with an average of seven attempts before leaving for good. Financial constraints, emotional attachment, shared children, and escalating safety concerns are just a few of the reasons commonly given. Image Source: Tima Miroshnichenko on Pexels When a survivor returns to their abuser, the response from others can shift. There can be a quiet, unspoken sense of disappointment, as though they have failed to live up to the version of themselves others believed in. Instead of reaching out for support, many withdraw. They may avoid services, not because they no longer need help, but because they do not want to face judgement. Some may also withdraw from friends or family, worried they have disappointed those who believed they would leave for good. There is another risk we do not talk about as often. The same people who place survivors on pedestals can, sometimes quietly, withdraw that admiration when the survivor does not meet expectations. What once felt like support can begin to feel conditional. For the survivor, that shift can feel unsafe. Even subtle expectations can shape behaviour in ways we do not intend. What Survivors Actually Need The reality is that survivors do not need to be idealised. By definition, they are continuing to live after a dangerous or life-altering event. What they need is far less symbolic and far more practical. They need to be heard and believed. They need support that is steady rather than conditional. They need access to safe housing, counselling, legal advocacy, and financial stability. They need space to make decisions at their own pace, even when those decisions are difficult for others to understand. Above all, they need to be treated as capable people whose lives are not defined solely by what has happened to them. Experiencing something traumatic does not mean they need to be rescued from every future challenge. As a probation supervisor and trauma-informed care trainer, I learned how trauma affects development. It can shape how people think, react, and relate to others. Trauma can stunt emotional growth. It does not resolve on its own with time. Healing requires effort, support, and often repeated attempts. It includes setbacks, anger, confusion, and contradiction. None of that fits neatly into the idea of a survivor. Image Source: by Meredith Basdaras (writer’s daughter) Letting Survivors Be Human When we turn survivors into symbols of strength or resilience, we risk flattening their experience. We make their stories easier to admire, but harder to understand. We also create an unspoken expectation that they will continue to behave in ways that inspire others. That is not a fair burden to carry. Survivors are not meant to represent an ideal. They are meant to rebuild their lives in whatever way is possible for them. Sometimes that looks strong. Sometimes it looks messy. Most often, it is both. Just as victims are not children of a lesser God, survivors are not patron saints. I am not a hero. I am a person who made some good decisions, some poor ones, and kept going anyway. Just like every other survivor. That, it turns out, is enough. This article has been sponsored by the Psychiatry Research Trust, who are dedicated to supporting young scientists in their groundbreaking research efforts within the field of mental health. If you wish to support their work, please consider donating.

Image Source: Getty Images on Unsplash Silence, Survival, and Reclaiming the Narrative I was called a survivor before I understood the word, and styled as a victim long after I stopped recognising myself in it. I am Srijani, a writer, poet, and educator based in India. Being a neurodivergent survivor myself, I have expressed my thoughts on victimhood and the perspectives on it in this article. I hope this helps you understand and navigate what victimhood is and how it stands in the socio-cultural, emotional, and psychological contexts we live in. Who Actually Gets to Define a “Victim”? There is a clear demarcation, a certain neatness in the way we talk about victimhood in public spaces. It is often framed as a fixed identity which is clear, contained, and easily legible. A victim is someone who has been harmed. A survivor is someone who has overcome. These categories feel comforting in their simplicity. But lived experience is rarely that neat. I grew up in a home where harm did not always announce itself as violence. It coexisted with gestures of care, with material comfort, with moments that could easily be mistaken for love. I was given expensive dresses and toys, yet I did not feel safe. I was sometimes pampered, yet also hurt, physically, emotionally, and in ways that made my own body feel unfamiliar to me. This ambiguity complicated everything. Not only my understanding of what was happening, but also how I would later come to speak about it. If victimhood is a label, then it sits uneasily on a body like mine, that learnt to survive by negotiating the contradictions within it. I am not writing this to totally reject the term “victim,” but to question its rigidity. What does it mean to exist in a space that constantly shifts between silence and expression, doubt and clarity, harm and survival? On Dissecting the Quiet Architecture of Abuse When people imagine abuse, they often imagine something loud, visible, and undeniable. But much of what happens within domestic spaces is quiet. In my childhood, harm did not always look like cruelty. It often followed affection. My father could be both someone who provided for me and someone who created violent conflicts that made me afraid of my own home. My mother, in those moments, did not intervene. Her silence was a rupture of its own. There is a particular kind of confusion that comes from being hurt by those who are also supposed to protect you. Your memories do not form a very clean narrative. They fracture. How do you name that? Society prefers clarity: the abuser is wholly cruel, the victim wholly powerless. But when those lines blur, our ability to articulate our experiences begins to blur with them. Embracing Silence as Survival There is a common assumption that silence is weakness; that speaking out is the only valid form of resistance. But silence, in many cases, is survival. As a child, I did not have the words to describe what was happening to me. Even if I did, I existed within a structure that prioritised obedience over truth. So, I adapted. I learned to read tones before they escalated. I learned to anticipate conflict before it arrived. These were not conscious decisions. They were instinctive and almost necessary. Silence, for me, was not an absence. It was a strategy. A way of enduring an environment I could not yet escape. And yet, even within that silence, there were small interruptions of care. Phone calls with my maternal aunt, who reminded me that I could build a life beyond this one. Conversations with school friends whose own life stories made me feel less alone. Image Source: Priscilla Du Preez on Unsplash Performing Victimhood: A burden in itself When survivors begin to speak, they often encounter another challenge: the expectation to perform their pain. There is a script for what a “real” victim looks like. This is quite common in today's reality and what we “expect” of a victim. For me, this created a different kind of struggle, one rooted in self-doubt. Questions overflowed in my head. Was my experience “serious enough” to count? Did moments of care cancel out moments of harm? Was I allowed to feel anger toward people I had also loved? Even now, traces of that doubt linger. Trauma does not simply exist in memory; it reshapes perception. A raised voice can still feel like a threat. A shift in tone can still feel like the beginning of something dangerous. These responses are not always visible. And yet, they are real. What we often fail to acknowledge is that survivors are not just telling their stories; they are navigating the burden of telling them “correctly.” Reclaiming Space and Narrative Agency If victimhood is a space, it is not a fixed one. It is something we move through, return to redefine. For me, reclaiming that space began quietly. It began with writing. Putting words to my experiences allowed me to hold them without forcing them into simplified categories. My poetry became a place where I could exist without needing resolution, where pain and hope could sit side by side. Taking therapy deepened that process. It was not just about revisiting the past, but about learning how to exist in the present without being consumed by it. There are still moments when memories resurface unexpectedly. When my body reacts before my mind can make sense of it. But there are also moments now where I can ground myself, through breathing exercises, through movement, through the quiet reassurance that I am no longer in that space. Reclaiming narrative agency does not mean having a perfect story. It means allowing yourself to tell it imperfectly, and still claim it as your own. Beyond the Labels Perhaps the issue is not the word “victim,” but the way we insist on fixing it in place. When we treat it as a permanent identity, we flatten complex lives into singular narratives. We ignore the ways people adapt, resist, survive, and rebuild, often all at once. What if we allowed victimhood to be fluid? This would mean recognising that survival can look like silence, endurance, denial, creativity, or simply making it through another day. It would mean making space for stories that are not neat, not linear, not easily understood. Most importantly, it would mean shifting our focus from how survivors present their experiences to how we choose to receive them. Holding Space for Complexity I do not reject the word "victim”, but I refuse to let it define me entirely. It is part of my story, but not the whole of it. I am also the child who found support in unlikely places, the person who learned to transform pain into art, the individual who is still, even now, learning how to feel safe in her own body. Healing, I have realised, does not come from fitting into prescribed narratives. It comes from allowing ourselves to exist in complexity, to acknowledge harm without reducing ourselves to it, and to recognise survival without romanticising it. And perhaps, that is where the real work lies: not in deciding who qualifies as a victim, but in creating a world where people do not have to justify their pain to be believed. This article has been sponsored by the Psychiatry Research Trust, who are dedicated to supporting young scientists in their groundbreaking research efforts within the field of mental health. If you wish to support their work, please consider donating.

Image Source: Valeriia Miller on Unsplash Israel did not allow foreign journalists into the Gaza Strip as it carried out its genocide. In their absence, every person with internet access became a war correspondent. Civilians filmed their ruined homes; fathers stood for photos holding plastic bags containing the remains of their children. A little girl named Renad shared Instagram Reels of recipes made from the rations received in aid packages. Like most of the Western world, or at least those who frequent the same algorithm bubble as I do, I watched helplessly. And I asked myself: how much of their daily horror must the inhabitants of Gaza share before we believe them? It is a question that struck me doubly hard, because I am a journalist and was trained to seek out victims’ stories for my articles. But I am also a survivor of sexual assault. I know firsthand that sharing a story never comes without a cost. I've worked as a freelance journalist for print media and documentaries for the past seven years, reporting on social issues, overlooked communities and women's rights. It's taken me from Rohingya refugees in the slums of New Delhi to Coptic garbage collectors in Cairo; from activist artists in Cuba to farmers branded as terrorists in Georgia; from survivors of domestic abuse in the UK to refugees hiking across high Alpine passes to reach France. It has involved interviewing many, many people about the hardest things in their lives. Over the course of my career, it has become increasingly difficult to justify asking people to sacrifice their privacy when the truth doesn’t seem to have much of an impact. Journalistic conventions shift the burden of proof onto the oppressed, forcing them to beg for our empathy, and getting little in return. Image Source: Curated Lifestyle on Unsplash “Human Interest” In journalism school, it was drummed into us, as an unquestionable tenet, that our job was to seek out the stories and voices of those most impacted by current affairs. The cynical side of me remembers professors describing these voices as “human interest” that added “colour” to our copy. But we students weren’t cynical; we believed we were pursuing some higher mission, "giving voice to the voiceless." We believed these stories needed to be told. We believed revealing the truth to be an end unto itself. The ethics got a lot murkier in the field. People would tell me horrible things that had happened to them; my eyes would water, but my heart would beat faster because I knew I had a great soundbite. As time went on and I conducted enough of these interviews, tragedies began to blur. The tears stopped coming, but not the racing heart. I took the words; I packaged them. In the words of bell hooks, I “consumed the other”. In fact, I served them to the reader on a silver platter of self-righteousness. I remember travelling to a village in Maharashtra, India, during a drought. I was there to interview a woman who had lost her husband to suicide, after several failed harvests had left him crippled by debt. She answered our questions in tears and on camera. She relived her trauma for us, hoping that we could help, or at least give money. But journalism school also taught me that it is unethical to pay our sources, that they must be motivated only by that same thirst for truth. My interviewee had more practical concerns, as the earth cracked and the monsoon failed to arrive. She told her story because she thought we could help her. We filmed, then left, and did not help at all. Image Source: Aakash Malik on Unsplash Speaking Up Of course, there can be liberation in telling your own story. It is the premise of talking therapy. It is something I have done in many forms through my writing. But it is a very different thing to decide to exorcise your experience when you hold the agency, and to have it demanded of you directly or through a massive power imbalance. In Gaza, civilians did not post their stories for likes, followers, or therapeutic exhortation. They shared their everyday life because they hoped to testify to their situation, to change public opinion in the countries supplying weapons to Israel. The cruel thing is that they still were not believed. Years into the conflict, discourse online claimed that “crisis actors” were overplaying the humanitarian crisis in Gaza. They said there were no “reliable” sources, that there was no famine, only Hamas propaganda.’ The words of oppressed groups never carry as much weight as the words of those in power. It is the same double bind that professor and writer Leigh Gilmore describes in Tainted Witness as faced by survivors of sexual assault. If you remain silent, you are saying that nothing is wrong. If you speak up, your words are scrutinised. First-hand experience of trauma is the only expertise that women and marginalised groups are allowed to bring to the table. And even that expertise is promptly torn to shreds. I have had many arguments with men about the prevalence of sexual assault. I would mention incidents that happened to me, and they would reply with questions and remarks. What were you wearing? Why were you walking through the station alone at that time? Are you sure you actually said no? He was probably drunk too. Next time, call a friend. Don’t go hitchhiking. Don’t go to that place, with those clothes, at that time. There is something deeply dehumanising about mobilising your trauma to advocate for your gender, only to have it picked apart. There is something deeply traumatising in sharing your experiences with someone who treats your bodily autonomy as a thought experiment or views the existence of your home as a historical debate. I learned this the hard way, and on a personal level, I stopped sharing my story. I don’t owe it to anyone. Image Source: Mark-Christian Killick-Calver on Unsplash A Better Truth As a journalist, however, I am still trying to find the right path. Working out how to inform so that trauma does not go unspoken and unchallenged, without retraumatisating someone or capitalising on their pain. There are plenty of ways to do this, if we break with journalistic conventions. We can rely on second-hand sources, testimonies collected by NGOs or legal institutions, that have greater reasons to collect stories than simply selling them. We could enforce strict anonymity for all testimonies, so that people are not permanently defined by their worst days. We can use composite, fictionalised narratives based on true events, and inform the reader of our choice. Sometimes, we can tell the story without interviewing the victims at all. In October 2025, Yale University’s Humanitarian Research Lab used satellite imagery to reveal mass killings in Sudan, a country undergoing a civil war, and with strict limitations on reporting. Journalists and consumers of media need to acknowledge that victims do not owe us their stories. We do not need them to understand the facts of oppression, and frankly, until we learn to believe marginalised people the first time, we do not deserve them. This article has been sponsored by the Psychiatry Research Trust, who are dedicated to supporting young scientists in their groundbreaking research efforts within the field of mental health. If you wish to support their work, please consider donating.

Why some survivors must work harder to be believed I am a writer exploring Black identity, society, and culture through personal reflections and social commentary. My writing draws from my experiences as a Black woman, examining the emotional and political realities that shape how we move through the world. This piece comes from thinking about the complicated ways society responds to pain, vulnerability, and survival, particularly when that suffering does not appear in ways people expect or feel comfortable with. Image Source: Ron Lach on Pexels The Unwritten Rules of Victimhood Many of us would like to think that we always believe the survivors first. That we sympathise with them. But often, what we really believe in is the idea of the “perfect victim.” Victimhood, at least publicly, sometimes comes with unwritten rules. There are expectations people place upon survivors, things they expect to see that qualify someone as believable. You are expected to be visibly hurt, emotionally open, and undeniably vulnerable. Your pain has to look recognisable, but also palatable. People have to be able to see your suffering without being made too uncomfortable by it. You should cry, but not too much or else you are “dragging it out.” Speak up, but not too loudly. Be angry, but not in a way that unsettles people. You must above all be strong. Strong enough to survive what happened to you but fragile enough to still be perceived as harmed. This is what creates the “perfect victim.” The moment someone steps outside of these expectations or fails to prove their ‘victim status’, sympathy can begin to disappear. Performing Pain for Public Consumption I have been thinking a lot recently about the subtle ways society expects people to show their suffering in order to be taken seriously, as though pain doesn’t exist if it doesn’t fit within the parameters of strangers' expectations. It’s not just whether harm occurred, but whether the victim behaves in a way which society recognises as victimhood. The “ideal victim” is passive, soft-spoken, and morally uncomplicated, avoiding anything that could make their trauma look less 'believable'. They must not lash out, but also not look too happy. They can’t carry on with life too quickly or analyse their trauma with too much clarity because who would believe them then? Suffering, to the public, is expected to be aesthetically recognisable. Unfortunately, real trauma rarely behaves so neatly, contrary to popular public belief. People respond to harm differently, because people are different. Some respond with anger. Some become detached or hyper-independent. Some joke about their experiences because humour is easier than vulnerability. Some appear “fine” because continuing to function is a survival mechanism. Survival does not always leave room for collapse. People often confuse composure with the absence of pain. Image Source: AI25.Studio Studio on Pexels Social Media and the Performance of Suffering This becomes especially visible online, where victimhood increasingly feels public and performative. Social media has created a culture where people narrate their pain in real time, sometimes before they themselves have even processed it. Audiences then decide whose suffering feels authentic or deserving of support and the internet rewards visible vulnerability, but only when it remains digestible. There is often an unspoken expectation that “real” suffering should completely incapacitate someone. If a person appears too composed, too functional, or too articulate, people begin to question whether they were truly harmed at all. This is part of what makes public conversations around harm so uncomfortable. People do not simply want victims to suffer, they want them to suffer correctly. Image Source: Yan Krukau on Pexels Who Gets to Be Seen as a Victim? The politics of who gets recognised as a victim has never been equal. Black women in particular are often denied the softness society typically associates with victimhood. There is a long-standing cultural expectation that Black women should be resilient, emotionally self-sufficient, and most importantly strong. Researchers have described this as the “Strong Black Woman” or “Superwoman” schema, a social expectation that Black women must suppress vulnerability, endure hardship quietly, and continue functioning regardless of the emotional cost. Studies have found that this pressure to appear strong is linked to emotional distress, depression, and reduced emotional support because vulnerability itself can begin to feel unsafe or socially unacceptable. Additional work on the Superwoman schema explores how many Black women internalise an obligation to remain strong, resist dependence, and care for others whilst hiding their own suffering. What is often framed culturally as resilience can become emotionally isolating when strength is treated not as a choice, but as a requirement. This expectation also shapes how Black women are perceived publicly. Vulnerability is often denied to Black women because society has already decided they are built to withstand more pain. Anger is interpreted as aggression. Emotional detachment is mistaken for hardness. Composure is read as proof that no real harm occurred. Writer Marverine Cole argued that the “strong Black woman” trope harms mental health precisely because it encourages society to see Black women as endlessly resilient whilst overlooking the damage caused by that endurance. That strength can become a prison when people use it to deny vulnerability. As a Black woman myself, I can attest to this. We are expected to survive our pain, overcome our trauma with ease and haste, and not let it consume us before we are even allowed to acknowledge it. This creates a strange contradiction where Black women are expected to carry extraordinary emotional weight whilst receiving less empathy for the damage it causes because, supposedly, we can “handle it.” The Myth of the “Perfect Victim” The truth is that the “perfect victim” does not really exist. Human beings are too emotionally complicated for that and yet society continues to reward people who perform victimhood in ways deemed acceptable whilst punishing those who do not. Victimhood is deeply social and political because of how it shapes whose pain is recognised publicly and whose suffering gets minimised or rationalised away. Empathy is not distributed equally. Some people have to work much harder to prove they deserve compassion and often the burden of proof is behavioural. Victimhood becomes less about what happened and more about how convincingly someone performs the aftermath. So many survivors are exhausted by the pressure to twist and contort their pain into something emotionally understandable for other people. But survival does not always look inspiring. Sometimes it is defensive. Sometimes it looks like carrying on because life gives you no other option. Maybe the problem is not that people fail to understand suffering, but that they only recognise it when it arrives in familiar forms. The “perfect victim” has always been less about innocence and more about palatability. Unfortunately, pain is rarely neat or socially convenient and why should it have to be? Real people do not always respond to harm in ways that make others feel comfortable. Perhaps empathy should make room for that too. This article has been sponsored by the Psychiatry Research Trust, who are dedicated to supporting young scientists in their groundbreaking research efforts within the field of mental health. If you wish to support their work, please consider donating.

Image by Christin Noelle on Pexels I’ll admit, I’m not normally the target audience for the Men’s World Cup. I don’t really care for team sports and am rarely motivated by competition. And yet, I couldn’t help but be drawn into the football this year. Not because of a sudden new-found love of the sport, but because of the players themselves. My Instagram feed has been full of videos of Erling Haaland, the Man City player on Norway’s World Cup team. Never in my life did I think my algorithm would be sending football content my way, but between Haaland’s hilariously unserious Snapchat posts, compilations of his friendship with rival player Jude Bellingham, and the most delightfully terrifying gait I’ve ever seen, I’ve been loving it. And I’m not the only one. It seems women everywhere are loving the “Striking Viking”. But the question remains, why? As a ski instructor, I’ve spent the past few years living in ski towns - pretty male-dominated places. As a result, I’ve had periods of time where my friendship group has been me and several guys (although I now run a Girls Shred group to build community and get more women into freestyle skiing). I’m very accustomed to ski bro culture and have observed how male friendship groups interact and the way men influence the culture within a sport. Sports Culture is Changing - For the better From football hooliganism to racist chants, homophobic slurs and misogyny, men’s football has been a part of a problem that makes many women, queer people and people of colour feel less safe. Domestic violence increases when England plays, even if they win. Footballers themselves have been charged with sexual assault and still allowed to play. Many women and I have found it hard to separate the sport from the toxic shadow looming over it. Then steps onto the field a 6’5” Norwegian who, instead of promoting the behaviour frequently associated with footballers, rises above toxic masculinity. He takes his sport seriously, but not himself; uplifts the women in his life; meditates, and doesn’t rise to the antagonism of rival players, instead treating them as a mildly annoying gnat. Combining all that with his insane goals, I couldn’t help but be hooked. And then there’s the part that’s most endearing of all. His friendship with rival player Jude Bellingham. Seeing two men at the top of their field in a historically toxic setting, showing each other affection, tenderness and love is so refreshing. I loved watching them put aside their professional rivalry and show up as friends, despite being on opposing teams in the World Cup quarter-finals. Instagram post showing Haaland and Bellingham hugging In fact, throughout the World Cup I saw multiple examples of men casting aside expectations, displaying camaraderie and kindness in place of aggression and antagonism. I saw Brazilian players comforting Japanese players after defeating them; French and English players huddling together at the end of their final match; and countless stories of fans from around the world supporting each other. In fact, there were so many positive stories that it helped overshadow the un-sportsmanship-like behaviour shown by Argentina’s team in the final. It made me see men’s football in a whole new light, and I found myself wanting to engage with it. Matheus Cunha (Brazil) consoling Ao Tanaka after Japan were eliminated from the World Cup. From Cleated to Heated, Rivalries Are Captivating People’s Hearts We can’t talk about Haaland and Bellingham’s so-called “Cleated Rivalry” (cleats being the American word for football boots) without mentioning Heated Rivalry. Frankly, I’m obsessed with the show, which follows two rival male hockey players who fall in love, and has become HBO’s highest-performing acquired non-animated debut, with women making up much of its audience. A large part of the show’s appeal (particularly to women) is the way men are represented. The characters learn to communicate, be vulnerable, and ultimately realise that happiness requires rejecting traditional expectations of masculinity in favour of tenderness, connection and each other. At a time when figures like Andrew Tate continue to promote increasingly rigid and damaging ideas about masculinity, watching men embrace affection, vulnerability and genuine intimacy - whether romantic or platonic - offers an alternative that many women find deeply hopeful. That extends beyond the screen. Lead actors Hudson Williams and Connor Storrie have captured the hearts of fans. They have a wonderfully affectionate friendship, openly expressing adoration for each other; celebrate women they value and respect within the industry; and model a secure version of masculinity. Like Haaland and Bellingham, they demonstrate that masculinity and emotion are not mutually exclusive. It’s no surprise that women have fallen in love with them too. Hudson William’s Instagram post showing photos of him with co-star and friend Connor Storrie and calling him an “exceptional soul” Are Men in Sports the Answer to the Male Loneliness Crisis? We hear a lot about the male loneliness epidemic these days - men are feeling more isolated than ever. Women are often scapegoated as the cause for this. Their choice to remain single in order to protect themselves from misogyny and toxic masculinity has been twisted into them “gatekeeping” men’s happiness and ability to form deep, intimate connection - something that, for many straight men, is reserved solely for romantic partners. But what if the real issue isn’t that men need romantic partnerships with women to reduce loneliness? What if what they’re really lacking is the opportunity to experience deep, emotional connection with other men, platonically? After all, intimacy is not exclusive to romantic settings, and women’s friendships exemplify this. I know in my own life, friendship with women is almost like free therapy. We talk about what’s going on in each other's lives, give advice and a shoulder to cry on, and pass on tips we’ve received from therapists. In contrast, I’ve seen the way many of my male friends struggle to open up and be vulnerable. I love my guy friends so much, but I genuinely worry about them sometimes. I frequently remind them to check in with each other; ask them what’s going on when one of the group seems down (most of the time they haven’t even noticed anything’s up); and intentionally initiate vulnerable conversations I know won’t happen otherwise. I’ve had relationships end and spent months worrying that my ex might not have reached out to his friends for support, ending up isolated and in pain. Knowing that I had been the only person who knew what was going on in his life, because I was the only one he had really let in. I’ve desperately wished that the men in my life would learn to be more vulnerable with each other; let themselves be held through pain; talk about the things eating them up inside - their hopes, their worries, their fears. So for influential men in sports like Haaland and Bellingham, to openly show each other affection is wonderful and inspiring to see, especially with the rise of the manosphere and incel culture. To see men subvert the societal norm simply by being themselves, loving each other openly, even in platonic settings, and speaking about women kindly, really brings me hope. They prove that men can be soft, kind and tender, without it making them “less of a man”. That they don’t have to kill the gentle parts of themselves to be accepted in society. That they can end the male loneliness epidemic, and in doing so, bridge the widening gap between men and women. Now more than ever, men need healthy community and platonic intimacy with each other. I’m grateful to see high-profile men sending positive messages of friendship and affection. It’s refreshing, heartwarming and hopeful. My only wish is to see more of it.

Why we should focus on design, skills and wellbeing instead. As a Senior Lecturer in Psychology and Neuroscience at King's College London, I spend a lot of time teaching students about child development, mental health, and the evidence surrounding digital technology use. Recently, proposals to ban social media access for under-16s have gained increasing political support in the UK. The idea is simple and appealing: if social media is harming young people's mental health, remove access and the problem will improve. The ban was put into motion on June 15th. Supporters of age-based restrictions rightly point out that adolescence is a period of heightened sensitivity to peer evaluation, social feedback, and emotional reward. It is therefore entirely plausible that unrestricted access to social media creates additional risks for some young people. The question, however, is not whether risks exist. The evidence is clear that they do. The more important question is whether banning access is the most effective response. Image by Helena Lopes on Pexels Unfortunately, the evidence suggests the issue is far more complicated. The debate often assumes that more screen time equals more harm. However, that's not what research consistently shows. Rather than focusing on how much young people use technology, we should be asking better questions about how they use it, why they use it, and whether the platforms themselves are designed in ways that encourage unhealthy behaviour. The Myth That More Screen Time Is Always Harmful Much public discussion treats screen time as if it were a toxin: the more exposure, the worse the outcome. Yet one of the most influential studies in the area found a "Goldilocks effect". Young people with very low levels of screen use often reported wellbeing levels similar to those at the highest levels of use. Those in the middle frequently reported the best outcomes. In other words, technology use appears to be more of a "too little, too much, or just right" phenomenon than a simple linear relationship. This makes sense when we think about modern adolescence. Digital technology is where many friendships are maintained, social identities are explored, and support networks are accessed. Completely removing access may reduce opportunities for connection just as much as excessive use may create problems. The reality is that most young people appear to benefit from their digital lives far more than popular headlines would suggest. High Use Is Not the Same as Problematic Use One of the biggest misunderstandings in this area is the assumption that heavy use automatically indicates addiction. It doesn't. Many people spend several hours a day online without experiencing significant problems. Researchers increasingly distinguish between high engagement and problematic use. The key warning signs are: Loss of control over use Continued use despite negative consequences Significant impact on daily functioning, relationships, education or wellbeing Someone can spend a great deal of time online and be functioning perfectly well. Equally, someone might spend less time online but experience substantial difficulties controlling their use. This distinction is crucial because policies focused purely on reducing overall screen time risk targeting the wrong problem. Image by Alexander Shatov on Unsplash If We Ban Social Media, Young People May Simply Substitute It A common assumption behind social media bans is that removing access will automatically improve wellbeing. However, evidence from digital detox studies tells a different story. When participants are asked to stop using a platform, they frequently replace it with something similar. They move to another app, another form of online entertainment, another social platform, video content, messaging services, or gaming. Human beings rarely remove a rewarding activity without replacing it. This doesn't mean reducing social media use has no benefits. Some studies report small improvements in wellbeing and reductions in loneliness. But the effects are generally modest and if the underlying factors driving excessive use remain unchanged, simply removing one platform may do little to address the broader problem. There Are Genuine Risks We Shouldn't Ignore Acknowledging the limitations of a ban does not mean claiming social media is harmless. There are clear and well-established risks. Some of the strongest evidence points towards: Sleep disruption, particularly late-night use Cyberbullying Social comparison, especially appearance-based comparison Feedback-seeking and fear of missing out Increased exposure to peer pressure and social evaluation Importantly, many of these risks mirror challenges that already exist offline. Bullying, social exclusion and status competition are not inventions of social media. Online platforms often amplify existing vulnerabilities rather than creating entirely new ones. Research also suggests that young people with pre-existing mental health difficulties are much more likely to experience negative outcomes online. Perhaps the strongest predictor of poor digital wellbeing is not the platform itself but the child's prior emotional wellbeing. A social media ban alone is unlikely to address these underlying vulnerabilities. Image by Getty Images on Unsplash+ The Real Problem May Be Platform Design If we genuinely want to protect young people, we should pay closer attention to how platforms are designed. Many features are intentionally built to maximise engagement: Endless scrolling Variable rewards similar to those used in gambling Algorithmic personalisation (When computer systems use your digital activity to tailor content and adverts to your interests.) Constant notifications Lack of clear stopping points (Such as like infinite scrolling and auto-play) Time-limited content and scarcity cues (Social media stories available for 24 hours only, and tactics making users believe an offer is available only for a short time or in limited quantity) Virtual currencies that obscure spending (In-game currencies that make users less aware of how much real money they are spending, like coins and gems) Psychologists have known for decades that these techniques can override people's intentions and encourage repeated checking behaviours. Put simply, many apps are not designed to help users stop. If policymakers are serious about reducing harm, regulating these design features may prove considerably more effective than blanket age-based bans. Specifically, platforms used by children should be prohibited from employing design features that exist primarily to maximise engagement, including infinite scroll, autoplay, gambling-like variable reward systems, excessive push notifications and artificial scarcity cues. A Better Way Forward Rather than focusing exclusively on restriction, we should focus on building resilience and skills. Parents can play a major role by helping children think critically about their online experiences. Instead of simply asking "How long were you online?", we might encourage questions such as: Why do you think this person posted that? Is this an accurate representation of reality? How does this content make you feel? What do you think the platform wants you to do? These conversations help develop metacognition: the ability to think about one's own thinking. Schools also have an important role. Evidence suggests that positive school cultures can reduce bullying and shape norms around acceptable online behaviour. Digital literacy should be treated as a core life skill, not an optional extra. Finally, policymakers could support parents through simpler, standardised controls across devices. One particularly useful measure would be making it easier to restrict nighttime use, given the strong links between late-night screen use, poor sleep and poorer mental health outcomes. Image by Getty Images on Unsplash+ The Question We Should Really Be Asking The debate around social media often becomes polarised. One side argues technology is destroying a generation. The other argues the concerns are exaggerated. The evidence suggests both positions miss the point. Most young people use social media without experiencing serious problems. For many, it provides enjoyment, connection and support. However, a minority do experience genuine harms, particularly those who are already vulnerable. The question is not whether young people should be online. The question is how we create digital environments that promote healthy development while minimising predictable risks. A ban may be politically attractive. But if we truly want to improve young people's mental health, focusing on design, digital literacy, sleep, family support and school culture is likely to achieve far more than simply switching the apps off.

Trying to conceive (TTC) after a loss is its own kind of heartbreak. Not just because of what you’ve been through, but because of what you’re still hoping for. Every month becomes a question mark. Every symptom, a maybe. And in the middle of it all is you — grieving, hoping, surviving. When we lost our baby in October, I thought the hardest part would be the miscarriage itself. And in many ways, it was. But what I wasn’t prepared for was how hard the after would be. The waiting. The trying. The silence. At the time of writting it is June, and we’re still trying. And while I still want this baby more than anything, I’ve also realised something else: I can’t put my mental health on hold while I wait. I can’t live in limbo month after month, hoping I’ll feel better when I see two lines. So, I’ve been making small, important changes. Nothing drastic. Nothing that magically fixes everything. But enough to feel like I’m holding myself through this chapter with care, instead of just bracing myself against it. This is how I’m finding my way back to balance. It’s not perfect, but it’s helping. And if you’re in chapter this too, I hope it helps you feel less alone. Walking it out Getting outside has made the biggest difference. I head out for a walk most mornings with a podcast in my ears — something funny, inspirational, or distracting, never fertility-related. The sunlight helps, the fresh air helps, the movement helps. And the distance between me and my phone helps too. Cutting back, not piling on In the early months after our loss, I was taking everything: vitamin C, zinc, magnesium, Vitex, prenatals, CoQ10, omega-3s... you name it. It felt like the only thing I could control. But recently I’ve stripped it right back. I still take the basics (fish oil and prenatal vitamins), but I’ve stopped adding more to the mix in a panic. There’s peace in simplicity. And less guilt when I forget a tablet. One method to track I’ve also cut back on how I track my cycle. No more urine testing with LH strips, no more obsessing over cervical mucus, or second-guessing ovulation symptoms. I just check my basal body temperature (BBT), and with my new Oura ring, that takes no effort at all. Letting go of the timetable in the bedroom One of the most liberating shifts I’ve made is letting go of the calendar when it comes to intimacy. When you’re trying to conceive, sex can start to feel transactional — something you have to do at a certain time, on a certain day, with a certain goal. And honestly? That pressure can take the joy right out of it. We’ve made a conscious effort to reconnect without the mental checklist. To enjoy each other’s company without it being about timing or temperatures. To remember that intimacy is about closeness, not just conception. I won’t go into detail — some things deserve to stay private — but I will say this: it’s been healing. It’s reminded me that this journey is about love, not just logistics. And that joy, in all its forms, is allowed here. The doctor said to stop trying so hard I finally spoke to a medical professional. And while that came with a lot of mixed emotions (being dismissed, not being heard, feeling invalidated), it did give me one thing: permission to stop trying so hard. So that’s what we’re doing. We’re still trying — but in a softer way. Boundaries with love It’s not easy being around friends or family who are pregnant or have little ones, especially when you’re still waiting for your turn. I’ve started giving myself space when I need it. I don’t force myself into every baby shower or group chat. I take time before I reply. And when I can, I speak honestly. There’s strength in saying, "I’m happy for you, but today is a hard day for me." A more mindful scroll Social media can be a minefield. I want to support trying to conceive (TTC) and fertility creators — I really do. But for my own mental health, I’ve had to step away. I’m not following pregnancy content right now. If it comes up, I click “not interested”. Because although I am interested, I need to protect my peace more. There’s nothing wrong with guarding your energy. Doing life now, not later I used to delay things. "We won’t book a holiday yet — what if I’m pregnant by then?" But that logic was keeping me stuck. I was pressing pause on joy, just in case. And joy matters now. I still struggle with this, honestly. The "what if" of becoming pregnant always lingers. Especially because we found out our foetus had stopped growing while I was away in Spain for work. But I know that was a coincidence, not a cause. And I don’t want fear to run the show. Remembering I’m a whole person Trying to conceive can swallow your identity if you’re not careful. So I’ve been filling my life with the things that remind me I’m more than this one chapter. Tarot. Writing. Trash TV. The books I’ve been meaning to read. Even writing this. It’s a gentle rebellion against the idea that your only job right now is to get pregnant. You’re allowed to be joyful. You’re allowed to rest. You’re allowed to exist beyond this. Letting the feelings be feelings Sometimes I pass a pregnant woman in the street and want to scream. Sometimes I’m fine for weeks, then cry because I saw a pram in a charity shop. That’s grief. That’s longing. That’s love with nowhere to go. I journal when I can. I talk to my husband. I don’t bottle it up. Naming it makes it smaller. Writing it down lets it out. Learning to feel safe again After loss, your body can feel like a battlefield. A betrayal. A place where something went wrong. But it’s also the only place I have to come home to. So I’ve been slowly rebuilding that relationship. Meditation. Stretching. Gentle movement. It helps. I deserve to feel safe in my body again. I don’t have a tidy ending for this story yet. We’re still in the middle of it. Still hoping. Still healing. Still figuring it out. But I’m taking better care of myself now. I’m learning that I can want a baby with all my heart and want peace in the meantime. I can carry hope and let go of control. I can hold space for the version of me who is still grieving and still growing. And if you’re in the thick of it too, please know this: you’re not alone. You’re allowed to take up space in your own life, even while you wait for the next chapter. You’re not just someone trying to get pregnant. You’re someone who deserves to feel whole. You already are. This article has been sponsored by the Psychiatry Research Trust, who are dedicated to supporting young scientists in their groundbreaking research efforts within the field of mental health. If you wish to support their work, please consider donating.

Image Source: mrPliskin on IStock I am 66 years old. I have had bipolar since the age of 21. (Bipolar is a condition where a person’s mood may go high or low). I have written three times before on this platform: about diagnostic overshadowing, about mixed affective states, and about living with a serious mental health condition. As well as bipolar, I have developed several physical health conditions. I have ulcerative colitis (an inflammatory bowel disease). I have also experienced two lymphomas (a lymphoma is a type of blood cancer). I had a low-grade lymphoma in 2015, which was treatable but not curable. In 2019, I developed a high-grade aggressive lymphoma, which was treated and cured with heavy-duty chemotherapy. Shortly after this, I was diagnosed with Inclusion Body Myositis (IBM), which is a rare inflammatory and degenerative muscle condition for which there is no treatment. The most well-known person who has IBM is Peter Frampton, an English rock musician who was most successful in the 1970s. Having several conditions often feels as though I am spinning plates. I am trying to keep any one condition from spinning out of control. Medications used to treat one condition can also have devastating effects on another. I am having to balance and monitor and shift attention constantly. In this piece, I wanted to share some of my experience with this, looking at the difficulties and challenges of trying to keep these conditions under control over decades. I will specifically focus on two experiences which have gone badly for me, as examples of the possibly disastrous interplay between health conditions and their treatments. I have often wondered whether anything more could have been done to support me through these medical and psychiatric crises. ******* In the summer of 2003, when I was 43 years old, I caught a stomach bug. The diarrhoea carried on for two weeks. I then started passing blood in the early mornings. My GP treated me with antibiotics, which didn’t help. Eventually, I took myself to A&E. I was admitted to hospital and put on a side ward, getting a lot more unwell. I was there for three days before I was seen by a gastroenterologist. He immediately diagnosed fulminant (end stage) ulcerative colitis. The inflammatory markers in my blood were sky high. By the next day, I had developed a toxic megacolon (a serious complication where the colon becomes very dilated and stops working). It is a dangerous state to be in because of the high risk of the colon perforating. The doctors managed to save my colon. I was receiving high-dose steroids intravenously. Slowly but surely, my colon started working again, and I was discharged from hospital nine days later. I was desperately weak – I could barely walk. I had lost a stone in weight and was anaemic. Author's own image I had a follow-up appointment with a gastroenterologist two months later. My colon was definitely recovering but I had crashed into a major depression, which I really didn’t understand. Prior to this, my mood had been stable for thirteen years. I have often wondered why my bipolar had destabilised so catastrophically after the serious physical illness. Was it because the wall of my colon had been so damaged, letting toxins into my bloodstream? Had the neurotransmitter balance in my body and brain been seriously disrupted by the illness? Could it have been the high dose of steroids which destabilised my mood? Were the very high levels of inflammation to blame? Had my gut microbiome been wiped out by all the antibiotics? Perhaps there were psychosocial factors involved? I had suspected that these may have contributed to the ulcerative colitis, but were they also responsible for the mental health relapse? Had I internalised the psychological and physical trauma of the prolonged episode of ill-health into my whole being: body, mind and spirit? Or maybe it was a combination of all these factors which led to the depression. ******* The major depression, which started in October 2003, carried on for six months. I felt suicidal a lot of the time. I came out of the depression in the spring of 2004. I then experienced sleeplessness and agitation through the summer, entering into another major depression that autumn. These mood shifts carried on for another two years. It wasn’t until I started taking a mood stabiliser in 2006 that the seasonally linked mood cycles stopped completely. I had accessed an assessment at the Psychopharmacology Unit at the Bristol Royal Infirmary (sadly no longer in existence). They said that I had bipolar, and they recommended the mood stabiliser medication which helped me enormously. ******* The next notable incident occurred in 2016 when I was 56. My low-grade lymphoma was causing me severe fatigue. My haematologist decided to treat the lymphoma because my fatigue was so bad. I received six cycles of immunotherapy, each three weeks apart. After the fourth infusion, I knew that my mood was destabilising. I was slipping into hypomania (high mood). The hypomania progressed quickly into a mixed state (a toxic mix of high and low mood). It was a terrible time. I was very unwell. Some seven months later, I was seen at the National Affective Disorders Service at the Maudsley Hospital in London for an expert opinion. They diagnosed bipolar and a mixed state. They said that the immunotherapy that I had received for the lymphoma had most probably destabilised my mood. Why had the lymphoma treatment triggered the hypomania, which progressed to the mixed state? I really have no idea. I had only previously experienced one prolonged spell of high mood when I was 25 years old. My mood is currently stable, but I have to be aware of my health conditions, their treatments, and the ways in which they can affect each other. My main challenge is with the IBM. The muscles in my legs are very weak, as are the muscles in my hands. I can only walk short distances. I am unable to manage many of my former hobbies and pastimes, particularly hill walking, gardening, swimming and camping. I have worked through a lot of grief because of the loss of these activities. If I get too exhausted, I have to rest at home for a day or two, which isn’t good for my mental health. My mood definitely dips when I spend too much time on my own. There are activities which I can manage, such as seated Shibashi (a form of Tai Chi), and I sing in a choir. I enjoy spending time with friends and family, as well as reading and cross stitch. I can still go to nice places, with careful planning and the right support. Author's own image - Calgary Bay, Isle of Mull I try not to let my muscle condition define me. I know that I will need to be in a wheelchair full-time at some stage in the future. Depending on how long I live, I may end up hardly being able to move at all, but I don’t dwell on this. I am currently in discussion with a psychiatrist, talking about the mood stabiliser medication which I have now been taking for twenty years. It has definitely helped with my bipolar, but it has caused me to put on a fair bit of weight, which is detrimental to my mobility and my general health. I should probably change over to a different mood stabiliser which doesn’t affect my weight, but I cannot risk any further destabilisation of my mood. I need to keep the plates spinning. This article has been sponsored by the Psychiatry Research Trust, who are dedicated to supporting young scientists in their groundbreaking research efforts within the field of mental health. If you wish to support their work, please consider donating.

How freelancing, storytelling, and unexpected human connection changed the way I saw myself. Image Source: JC Gellidon on Unsplash Hiding Behind Humour People are often surprised when I tell them that writing became one of the healthiest things in my life. From the outside, I have always seemed like someone doing okay. I joke a lot, laugh easily, and rarely let uncomfortable emotions sit visibly on my face for too long. Humour became my survival tool long before writing did. Whenever friends tried checking in on me emotionally, I usually brushed it off with jokes. Someone would ask if I was okay, and I would immediately turn the conversation into something funny before it became serious. I had become so good at doing this that eventually people stopped asking. Not because they did not care, but because I made it seem like there was never anything wrong in the first place. The truth was more complicated. Image Source: Branislav Rodman on Unsplash For most of my life, I struggled deeply with inferiority and emotional isolation. I constantly felt like I was existing outside everyone else’s world, watching people connect naturally while I stayed emotionally distant from almost everything around me. I got bored in conversations easily, struggled with commitment, and rarely spoke up for myself, even when I knew I should. If I was treated unfairly, I usually stayed quiet. I convinced myself that my voice simply did not matter enough. Over time, that mindset became exhausting. The humour still worked temporarily, but eventually even that stopped helping. There is only so long you can laugh your way around your own emotions before the cracks begin to show underneath. Looking back now, I think that was one of the main reasons I started freelancing in the first place. At the time, I told myself I was only looking for a way to make money online, build a career, and create opportunities for myself. But I think another part of me was also searching for somewhere to exist honestly. Writing gave me that space. Looking for Somewhere to Exist Honestly At first, it was entirely practical. I started pitching articles, learning how to structure stories, and figuring out how the freelance world worked. I treated writing like work because that was exactly what it was supposed to be. But even after I started publishing pieces, the insecurity did not magically disappear. I still doubted myself constantly. I still struggled with confidence in real life. I still felt small in conversations and hesitant in situations where I should have defended myself. Then something unexpected happened. Finding My Voice Through Responses and Engagements People started reading my work. At first, it was only a few messages. Someone emailed me after reading an article. Someone replied to a post saying they connected with the way I described something. Then more messages came. Some people told me my writing made them feel understood. Others said they related to my experiences or simply liked the way I told stories. A few people even recognised me because of articles I had published online. It sounds small, but for me, it changed everything. Image Source: Austin Distel on Unsplash For years, I had quietly believed that I was forgettable. Suddenly, strangers were remembering my words. That realisation slowly began changing the way I saw myself. Writing stopped being just a side hustle or career path and became something far more personal. It became proof that my thoughts had value. That my voice could reach people. That maybe I was never as invisible as I believed I was. More importantly, writing became the one place where I felt fully understood without needing to force myself through exhausting conversations. Through articles and essays, I could communicate emotions that I struggled to explain out loud. People connected with the version of me that existed on the page, and strangely, that helped me become more comfortable with myself in real life too. For the first time, I stopped feeling inferior. Not overnight, of course. Confidence is rarely that dramatic. But little by little, writing gave me evidence against the negative beliefs I had carried for years. Every positive message, every thoughtful response, every reader who said “I understand exactly what you mean” chipped away at the version of myself that believed I had nothing important to say. Writing as Emotional Release That emotional shift also changed my relationship with mental health. Before writing, I spent a lot of time emotionally disconnected from myself. I avoided difficult feelings by distracting myself constantly, whether through humour, social media, or simply refusing to think too deeply about what I was carrying internally. Writing interrupted that pattern. It forced me to sit with my thoughts long enough to understand them. Sometimes that meant writing about loneliness. Sometimes it meant writing about ambition, fear, identity, or uncertainty about the future. Other times, it was simply opening my notes app late at night and typing whatever came to mind without worrying whether it sounded impressive. What mattered was the release. Image Source: Benjamin Wedemeyer on Unsplash There is something strangely healing about seeing your thoughts outside your body. Emotions that feel overwhelming internally can become easier to process once they exist as words on a screen or page. Writing slowed my thoughts down. It helped me separate temporary emotions from permanent truths. When Writing Became a Routine I also began noticing patterns in myself. Whenever I stopped writing for long periods, I often felt emotionally heavier. More disconnected. More restless. Writing became a form of maintenance for my mental wellbeing, the same way exercise, music, or long walks help other people feel grounded. It gave me consistency during periods where my emotions felt unpredictable. What makes writing especially powerful for me is that it does not demand perfection. Some days I write confidently. Other days, I struggle through incomplete thoughts and messy paragraphs. But even then, the act itself still helps. Writing reminds me to pay attention to myself instead of avoiding myself. And honestly, I think many people already use writing emotionally without realising it. Unsaved drafts. Journal entries. Notes app confessions typed at 2 a.m. Long captions that reveal more than intended. Human beings naturally search for language when trying to understand themselves. Feeling Visible for the First Time Of course, writing is not a replacement for therapy, support systems, or professional mental health care. It did not solve every insecurity I had, and it certainly did not transform me into a fearless person overnight. But it gave me something I desperately needed at the time: connection. Connection to myself. Connection to other people. Connection to the idea that my voice deserved space in the world too. Today, writing feels much bigger than productivity or freelancing. It has become part of how I process life itself. Some people clear their minds through conversation. Others do it through movement, prayer, or music. I return to words. Not because writing made my life perfect, but because it helped me finally feel visible inside it. This article has been sponsored by the Psychiatry Research Trust, who are dedicated to supporting young scientists in their groundbreaking research efforts within the field of mental health. If you wish to support their work, please consider donating.

With the World Cup having finished, I want to reflect on how it has given me hope in a world that has become increasingly bleak. As a researcher, my day involves independent lab work, often just me and the data. That’s exactly why I’m drawn to watching sports outside of work. The camaraderie feels like the perfect counterbalance. I love the World Cup for how it brings everyone in and fosters a sense of community in a way that few things still do. But beyond that, I’ve found myself thinking about how the World Cup serves as a social commentary. More than any other sporting event, it parallels the world: joy and ugliness, unity and division. You can learn about where we are as a society by simply paying attention to what happens around a football tournament. Photo by Fauzan Saari on Unsplash Clinging to the Past The most memorable World Cup for me was the one played in South Africa in 2010. It holds a special place partly because of where I was in life. I was in primary school, year 6 to be exact, on the edge of secondary school. I was at an age where being into sports at an inner-city London school made you ‘cool.’ I vividly remember coming in one morning to find flags of different nations plastered across the walls. Sports days were reframed around unity. I particularly remember one where we were split into teams representing the nations competing in the World Cup and made to play football like those countries. I was devastated to get Slovakia as I knew they weren’t going to win. Pretty uncool happenings for an 11-year-old. The fact I still retained that memory demonstrates how there is so much nostalgia wrapped up in sport. For me, that nostalgia also points to something else. It was a time when diversity felt, at least in my little bubble of London, like something worth celebrating. I know it wasn’t a utopia, and perhaps I’m probably looking back through rose-tinted glasses. But I know that the feeling of unity was real. A plethora of things have changed since 2010. And perhaps these things are what have contributed to making the community feel a little harder to replicate, and if you were to ask me personally, I think it’s intertwined with the cost-of-living crisis, political polarisation and the rise of social media. Photo by Luciano Oliveira on Unsplash Pricing Out Community The World Cup creates free, accessible, and collective joy. In the UK right now, that matters more than ever as communal life is being priced out. Pubs are closing; funding for local sport clubs is running dry, and the casual social spaces where communities used to form are disappearing. And when you do get to watch football out, you’re being charged £20 to stand in a fan-zone or paying to watch the Premier League at home. According to the Office for National Statistics, 41% of adults who pay energy bills struggle to afford them, with many cutting back on leisure and social activities entirely. When people are choosing between heating and eating, a trip to the pub to watch a match or being present in social spaces becomes a luxury. What makes this feel more personal is that my nostalgic memories of the 2010 World Cup were really describing a time before austerity came to bite. Those flags on the walls, the sports days built around inclusion. This kind of investment in communal school life feels almost unimaginable now. School budgets in England have faced significant real-terms cuts since 2009, and the visible casualties are the kinds of enrichment activities I described: the theme sports days, the cultural celebrations, the small moments that made a child feel like the world was bigger than their postcode. Those things cost money, and that money is gone. The consequences aren’t just social; they are psychological too. Financial stress is one of the biggest drivers of poor mental health, and the UK is living through an extended period of it. The World Cup, in this context, offers something valuable. If you have a satellite dish (and pay for a TV licence), you can watch from home for free, and if you watch with others, it provides the kind of social connection and belonging that genuinely protects mental health. When third spaces like the pub, the sports club, or after-school clubs are being displaced, moments like the World Cup start carrying more emotional weight than they should have to. If money explains why we’ve stopped gathering as a community, politics also explains why we’ve stopped wanting to. The Unity I Thought Was Solid I’m not saying polarisation is new. It has existed as long as humans have fought for power and control. But something has shifted. We live in an era where celebrating together across nationalities, ethnicities and religions has silently become countercultural. Perhaps I was a naive child who didn’t understand how adults really thought, but the inclusive spirit I remember from 2010 didn’t just fade with childhood. It is actively contested. Take the Euros 2020 final back in July 2021. I recall the silence that fell when Marcus Rashford, Jadon Sancho, and Bukayo Saka missed their penalties against Italy. All three players, who are Black, were met with a torrent of racist abuse. Supporters who had been cheering them on for hours turned on them instantly. That night was a reminder of the grip that football has on the mood of its watchers. The same emotion that unites people in celebration has also been linked to spikes in domestic abuse. Neither racism nor domestic abuse in football are new problems, but it was a painful reminder that unity in sports is always provisional, and always fragile. Photo by Jannes Glas on Unsplash Who Wasn’t Allowed In Let me be completely honest. I was worried about a World Cup taking place in the United States. Fans were arriving in their millions, from every continent, every background, and this was all happening against a backdrop of Immigration and Customs Enforcement detaining undocumented migrants, tourists, and even American citizens in detention centres. I was concerned for fans who might find themselves caught up in that. And those concerns weren’t unfounded. Somali referee Omar Artan was refused entry to the US and was unable to officiate a single game. The support staff of the Iranian squad were denied visas entirely. These weren’t fringe cases. They were people with a direct, legitimate reason to be there, only to be turned away before the tournament even began. It’s fair to assume those are just the cases we heard about. Finding Hope Anyway Despite everything I’ve described, it isn’t all doom and gloom. And funnily enough, it was doomscrolling on TikTok that reminded me of that. Scrolling through my feed, I kept stumbling across moments of genuine, uncomplicated joy. The one that stuck with me most was a small town in Kansas called Lawrence, which had been chosen to host the Algerian national team for training. What followed was something beautiful. Locals turning in droves to the training ground, cheering for a country thousands of miles away, embracing them as though they were their own. Then there were videos of England fans dancing with Ghana fans on the streets of Boston, despite both teams having just drawn 0-0. Nobody won, yet nobody seemed to care. That kind of warmth and willingness to celebrate with each other despite our differences is exactly what makes the World Cup unlike anything else. It’s what I recognised from those school days in 2010. It’s people choosing connection in a world that keeps giving them reasons not to. And in an era when the news rarely offers anything positive, I’ll happily take it.

Racing heart, sweaty palms, feelings faint, and nausea, are just some of the physiological manifestations of dental anxiety experienced by patients and witnessed by dental professionals every day. Working in a general dental practice, I have encountered countless individuals who begin their appointment by declaring, "I hate the dentist," before anything else is said. For many, these feelings extend far beyond simple nervousness. What is Dental Anxiety? Dental anxiety is highly prevalent in the UK, with more than half of adults reporting some degree of fear towards dental treatment. This has significant consequences for patients, and influences whether they seek care and how they experience treatment, contributing to poorer oral health outcomes. Specifically, up to 20% of individuals avoid dental care completely due to dental anxiety. It is important to understand the psychology behind dental anxiety and the ways it can be managed, as an important step towards improving both oral health and overall wellbeing. Image Source: M.T ElGassier on Unsplash The Causes of Dental Anxiety Dental anxiety can manifest in several ways, including avoidance of dental visits, distress during the appointments, and clear physical symptoms. It exists on a spectrum, ranging from mild apprehension to severe dental phobia or odontophobia (an extreme, persistent and irrational fear of dentists and dental procedures). The origins of this fear are often complex and multifactorial. For some, it may develop following a negative experience, such as a previous painful procedure. Childhood experiences are particularly influential, as pain or perceived trauma can create lasting negative associations that persist into adulthood and contribute to the development of a phobia. These fears may then be reinforced for the individual themselves by avoiding the dentist, but also across generations through a process known as vicarious learning, whereby parents unintentionally convey their own anxieties to their children, perpetuating a cycle of fear and avoidance. Another reason for dental anxiety is the anticipation of pain associated with procedures, despite the use of topical numbing gels and anaesthetics. In these cases, behavioural management techniques, such as distractions or controlled breathing exercises, may be useful to help patients manage their anxieties and fear before and during procedures. Moreover, a trip to the dentist can be overwhelming as it introduces a plethora of sensory stimuli, such as the whirring of drills, the sound of suction devices, the smell of the clinic, bright lights, and unfamiliar metal instruments. These experiences can be particularly intimidating for children and may contribute to dental anxiety later in life. Popular culture has not always helped either. Many children grow up watching films and television shows that portray dentists as frightening or unpleasant, such as scenes from ‘Finding Nemo’ and ‘Charlie and the Chocolate Factory’. While these portrayals are intended to be humorous, they can reinforce negative stereotypes and shape how children view dental care from an early age. Image Source: Atikah Akhtar on Unsplash How Dental Anxiety Affects Oral Health? Feelings of shame and embarrassment about oral health can play a major role in dental anxiety. People who are worried about the condition of their teeth may postpone seeking dental care due to fears of being judged, creating a cycle in which avoidance leads to further deterioration of oral health and increased anxiety. Many patients hold misconceptions that dentists will criticise their oral health, particularly if they have delayed attending appointments because of their dental phobia. This issue has become more relevant in the years following the COVID-19 pandemic, during which routine dental attendance was disrupted for many individuals, potentially exacerbating both oral health problems and anxiety. Once dental anxiety takes hold, it can be difficult to break. Avoiding or cancelling a dental appointment often brings an immediate sense of relief, which can make avoidance feel like the easiest option. However, this can result in the need for more invasive dental treatment in the future due to deteriorating oral health over time, creating a vicious cycle: whereby fear leads to avoidance, avoidance leads to worsening oral health, and the prospect of more extensive treatment increases anxiety about future visits. Assessing Anxiety in Clinical Practice As dental clinicians, we can use assessments such as the Modified Dental Anxiety Scale (MDAS) to ascertain the level of anxiety in patients, in order to tailor care plans. This is also a useful method to monitor anxiety, as it may decrease over time if the patient’s experience in the dental setting improves and they become desensitised or acclimatised, thus lessening the anxiety felt. Quantitative markers of dental anxiety can aid clinicians to adopt a holistic, patient-centred approach to dental care, and help consider non-pharmacological techniques, such as behavioural management, and pharmacological methods where appropriate. Image Source: Getty Images on Unsplash Behaviour Management Techniques There are several non-pharmacological techniques that dental professionals can use to help reduce anxiety and make appointments feel more manageable. One approach is graded exposure, which involves techniques such as desensitisation or acclimatisation. Desensitisation is defined as exposure to anxiety-provoking stimuli with a focus on relaxation techniques, whereas acclimatisation is gradually getting the patient used to the dental setting with the use of dental equipment. For example, a patient might first be introduced to the sights, sounds, and equipment used in the dental surgery before progressing to more anxiety-provoking procedures. In some cases, a dentist may apply numbing gel during one appointment and administer a local anaesthetic at a later appointment, allowing the patient to become familiar with each stage of treatment. Another commonly used technique is “Tell-Show-Do”, which involves talking the patient through the procedure, demonstrating what will happen, and then carrying it out. This aims to reduce the fear of the unknown and help the patient understand what to expect. Dentists may also encourage patients to use stop signals, such as raising their hand, to indicate when they need a pause. These regular breaks can help patients feel more in control and remind them that treatment will only continue when they are comfortable. Dentists may also use simple aids, such as noise-cancelling headphones, stress balls, or fidget toys, to support patients’ self-regulation. Although these techniques may increase the number of visits needed, they can help to address patients’ fears and alter their overall attitude towards dentistry into a more positive one. For severe anxiety and phobias, individuals may consider Cognitive Behavioural Therapy (CBT), which is an evidence-based psychological treatment where individuals collaborate with therapists and psychologists to reframe negative thoughts and emotions into more rational outlooks. For people with more severe dental anxiety, additional support may be needed, and pharmacological techniques can be explored, such as sedation and general anaesthesia. Despite the long waiting lists in NHS settings, many prefer to proceed with these interventions for more complex treatments such as extractions. Image Source: Fábio Lucas on Unsplash Promoting Prevention In modern dentistry, clinicians should strive to offer holistic, patient-centred care to reduce the stigma surrounding dental anxiety and help those who suffer overcome fears and perceive dentistry in a positive manner. Moreover, dental phobia should be seen as a common but manageable condition, with multiple strategies to do so. Oral health prevention remains a key public health message that should be promoted more effectively. Many individuals only seek dental care when they experience pain, often because dental anxiety or phobia discourages them from attending routine check-ups. Addressing these barriers and encouraging regular dental visits could improve oral health outcomes and help reduce the demand placed on emergency dental services. It is essential that dental healthcare professionals collaborate with patients to understand the origin of their dental fears. Through effective communication, empathy, and evidence-based interventions, clinicians can support patients in accessing care, improving oral health, and ultimately enhancing their overall wellbeing.