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When I was fifteen, my room’s walls were swirls of green and yellow, which my mother had done because she knew I loved green and yellow. I had these Skull Candy headphones around my head, connected to a pretty pink phone, all gifts from my mother, and it was one of those summer afternoons when I was fast asleep. I was tired from school, fed a very generous and delicious lunch by my mother, and I was too sluggish to care.    My mother walked into the room, and she found me asleep at 5pm. She had told me repeatedly that from 5pm to sunset, one must not sleep. In Islamic traditions, this brings bad luck.  My mother woke me up by screaming, and when I asked her if she was crazy to scream like that, she flipped and began a narrative that was all too familiar to me. It was like watching a rocket accelerate or a pinball spiral down. What began with calling me rude, in a span of two minutes, ended with her telling me she wished that I had died in her womb.  Image by Kaboompics on Pexels This incident chipped a part of me forever, and it was my reality for more than a decade. A narrative that I have been actively trying to disassociate from is the one that has left the most significant impact on me: the heartbreak of loving my hurting mother. As a girl who has never been able to live up to my mother's expectations, used to waking up and falling asleep to her constant criticisms, my inner voice was that of my mother. I was harsh towards myself and my failures. I was constantly putting myself through suffering to appease a woman who raised the bar higher every time I reached close. The pandemic somehow broke my relationship with my mother. Or maybe all those years of suppressing my anger finally caught up, and the child who had held space for her died at the impact of her mother’s toxicity.  All the heartbreak finally led to therapy, as I decided that I would never be a hurt person hurting someone else like my mother had done. I explored the heartbreak that my relationship with my mother was causing me. The constant villainisation , criticisms, verbal and physical abuse had taken a toll on my self-esteem, so I turned to compassion to protect myself.  Slowly and gradually, while I continued to love my mother, I detached from her and everyone who supported her behaviour. I think this is something that is possible: loving someone and detaching yourself from them at the same time. Finding the strength to do this surprised me; I never thought I could do it .  But I had a realisation that changed the perception of my mother from a toxic woman to a hurt woman.  My mother wasn’t hurting me for herself. She thought of me as ugly, because she looked at me from the perspective of a man who looks at women as sexual objects, or a future husband, who she thought my life should revolve around. She screamed at me to die because, in her eyes, I failed as a Muslim. In that moment, she was a Muslim woman who had accepted it was her destiny to appease a version of Islam shaped by patriarchal interpretations. As a practising Muslim, I feel it’s important to clarify that my criticism is not of Islam itself. Islam, like many religions, contains diverse and empowering teachings, and it was the distortion of these teachings — not the faith itself — that shaped my mother’s actions. Over time, I have grown to read Islam through the lens of Muslim feminists like Fatema Mernissi, Asma Barlas and Amina Wadud, who have redefined Islam for me and have shown me how patriarchal readings depart from the faith’s core principles. All of my mother's shaming was always rooted in thinking of me as ‘less’ of a woman. Not just for her, but for patriarchy , and — what took me a decade to understand — for my father . The heteronormative patriarchal family structure often puts an enormous amount of pressure on women to perform roles that appease the patriarch. As such, my mother was acting to appease my father rather than in my best interest .  Patriarchy also instils a deep sense of perpetual failure, which we see reflected in our society when mothers are constantly criticised for the ways that they raise their children. My mother was a gatekeeper of patriarchy, for my father. However, this wasn’t the complete story.    At the age of twenty-five, I met a girl in London. Meeting her startled me. She was exactly like my mother. Her good, her way of loving, her way of hurting. Some days, I felt as if I were talking to my mother. From day one, I knew how to calm her, how to help her. I knew exactly what she needed to feel better, or what she was saying, even when she wasn’t saying it. Everything changed that year. Instead of seeing my mother as toxic, I focused on her triggers. Breaking schedules bothered her, so I tried to stick to mine. She was principally rooted in Islamic and Indian traditional values, so I showed her I followed those wherever I could. A dirty plate left in the room terrorised her, often leading to her screaming, so I changed wherever I could. Instead of her screams, I tried to understand her problems. When I separated my mother from what I thought she was struggling with, I was able to see her: the struggling woman.   Image by  Claudia Soraya on Unsplash The relationship I have with my mother   still isn’t perfect today, but the spirals only happen once every few months. Therapy strengthened me enough that I am now able to show compassion to myself, primarily, and then to my mother. My sisters will always have a mother in me, if they tire of their biological one. I didn’t have that growing up, so I know the importance of it.    But I also stood my ground, sunk into my feminist principles, gathered the courage to fight with my father instead of her, as it was him who needed to back off.  The burden of breaking the cycle of trauma is a heavy one, and I don’t recommend any woman to take it upon herself to fix it. In my case, I had two lovely younger sisters which kept me going. I didn’t even aim to end this cycle of abuse, I just kept going because I couldn’t stop being hurt, and I couldn’t fathom cutting my mother off. Maybe here, my intersectional identity as a marginalised Indian queer Muslim woman has a bigger role to play.  Image by Monstera Production  on Pexels A few months ago, I made a joke and my mother laughed; later in the evening, while crossing my room, she winked at me and I smiled at her. These are my favourite seconds of my life now, and they will probably always be.   There are more days like those now, there is more kindness, and the spirals are followed by apologies. She knows, and she is trying to be better every day. And for me, that was all I really needed. Image by Jonatas Domingos  on Unsplash This article has been sponsored by the Psychiatry Research Trust,  who are dedicated to supporting young scientists in their groundbreaking research efforts within the field of mental health. If you wish to support their work, please consider donating.

From an early age I was obsessed with making people laugh. Inspired by Lucille Ball, I took every performance opportunity I could find. My elementary and middle school yearbooks are peppered with commentary by teachers and friends encouraging me to follow my dreams of acting and not to forget them when I am a famous comedian. Then, when I was in 10th grade, in the midst of rehearsals for our school musical Pippin , I was hit by a car crossing a street in Westport, Connecticut. Unconscious on the scene, I was transported to a nearby hospital for emergency surgery and remained there in a coma. When I awoke two weeks later, I was transported to a rehabilitation hospital where I received around-the-clock therapy to heal my broken bones. I didn’t know that my recovery was going to extend well beyond my hospital stay, and when I got out, I expected to return to normality as quickly as possible. The following summer, I rejoined a theatre programme I had been with in previous years. The director and fellow students knew me as a comedian, an improviser, the person who always took a character and made it her own, always with a twist of humour. But this time, during auditions, I froze. I couldn’t act spontaneously and any joke I tried to make didn’t seem to land. I assumed I had lost my ability to act, so I gave it up. Understanding a Damaged Brain The brain is a complex organ that requires precise actions for it to function properly. If this is disrupted, like in the case of a traumatic brain injury, the brain is thrown off balance and can’t function properly. A scan of my brain while I was in the hospital showed brain contusions or bruises in the left cerebral hemisphere of my brain, which plays an important role in logical thinking, problem solving, and processing information. Doctors also found bruises on my brain in areas responsible for planning and decision-making. I struggled with emotional regulation and quickly became depressed. To cope, I turned to drugs and alcohol — even though a neuropsychologist had warned me I was especially vulnerable to addiction because of damage in the brain’s reward and impulse-control system. My dreams of acting faded further into the recesses of my damaged brain as I sought relief in all the wrong places. Amy Kraft in the hospital in Connecticut shortly after the accident. Author's own picture. My Second Act Fortunately, I was able to get clean and turn my life around. I still wanted to act, so I set off to college to pursue a degree in the arts. But once again, I blanked completely in my first acting class, unable to perform. I pushed the dream aside and pursued a career in health and science journalism, which took me to Paris and New York City. Now and then, I would dip a toe back into the theatre world, performing in a play, or a student film, or taking the stage at an improv theatre. But it seemed more like a hobby than anything serious. Years later, after building a successful career in journalism, I moved to Chicago and enrolled in an improv course at the famed Second City, the improvisational comedy theatre and training centre, which changed my life. Every time I entered the building for class I knew I belonged. It was my place, my calling, and it had waited for me to be ready. Then, in the summer of 2024, I was laid off from my job as an executive editor at a national health publication. Of course, I was sad at first, but I slowly started to view this as an opportunity to focus on my passion for acting. I signed with an agent and formed an improv team that performed in theatres around Chicago. I graduated from the conservatory programme at The Second City and the improv programme at Home Comedy Theater , and started teaching improv to kids, which I love. I go out on auditions every week and continue to take classes to hone my craft. It is daunting and gruelling work, and I love every minute of it. Amy Kraft (on the left) performing with classmates at The Second City. Author's own picture. How Improv Helped Me Regain Control of My Brain Health I’m at a point in my life and my recovery where it is hard to determine which cognitive difficulties may be problems related to my brain injury, or just part of parenthood or normal ageing. Nevertheless, I have some cognitive difficulties at times: remembering names, following along with scenes, thinking quickly on my feet in an improv scene. Fortunately, improv has helped me to embrace these aspects of myself. In fact, one of the main principles of improv is that there are no mistakes. And boy, do I love that. Onstage during a show one time, I played the mom to a young adult who was planning on moving out, even though I wanted him to stay at home. Another person onstage played the best friend to this man, who actually wanted to move in with me. As the scene continued, I forgot the name I had given to my character’s son. Once we decided that my son was leaving me and his best friend was moving in, I looked to my son and said, “Well, good luck to you, whose name I’ve forgotten.” It got a huge laugh. Even though I had genuinely forgotten his name, it made sense that my character would be so mad at her son that she would forget his name.  In the world of improv, failure is gold. In another show, two players had built a scene in a well-known grocery store chain in Illinois. I hopped onstage and started playing a piano, in a nod to a specific grocery store that has a piano bar in it. But my hand gestures appeared to some other players onstage, as if I were typing on a computer. I yelled out the specific grocery store I was referring to and what I was doing, and then another player hopped onstage to show me the proper hand movements to pantomime playing the piano. And everyone thought it was hilarious that I didn't know what I was doing. Because in improv, failure is gold. My work in improv teaches me that mistakes are going to happen, and they are OK. Yes, I have problems with my short-term memory, which makes it difficult to remember specific facts or names in improv scenes. Yes, I sometimes freeze on stage and can’t think of initiations or ways to build on scenes in the moment. But instead of beating myself up and telling myself I am not good enough, I now choose to just go out there and give it my best. Life is short and I’ve had enough near misses with death, so today I choose to live life to its fullest and embrace my limitations and make them part of my story. Amy Kraft singing a song that was improvised on the spot. Author 's own picture. Amy Kraft with her two daughters after performing at the iO Improv Festival in Chicago. Author's own picture. This article has been sponsored by the Psychiatry Research Trust,  who are dedicated to supporting young scientists in their groundbreaking research efforts within the field of mental health. If you wish to support their work, please consider donating.

This article contains references to suicide. As humans, language is our foremost method of communication. It is how we connect, share our thoughts, emotions, and our experiences. Both verbally and in written form. And this gives language power. The words we use are impactful. They can be liberating, uplifting, and inspiring. But equally, they can be harmful. It is for this reason that we need to be aware of the language that we should and shouldn’t use. Sometimes, it has a larger effect than we may initially comprehend. No matter how aware you are, and how sensitive you are to the feelings of others, the reality is that we don’t always use the correct language when we talk about sensitive topics. When it comes to mental health, several words and phrases have become ingrained into our daily vocabulary based on dated misconceptions of mental health. While society has come a long way from these damaging views of mental health, and we now often don’t mean any ill-intent by these language choices, the use of this vocabulary can still be problematic. The words and terms I refer to contribute, even subtly, to keep negative misconceptions about mental health problems rife. These negative misconceptions become stigmas and fuel negative behaviours, which become discrimination . Something we so badly need to move away from. The Mental Health Foundation report that nearly 9 out of 10 people with mental health problems report that stigma and discrimination have an impact on their lives, oftentimes worsening the problems they are experiencing , and potentially becoming internalised and becoming barriers to seeking help, among many other ramifications. Image source: Think Media Through working in mental health research and on Inspire the Mind , I have become increasingly aware of these language choices and the inadvertent effect that can be had. Despite striving to be inclusive and sensitive, I too am guilty of some of these and by writing this article I do not want to portray myself as always saying the right thing. What I think is the most important thing is that we become mindful of our language choices and try to communicate in ways that are as inclusive as possible. It is for this reason that I have compiled a list of the language we should and shouldn’t use when talking about all things mental health. By no means an extensive or complete list, I hope that being aware of these language choices and the reasons behind them can help us all be as respectful as we can and help to break down the stigma that still clings to mental health. So, let’s get into it. 1. Put the person first In our everyday language, some diagnoses are used as a label. Describing someone as an "addict" or an "alcoholic" isn’t something uncommon, as just two examples. Labels as such tend to define the person by their experiences. By using person-first language we can avoid reducing them to a diagnosis but also validate their experiences . Essentially putting the person before the diagnosis. Instead of calling someone mentally ill, try replacing it with "person with a mental illness" , or "person living with a mental health issue" . This small change shift in our words makes a big change in the narrative, from the person being a problem (an elucidating blame), to the person having a problem. This is particularly relevant for examples such as people with substance use disorders where there is a clear need for a better understanding that there are factors outside of our control that might increase our chances of struggling with addiction, such as our genetics or environment , because there is so much preconception of blame. Person-first language is also not exclusive to mental health either and, in fact, is a very big topic of discussion across different areas of health care. In some communities, person-first language has been rejected for various reasons including the autism community who have shared that autism is a key part of their identity and something they take pride in and therefore are more driven towards "identity-first" language . It is important to note that this language does vary considerably both by community and based on individual preference and so if in doubt, check what language the people you are trying to describe prefer . 2. Suicide isn’t something you 'commit'. What might be surprising to some, is that it used to be a crime to die by suicide in England and Wales. Until the Suicide Act of 1961 , it was a criminal offence to survive a suicide attempt, and even to die by suicide, a crime that could get you imprisoned. While it is now only illegal to assist or encourage a person to end their life by suicide, the criminalised language from way back then has become ingrained in our language, with many people still using the term "committed suicide". Unfortunately, the continued use of this term still tinges this as a crime and once again fuels the stigma associated. As a stark comparison, we wouldn’t say someone "committed cancer", but rather they "died from cancer". In the same way, we should instead change our language to "died by suicide" . In the same realm as labels that place blame, "committed" suggests the same. Removing this blame removes the culpability. Unfortunately, even now, suicide is still a crime in many countries. While rooted in the intention to reduce suicide rates, the criminalisation can become a barrier preventing people from seeking help for their suicidal thoughts . 3. Avoid using labels in a non-clinical sense There are small moments or occurrences in the day that might ellicit responses such as "you’re so OCD" (referring to obsessive-compulsive disorder) when you show a tendency to like something clean or organised. Another common one is "he’s so bipolar" (referring to bipolar disorder) describing someone who appears to change their mood. What these have in common is that the diagnoses for real mental health experiences are being thrown around in the non-clinical sense. Often based on surface-level attributes of the diagnoses — for example, the common misconception that OCD is just an obsession with things being clean, or that bipolar is just unpredictable changes in mood — throwing around such terms diminishes the reality and severity of such diagnoses . While not intended, the more non-clinical use of this language to describe small moments, the more damage it has. Beyond diluting the experience of someone who is actually experiencing OCD or bipolar disorder, for example, these throw-away comments are unhelpful for stigma as we limit the understanding we have of these conditions. In the case of OCD, this continues the assumption that the disorder is just liking things neat and tidy and doesn’t reflect the intrusive and distressing thoughts that a person with OCD may experience, the intense anxiety it causes, or the many different ways in which the obsessions and compulsions can manifest . 4. Change your choice of descriptive words "Psycho", "mad", "crazy", and "mental" are frequently used words to describe things in daily life. But, these are prime examples of how the past misconceptions of mental health have remained part of our language today. These terms are incredibly derogatory and offensive and should never be used . Some of these date back as early as the 13th Century and of course are no longer medical terms but were used widely in a medical context historically. Perhaps aside from "psycho", I find that often these words are not used to necessarily describe mental health nowadays, but rather to describe something that we don’t necessarily understand. "This happened, it was crazy!" While this isn’t intended to cause harm, like many of the examples here, it doesn’t serve to reduce stigma and still draws on stereotypes that we want to avoid. Whether it seems connected or not, the connotation remains and so it may be more appropriate to aim for descriptors for more specific attributes that you are trying to portray , such as "unpredictable", as just one example. Image source Google Blog What I don’t want from this article is to induce fear. It is not the intention to make anyone shy away from talking about mental health. Doing so would still only serve to perpetuate stigma. The more we talk about mental health, the more we can educate one another, understand one another, and most importantly, support one another. We won’t all get it right all of the time, and that’s ok. So long as we are educating ourselves and increasing our awareness, we are taking a step in the right direction. Let us know in the comments down below if you can think of any others!

Photo by MLucan on Wikipedia, CC SA-BY 3.0) I am an Italian writer and contributor to Inspire the Mind , and I was born in a country known for the wrong type of political avant-garde. We had the first fascist party in Europe and managed to switch sides in both world wars. The social reform movements that started in the 60s descended into violence in the 70s, taking the country on the brink of civil war. Twenty years later, Berlusconi invented the modern populist political style emulated in the new millennium by Donald Trump. With so many things gone awry, it’s hard to remember that in Italy's recent past we can still find positive examples of avant-garde reform. One of these is the story of Franco Basaglia, the Venetian psychiatrist that in 1978 reformed the country’s mental health institutions, making Italy the first nation in the world to close the asylums. Basaglia’s experience is relatively unknown and underappreciated in the United Kingdom , and this despite one of the best books recently published on the topic, John Foot’s 2015 The Man Who Closed the Asylums , was written by a British author and published by Verso in London. I am writing this piece as a complement to the recent podcast The Italian Files: Franco Basaglia , where John Foot is interviewed by writer Thea Lenarduzzi, which I curated. But the truth is that Basaglia and his legacy aren’t very well known in Italy either. Or, to be more precise: what Basaglia wanted – and eventually managed – to achieve is often misunderstood. And his extraordinary accomplishments are, therefore, often threatened by a model of psychiatric care that in the last three decades has moved away from the humanistic roots at the core of Basaglia’s vision. Franco Basaglia was born in Venice in 1924, and was in his forties when he came into contact with the work of R.D. Laing , the Scottish psychiatrist that would eventually become the one of central figures of the 1960s anti-psychiatry movement. Laing’s core idea was that mental suffering was (at least partially) socially constructed, and that the treatment of mental illness was a deeply political matter. Although Basaglia, like Laing, was influenced by the French political thinking on mental health, and in particular by Michel Foucault’s Madness and Civilization , he always refused the label ‘anti-psychiatry’, and distanced himself from the excesses of the movement in the 1960s, which included, for example, the use of LSD to treat schizophrenic patients . Unlike his anti-psychiatry colleagues in the English-speaking world, Basaglia believed in psychiatry. He considered himself a man of the institutions, and wanted to reform these institutions from within. This is why he became director of the psychiatric hospital of Gorizia first (in 1962) and Trieste later (1971). And this is why, I believe, he was able to push the social reforms that eventually translated into the piece of legislation (Law 180, better known as Basaglia Law ) that 45 years ago put Italy on the avant-garde of psychiatric care in the world. When Basaglia became the director at Gorizia, in the early 1960s, mental health institutions in Italy were still “regulated by pre-fascist laws… which gave patients a criminal records despite the fact that they had committed no crime”, as John Foot writes . Foot continues: “Inmates were subject (without any choice) to electroshock and insulin therapy, lobotomies as well as straightforward torture such as freezing water baths and a localized type of waterboarding where a cloth was placed over their mouths and water poured on top”. What the author describes here are practices that have long been abandoned, such as the electroconvulsive therapy applied without anaesthesia and muscle relaxants, or the insulin therapy, that were both (wrongly) believed at that time to help patients by inducing seizures; while freezing bath and waterboarding had been used in asylums across Europe since the 1800s. In Madness and Civilization , Foucault had spoken of asylums as “total institutions… designed to induce conformity and control”, where “psychiatric hegemony… promotes a legitimization of oppressive roles”. Basaglia was more interested in the living conditions inside the asylums than in the theory of power, and as a practitioner he knew that doctors and nurses often worked to their best abilities to help the patients as well as they could. But his first two books, published respectively in in 1967 and 1968, had a strong Foucauldian approach , and contained “powerful descriptions of the conditions within asylums” (among the first in Italy) as well as a critique of the “class-based structures of the health system as a whole”. Photo by Nathan Wright on Unsplash In the following fifteen years, he worked relentlessly to transform the mental health institutions into something new: he started by reducing the use electroconvulsive therapy and straightjackets, both at the time wildly abused. Then he let some of the patients free to leave their rooms and, in some cases, the psychiatric hospital itself. And finally, he involved the very patients that only few years before were strapped to their beds and regularly beaten in the management of the hospital, effectively empowering them in taking care of their own recovery. It’s easy to imagine how upsetting this was in a society that still considered mental illness something incurable and to be ashamed of. Basaglia’s experience happened at a time, the 1960s and 1970s, very fertile for social innovation. But by the time Law 180 was approved, the last working day of the Italian parliament before the Christmas break in 1978, the situation had already changed: the political climate had embittered, turning into the “ years of lead ”, the grim decade of the armed fight, when killings and bombings happened daily especially in the rich, industrialised cities of Northern Italy. The Basaglia Law was a great achievement, one that would inspire the reform of mental health institutions around Europe, but was also, in a sense, the swansong of a period of social and political optimism that lost much of its appeal in the more pragmatic, disenchanted decades that followed. Basaglia’s idea of mental institution became law, and the old asylums were (or should have been) closed to leave space to the modern psychiatric hospitals and community services that we know today. But his victory was, in the words of John Foot , “a partial one… The vast majority of (Italy’s) 100.000 (psychiatric) patients re-entered normal life”, but “some… could not exist outside the asylum”. Law 180 was adopted around Italy unevenly, and in some cases the only thing that changed was the name of the institution whilst the practice of mental health care remained largely the same. Basaglia died in 1980, aged 56, and his visionary practice died with him. And yet, his legacy wasn’t completely lost. Although now almost forgotten, and often romanticised as a beautiful but not very realistic experiment that could only take place in a more hopeful and socially optimistic society, Basaglia’s story – and, with all the due differences, that of the anti-psychiatry movement – showed that a more radical approach to psychiatry is possible. Even more importantly, perhaps, it showed that there is a third option between accepting the ideology behind institutions and refusing them altogether, and that sometimes even the political apparatuses can change for the better. In an age when ‘reform’ means almost invariably more privileges for the ultra-rich and worse living standards for all the rest of us, this is a lesson that should not be forgotten.

My research in mental health and neuroscience is fuelled by a deep curiosity about how the world around us, everything from our environment and experiences, to the most trivial details like the clothes we wear, shape our health and wellbeing. As a child, I spent what felt like lifetimes following behind my mother and sisters during their shopping trips. While they scoured the clothing racks, I lingered beside my mother, watching her as she would inspect every garment label with intense focus. At the time, I could not fathom why something so straightforward had to consume hours of our time. What difference did it make what the clothes were made of?  However, now that I am an adult, I understand.  Clothing is part of our everyday lives, yet very few of us pause to question what they’re composed of. We often consider the price, style, trend, and fit, but rarely do we think about the fibres woven into the fabric or the consequences of these choices.  Photo by Cottonbro Studio on Pexels What Sets Natural and Synthetic Fibres Apart? Within the world of textiles, fibres are the foundation of the clothes we wear daily. These fibres are classified into two categories: natural and synthetic fibres . Despite serving the same purpose, their characteristics, origins, and impact significantly differ.  Natural fibres are sourced from plants and animals, making them a completely renewable resource. Common examples include cotton, wool, linen, and silk. Due to their breathable nature, comfort, and sustainability, these materials have been used for clothes for centuries. An advantageous feature of natural fibres is that they are biodegradable, meaning they can breakdown naturally over time without leaving a mark on the planet. In contrast, synthetic fibres are entirely man-made, and mass produced through complex chemical processes involving non-renewable resources such as coal, oil, and natural gas. Common synthetic fibres used in clothing include polyester, nylon, and acrylic, and all of these materials dominate the fast fashion industry due to their low cost and durability. With increased profits for retailers come major environmental drawbacks. Synthetic fibres are non-biodegradable, therefore synthetically derived clothes often end up in landfills or pollute waterways, contributing to the global issue of textile pollution. In addition to the environmental impact, recent research is beginning to raise important questions on how synthetic fibres can also be detrimental to human health.  Potential Health Risks of Synthetic Fibres Synthetic fibres often undergo chemical treatment during manufacturing. Substances such as benzene derivatives, formaldehyde, and other industrial chemicals are applied to enhance fabric performance . Unfortunately, these chemicals can remain embedded in the textiles. When absorbed through the skin or inhaled, health concerns may arise. Chronic exposure to these chemical agents has been linked to skin irritation, allergic reactions, and even hormonal imbalance.  A chemical agent named formaldehyde is often present in synthetic clothing materials such as polyester and spandex. When worn, the chemical residues within the fabric can trigger allergic reactions and contact dermatitis.  More particularly, many undergarments and sportswear are composed of spandex. Despite its need to be breathable as it is worn every day and in the context of exercise, spandex lacks the ability to properly absorb perspiration. In turn, wearing spandex can lead to folliculitis , a condition characterised by inflamed hair follicles, or even bacterial infections  caused by trapped heat and moisture.  Photo by Pixabay on Pexels The health implications of synthetic fibres further extend beyond skin irritation. Polyester is arguably the most used synthetic textile. A range of chemical additives including bisphenol A (BPA), phthalates, flame retardants, and antimicrobial agents  are used in polyester garment production. Ethylene glycol is also often used, which is a known carcinogen associated with kidney damage and nervous system disorders with prolonged exposure .    Recent investigations have further highlighted the concern of BPA in clothing. A study conducted by the Centre for Environmental Health (CEH) detected elevated BPA levels in products such as socks, sports bras, and activewear  from well-known brands. This is especially alarming given the mounting scientific evidence linking BPA and phthalates to hormone disruption. Not only do these chemical additives affect testosterone and oestrogen production, BPA has been associated with r educed sperm quality and testicular atrophy in men, and infertility, endometriosis, and polycystic ovarian syndrome (PCOS) in women . Rethinking Synthetic Clothing and Why Awareness Matters  Alternatively, natural-derived fibres offer a range of health benefits, particularly for those with sensitive skin. Unlike many synthetic materials, natural fibres are less likely to cause skin irritation as they are often processed organically without the need for harsh chemicals. This means that they are less likely to carry hidden toxins. For example, cotton has hypoallergenic properties thus making it an ideal choice for individuals who are eczema prone. Due to an increased awareness of the benefits of naturally derived fibres, there’s a growing movement encouraging people to move away from synthetic clothing. While much of the online discourse highlights the importance of sustainable wardrobe choices, more attention needs to be drawn to considering natural alternatives for your wellbeing.   When advice surrounding sustainable shopping is delivered in a tone that shames people for being ‘non-environmentally conscious,’ the message becomes alienating for the listener. Instead of motivating individuals to change their shopping habits, this approach can often shut down meaningful dialogue and learning. It is imperative that discourse surrounding synthetic fibres expands beyond environmental guilt, and embraces education on sustainability and the implications for human health.  Photo by Ksenia Chernaya on Pexels The truth is that avoiding synthetic clothing is not always easy as most high street retailers stock garments made predominantly from synthetic fibres. When natural garments containing cotton, linen, or wool appear on shelves, they often come with a significantly higher price tag. This pricing gap has contributed massively to the perception that natural fibres have become a luxury, whilst synthetic fibres are affordable and the default.  Becoming aware of the issues in the clothing industry has made me more conscious of my choices. Like many, I cannot afford to replace every item I own with nature-fibre alternatives. Instead, I am for progress over perfection. I make the active effort to choose blended garments with both natural and synthetic composition; I prioritise natural fibres when I can and I sometimes raid my mother's 90s and 2000s wardrobe, discovering timeless pieces made with ideal fabric compositions. Ultimately, the decision of what to wear is personal. The goal is not to strive for the perfect wardrobe without synthetics, but to be more conscious of the growing health and environmental implications tied to what we place on our bodies every day. Small, yet informed changes add up, and most importantly, those changes begin with awareness and not guilt.

A researcher’s perspective In recent years, cannabis has become a hot topic, from recreational legalisation debates to discussions about medical applications. But beyond its social and legislative implications, there's a growing body of evidence suggesting that cannabis use might be linked to severe mental health disorders, including psychosis, schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, and depression. Understanding these associations is crucial as cannabis consumption rises worldwide, especially among youth and vulnerable populations. This article explores the scientific evidence of how cannabis use correlates with severe mental illnesses and discusses the potential public health implications.   I am a PhD student in Psychiatry at the University of Verona, and my research focuses on risk factors associated with mental disorders, particularly psychosis. Together with my supervisor, Prof. Sarah Tosato, I recently co-authored a book chapter on the evidence for the risk of severe mental disorders in the context of cannabis use. In this piece, I present this work.   The scope of cannabis use worldwide Cannabis remains the most widely used illicit drug globally. According to the United Nations' 2018 estimate , approximately 192 million adults, or about 4% of the adult population, had used cannabis in the previous year. Usage patterns vary significantly across regions; for instance, about 12% of people in North America reported using cannabis in the past year, with similar levels found in West and Central Africa and in Oceania. Conversely, Asia reports much lower figures at around 1.8%, though trends are shifting with increasing acceptance and legalisation in some countries.   People usually start using cannabis in their late adolescence, around 18-19 years, with the age often earlier in high-income countries.  Notably, in the United States, about one in five teenagers said they had used cannabis in the past month, and similar rates were observed among Canadian adolescents. Cannabis use is especially common among young adults, which is worrying because this age group is more vulnerable to mental health problems.   Source: Jin-Woo Lee on Unsplash Cannabis and psychosis: A clear connection A large number of studies show that using cannabis, especially often or in very strong forms, is linked to psychosis and similar mental health problems. Research suggests that cannabis is one of the risk factors for psychosis that people can actually change. Using strong cannabis products every day, such as those high in THC ( Δ-9-Tetrahydrocannabinol , the main active chemical in cannabis that affects the brain), can make the chances of developing a psychotic disorder much higher than in non-users. Studies show a strong link between cannabis use and psychosis. People who use cannabis every day are up to four times more likely to develop psychosis than non-users, especially if they use stronger forms of the product, that is, with higher concentrations of THC. The risk increases proportionally to how much and how often someone uses it, and starting at a younger age, particularly before 15, makes the chances even higher.   Studies that follow people over time indicate that using cannabis during adolescence can double or even sextuple the risk of schizophrenia later in life. For instance, a large-scale study involving over 50,000 males found that those who smoked cannabis by age 18 had twice the risk of schizophrenia diagnosis, with chronic users having a six times higher risk. Moreover, individuals with Cannabis Use Disorder (CUD) are more likely to experience other psychiatric conditions, including anxiety and affective disorders.   Genetics can also influence how people respond to cannabis. Some individuals have specific genetic differences that make them more likely to experience psychosis when using cannabis. This shows how our genes and environment can work together - if someone is genetically predisposed, cannabis use may increase their risk of developing psychosis or other severe mental disorders.   Source: by Валерия Прокопович on Unsplash Severe mental disorders beyond psychosis Patients with major depressive disorder or bipolar disorder exhibit higher rates of cannabis dependence and CUD compared to the general population. For example, CUD is present in more than 20% of bipolar disorder patients , with higher severity correlating with more rapid mood cycling and poorer outcomes. In depression , cannabis use appears to both increase the risk of developing depressive symptoms and exacerbate existing depression. Several studies show that individuals with CUD are 2 to 5 times more likely to suffer from major depressive disorder, and heavy cannabis use in adolescence can lead to earlier depression onset. However, the causal nature of this relationship remains complex, with some evidence suggesting a bidirectional link: depression may predispose individuals to cannabis use as a form of self-medication, while cannabis itself may worsen mood symptoms. Source: Syndey Latham on Unsplash Public health implications and prevention strategies Given the accumulating evidence , reducing cannabis consumption, particularly high-potency forms, could significantly lower the incidence of severe mental disorders. Models estimate that if daily use of cannabis and high-potency strains were eliminated, up to 20-30% of new psychosis cases might be preventable.   Public health policies should emphasise education about the mental health risks associated with cannabis, especially for youth. As cannabis becomes more accessible and socially acceptable, awareness campaigns and early intervention programs are vital. Furthermore, recognising genetic susceptibility could inform screening and prevention efforts. Source: Richard T on Unsplash Navigating a complex relationship In conclusion, the epidemiological evidence points to a  strong association  between cannabis use and severe mental disorders, especially psychosis and schizophrenia. While causality is difficult to establish definitively, the consistent findings across studies underscore the potential harm of cannabis, particularly in vulnerable groups and at early ages.   As cannabis policies evolve, integrating scientific insights into public health strategies is essential. Encouraging responsible use, restricting high-potency products, and promoting education can help mitigate the mental health burden linked to cannabis. Ultimately, understanding and respecting this complex relationship will be key to safeguarding mental health in an era of changing cannabis legality and perception.

I’m a 39-year-old neuroscience and psychology graduate, freshly finished with my MSc at King’s College London. My story begins in 2020, during the height of COVID, when I quit my dream job as a Metropolitan Police officer. I’m writing this piece for anyone who feels stuck and, held back by negative self-beliefs and, for those who know what it’s like when the mind or body refuses to let you move forward, no matter how much you want to. Source: Kelsey Farish on Unsplash Walking away The day I quit the police, I wasn’t sure if I was running away or waking up. All I knew was that my chest felt tight, my jaw was locked, and the tension in my body was finally louder than the rules in my head. I walked into my sergeant’s office with all my courage and shame: “I can’t do this. I’m sorry.” The next morning, I handed my uniform and my ID card back to the Met, which as it turns out, was harder than making the decision to quit. I left the office behind for the last time. I felt both relief and despair. Dreams and dead ends Becoming a police officer had been my dream since I was a little girl playing with her toy sheriff bikers, and ever since police officers walked into my classroom at 16, saving me from a long childhood of trauma, neglect and abuse. As an adult, it was my turn to save and protect as many lives as I could. But my nervous system refused. It was stuck in the trauma, afraid of the world. It refused to follow my lead. Instead, it made me freeze, panic, and retreat. And I knew, on that day when I left the Met, that if I didn’t get help, I might stay stuck there forever. Healing So, I returned to therapy. It wasn’t my first time, nor would it be my last. Over the years, I’ve moved in and out of it, following the meandering flow of healing. The next year was tough. I unpacked a lot of forgotten memories and reconnected with my body and my inner child. I began to see the hidden beliefs that held me back. With the help of EMDR, Internal Family Systems therapy , and a lot of coaching, I began to see the world in a new light. But most importantly, I began to dream bigger. As a little girl, I always wondered how the mind works. My safe space was my imagination. Inside my head was a world I could create that no one could ever access. It was a place I could be anyone, anywhere. But I also knew that even here, in my own head, my freewill was not entirely mine. Our lives are like a book that we get given, with the first chapter already written by our parents. The rest is filled with blank pages that are up to us to fill with whatever story we like. I remember thinking, My parents aren’t giving me a great start, I wonder how I will fix the story later? Learning in safety After leaving the Met, my husband and I moved our family from London to the quiet British countryside of Suffolk. The slower pace and open space offered a much-needed reset. It was there that it became clear. My passion, that I should have chased all along, was the study of the mind, not the enforcement of the law. I wanted to heal people, I wanted to be seated across from a person in a brown leather couch and to just listen. With university enrolment deadlines on the horizon, I quickly made an application. But even though I was ready to face the world, my nervous system was not. Thankfully, there are universities, l such as The Open University , that offer online programmes. It felt like a safe way to ease back into the world. So, I enrolled in their bachelor's degree in Psychology and Counselling at the age of 35. Healing is fragile, one step too fast and you might fall, tumble and have to start all over again. But studying psychology felt easy. I devoured the books and the assignments and, before I knew it three years had passed. Source: Annie Spratt on Unsplash When the body holds on Yet something was nagging at me. I had done all the work, I understood my thought patterns. I had shifted my inner voice into something kinder and more compassionate. I was able to take up space in the world and not shrink from it, yet my nervous system hadn’t caught up. The hypervigilance never went away, the tightness and tension remained. I still had to fight against the urge to flee. I was ready to face the world, and embody all I had learned, but only if I switched off my parasympathetic nervous system. Reconnecting The first time I was prescribed a beta blocker (a type of medication that reduces the effect of adrenaline in the body) was when I really understood: it’s not always the mind, it’s also the body. One cannot be healed without the other. And yet, they cannot always be healed in synchrony.  The mind can respond to words. It can be calmed by insights, by logic, by naming and understanding. But my body didn’t care about stories. It needed only to feel. To sit through the discomfort, without judgment of the mind. To experience it with all the senses until, like a wave, it passes through. Only then, can it begin to learn that uncomfortable feelings are just that: feelings. Not warnings, not lions, just waves. There’s no need to run, to push them away, to escape them, or distract from them. Bridging the gap I began to wonder what psychologists had to say about this connection, as it was nothing we had discussed during my bachelor’s. Much of psychology is concerned with healing the mind, while medicine rarely addresses how the body affects the mind or vice-versa. My own experiences already convinced me they were deeply connected, but it wasn’t until I stumbled across Bessel Van Der Kolk’s The Body Keeps the Score and Gabor Maté’s The Myth of Normal that I saw those ideas reflected so clearly in someone else’s work. I read them cover to cover, and my curiosity quickly turned into direction. When I learned that King’s College London was offering a first-time course titled Neuroscience and Psychology of the Mind-Body Interface starting in September 2024, I applied immediately. I did not apply to another university or another masters. This was it. Source: Unseen Studio on Unsplash Looking forward It's now August 5 Th 2025. The last day of this MSc. I am about to submit my dissertation on exploring choroid plexus (the brain’s fluid-producing filter system) volume and systemic inflammation as mediators between childhood trauma and depression. A topic that, in my opinion, perfectly bridged the gap between the mind-body connection, early life experiences and their long-lasting biological traces. And now, once again, I’m wondering what comes next. Five years ago, I left the Met not knowing where I would end up. I’m still figuring that out, but now I trust that I’ll get there. Because it’s never too late to change course, to heal, or to imagine a different future for yourself. I’ve done it once, and I’d do it again.

The wooden pier stretched ahead in the morning sunlight, its tip a distant dot poking out against the sea. We followed the stream of backpacks single-file like a line of ants, the wind lashing choppy indigo waves against the planks as we tried to keep our balance in its energetic embrace, the snail-like homes on our backs adding extra complexity to the matter. My younger sister and I were finally leaving Phu Quoc to get back to the mainland of Vietnam, after what was supposed to have been a paradisaical island escape to mark the end of a month-long trip up through Vietnam. In actuality, it had been a rainy and rather claustrophobic few days cooped up in bland hotel rooms. "God I hope that's not the boat" my sister muttered as we approached the end of the pier and we glimpsed a tired, battered plastic vessel bobbing slightly wildly in the waves.  Rather inevitably, it was.  Source: Matt Hardy on Pexels Growing up, I had been the one who had panic attacks, but as we got older, my younger sister became increasingly anxious about travel scenarios that might result in death: usually planes crashing on take-off or landing. After experiencing some of these dark, debilitating episodes myself, before I even knew they had a name, I was both horribly familiar with the feeling, which is unlike anything else – a sucker punch to the entire body and mind – and incredibly grateful to no longer find them thrust upon me. My sister and I are from London, but we had been partly brought up in France, before moving back to England as teenagers, whereupon we had grown very close, bonded by our common experiences. Although I am a writer, writing about mental health and panic attacks is new to me, but I feel that it can only be reassuring to have as many anecdotes out there as possible to remind oneself, at the height of what feels like one's mind closing in, that these are so very much a shared human experience, and that there is light at the end of that tunnel, even if you can't see it. The below-sea-level cabin was rammed full of people, backpackers, and locals squashed against each other in rows. Someone handed out bottles of water. Someone else handed out hand wipes.  Just ten minutes in, the passengers attention had been captured by the increasingly energetic bouncing motion of the boat. Children squealed in delight as waves splashed against windows, adults laughed out loud. I turned, grinning, to my sister, only to find her ashen-faced beside me. "It’s going to be fine!" I assured her, smiling reassuringly, realising that she was not enjoying this unexpected liquid rollercoaster as much as the rest of us.      Ten minutes later, the cabin had fallen silent as the boat lurched from side to side. Through the din of the engines, the violent hammering of water against wood, and the creaking of the boat's body as it rose and smashed into the ocean, you could pick out a stomach-deep chorus of retching. My sister pointed mutely to the window beside us as water sprayed in with each passing wave. A tear rolled down her cheek. I squeezed her hand tighter and smiled, "Don't worry."  My sister and I have travelled together frequently over the years, and I was well aware of the symptoms of a panic attack in her. One look sideways at her face – frozen as a plane took off, or during turbulence – and I knew that, although she looked calm, inside a storm was raging. Someone handed out sick bags, gratefully received by many. A row ahead of us, the roof started gently dripping seawater into the cabin. I looked around discreetly for an exit and couldn't see one. It occurred to me then, in a sudden, clear moment of quiet inner-honesty, that if the boat tipped, there would be no escape. Water would come pouring in, and we would all drown en masse off the coast of Vietnam, somewhere in the South China Sea.  The headlines flashed before my eyes, all too easily, and I wondered, not for the first time whilst travelling, whether this was how I was going to go. "Just popping to the loo," I smiled briskly to my sister, who nodded mutely, as I snuck off to scout for an escape route that might include the possibility of life at the other end. Source: Yang Zhang on Unsplash Down the cabin, up some steps, through a door and finally out into the open air, was a tiny passageway between engine room and cabin, with two toilets for anyone brave enough, and fresh air and dark grey sea at each end. Should one slip on the wet floor, which one so very conceivably could, given the quantities of water swishing in over the plastic floor and one's flimsily flip-flopped feet, one would be deposited straight into the sea, in one swift sliding motion. I waited for my turn for the toilet, contemplating the roiling colourless waves and reflecting that my sister and I were both fairly strong swimmers. Surely the open sea, the possibility of sharks, and a death born of exhaustion were better than being drowned with a crowd in a claustrophobic cabin; screams, tears, and panic being the soundtrack to your entry into the afterlife.  I waded back out, my decision made, and squelched down to the cabin. A wave caused me to lurch drunkenly down the aisle. Somebody else's stomach lurched audibly into a paper bag as I swung into my seat. The faint odour of vomit mixed with sea salt permeated the cabin.  "Come on, let's get out of here!" I said, leaning down to my sister, who stood wordlessly. I ushered her out ahead of me, back down the cabin aisle, up the steps, into the open air of the tiny passageway. Surf crashed through, drenching us immediately and thoroughly. "This way we can swim!" I yelled, still attempting reassurance.  We had been very disturbed a few months before our trip to read about the death of an ex-colleague of mine whose ship had overturned in Halong Bay, North Vietnam, drowning all the occupants that found itself below-sea-level. The thought of such a horrific and claustrophobic death had haunted us both – but particularly my sister – all the way around Vietnam. I was honestly not sure how real a threat there was here: if this was just a regular crossing from Phu Quoc, or if this battered vessel really might tip at any point, but I knew that for my sister, regardless, her experience was as real and all-encompassing as if we were facing imminent death. Source: Nik Radzi on Unsplash Three Vietnamese workers watched as we staggered simultaneously to the rhythm of the sea.  When they realised we weren't there to use the toilets, they shovelled water back to the sea where it came from in buckets, and handed us a tiny plastic stool, motioning for my sister to sit. Just above us, in a cubby hole full of luggage, an old man sat watching us wearing a motorcycle helmet and an expression of utter serenity. One of the workers handed my sister a damp cigarette. She forced a smile of gratitude and wiped away a tear. He lit it for her and she inhaled gently. I squeezed her hand and smiled at the old man. He smiled back. After that, sea and souls began slowly to settle. And then, for the next hour before we reached land, it was just the hypnotic visuals of the muted green-grey sea, the dark pearly sky, and the old man with all his wrinkles and his two calm eyes, staring out at the waves. 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.

Author’s Note:  My name is Dave Brennan, and I am a writer and mental health professional based in the United States. I live with my own experiences of depression and anxiety, which have shaped both my personal and professional journey. “The Quiet Room” is a fictionalized short story inspired by those experiences—my time working within the mental health system as well as my own encounters with it. I wanted to capture the isolation, stigma, and small moments of human connection that can exist in psychiatric care, because those details often go unseen. I chose to share this piece with Inspire the Mind because of your commitment to amplifying lived experience narratives, and because I believe stories like this can remind us that even in the most difficult places, connection and hope are still possible. They called it “The Quiet Room.” Whoever named it had a dark sense of humour. It was quiet, sure—but not in the way that made you feel calm. It was the kind of quiet that buzzed in your ears, heavy and sterile, like the soundproofed walls were swallowing every bit of life. The room smelled faintly of bleach, like someone had scrubbed it too hard, trying to erase what couldn’t be erased. There was a cot bolted to the floor, a pillow as thin as a folded T-shirt, and walls painted a draining off-white. The ceiling tiles had water stains, shapes I found myself staring at until my eyes hurt. I’d been there for three days before I realised I was counting time by the meals. Breakfast was a pale tray with eggs that could double as shoe rubber. Lunch was always soup—never hot enough, usually some shade of beige. Dinner, a limp sandwich and something sweet, because even here, sugar was supposed to make you feel better. I’d landed there after what they called a “public mental health crisis.” Translation: I’d melted down in a train station, in front of strangers, unable to breathe, convinced the world was about to end. Turns out it wasn’t—but my world tilted anyway. An ambulance, two security guards, and one very calm nurse later, I was under a buzzing fluorescent light, signing papers I didn’t understand. Involuntary admission. I was told I’d be “observed for safety.” Which meant isolation. At first, I talked to myself. Out loud. Not because I was losing it (well, maybe a little), but because silence can make your thoughts too loud. I narrated my meals, my pacing, the slow drip of time. My voice felt like proof I still existed.   On the fourth morning, I noticed it.   A faint etching in the far corner, under the peeling paint: HI It wasn’t much, but it was human. My first reaction was suspicion—staff didn’t strike me as the graffiti type, and patients weren’t supposed to have anything sharp. But the next morning, after breakfast, I crouched down and traced the letters with my fingertip. Underneath, I scratched: HEY   It felt ridiculous. Like passing notes in a prison movie. But the next day, there was an answer: WHO R U.   And just like that, I wasn’t alone anymore. We traded messages every day. Always short, always scratched into the same spot. They told me their name was Alex. They’d been in the unit “too long” (their words). They hated the soup. They knew which nurse would sneak you an extra blanket if you asked nicely.   Alex was funny, in a way that didn’t feel forced. Once, they carved: WHAT R U IN FOR? I scratched back: ANXIETY + DEPRESSION. They replied: WELCOME 2 CLUB.   I never saw Alex. The Quiet Room had no windows to the hallway, no way to peek out. I imagined them in one of the regular rooms, maybe pacing like I did, maybe staring at the same cracked ceiling tiles. But their words, crooked and shallow in the paint, were a lifeline.   It’s strange how fast you start relying on someone you’ve never met. I’d wake up thinking about what I’d write that day. I started saving scraps of my meals to use as makeshift tools—plastic fork tines for carving, a tiny smear of jam to darken the letters so they stood out.   We talked about everything. About the weird smell in the unit (“disinfectant + despair,” Alex called it). About the music we missed. About the time they’d hidden a smuggled chocolate bar in their sock drawer for two weeks before eating it in one glorious sitting.   One night, after another visit from the on-call psychiatrist—same clipboard, same gentle but detached smile—I felt the old weight creeping back in. The hopelessness. I scratched into the wall: I THINK I’M BROKEN.   The reply didn’t come until the next morning: SO AM I. STILL HERE THO. That was the first time I cried in The Quiet Room. Not because I was sad—well, not only that—but because it hit me: we were both still here. My stay stretched longer than I'd expected. Days bled into each other. I learned the rhythm of the place: medication rounds, group sessions I wasn’t allowed to attend yet, the squeak of nurses’ sneakers on polished linoleum, the hum of the vending machine in the staff lounge when the door opened.   The nurses weren’t unkind, but they were busy. The doctors came and went, white coats like revolving doors. My parents visited once. They brought me a book I didn’t read. My mom tried to smile, but it looked cracked around the edges. My dad kept checking his watch. They didn’t know what to say, and neither did I. When they left, I pressed my forehead against the cool wall, wishing I could disappear into it.   Alex’s words kept me tethered. Some days they were just jokes: NURSE SPIKED PUDDING? Other days, they were heavier: SCARED ABOUT LEAVING.   I scratched back: ME 2 .   One morning, I carved: WHAT IF I NEVER GET BETTER? The answer came quickly: WHAT IF U DO?   That sentence lived in my head for days. It was so simple, but something flipped inside me. I’d spent so long bracing for the worst that I’d forgotten to imagine the best. I started sleeping better. I started eating more than just the dessert. I even asked for paper and wrote a letter—to myself, not to Alex—about the things I wanted to do when I got out. Small things: go to the park, make pancakes, text my sister back.   Sometimes, I told Alex about my life outside. About the train station where it all fell apart. About how I used to love sketching in coffee shops, blending into the background with a notebook. About the panic attacks that made me stop going anywhere crowded.   Alex never judged. They wrote: PANIC = BRAIN FIRE ALARM. SOMETIMES FALSE ALARM . It made me laugh. It also made me think.   My last week in The Quiet Room, I asked the psychiatrist if recovery meant “going back to normal.” He said there was no such thing as normal, only what comes next. I wasn’t sure if I believed him, but it sounded better than nothing.   The night before discharge, I wrote on the wall: WHAT R U GONNA DO WHEN U GET OUT?   The reply came the next morning: BUY SOCKS. CLEAN ONES.   I laughed out loud. It startled the nurse, who peeked in to check if I was okay. I nodded, and for the first time, I almost meant it. The day they told me I could leave, I went to the wall and carved ‘ THANK YOU ’. I didn’t expect a reply before I was discharged.   But, as I was packing the few belongings they’d let me keep, a nurse came in to hand me my last tray (dinner: soup and a sandwich). I barely touched it. My eyes kept drifting to the corner.   That night, before lights out, I checked the wall one last time. Under my message, in crooked letters, was: ME 2 .   I pressed my palm flat against the wall, as if somehow Alex could feel it on the other side. Then I picked up my paper bag of clothes, my follow-up appointment card, and stepped into the hallway. Walking out of The Quiet Room, the world felt louder than I remembered. The air carried smells—coffee, cigarette smoke from the parking lot, the faint perfume of a volunteer who brushed past me. All of it was overwhelming, but also alive.   I didn’t know if I’d ever see Alex again. Maybe they’d be gone before my next appointment. Maybe they’d still be there, scratching words into the wall for someone else to find.   But I carried something with me—something harder to measure. Proof that even in the most silent, sterile places, connection can still find you. Sometimes, all it takes is two words scratched into a wall.   And sometimes, those two words are enough to remind you: you’re still here.

When Prince Harry gave an impromptu speech last week at the Diana Award in central London, he talked of the loneliness that many young people experience, describing how they could feel isolated if “ lost and separated from a group .” Research also confirms that young people are experiencing high rates of loneliness, often at higher levels than older age groups. A large review identified loneliness as peaking between ages 18 and 29, with one in three young adults reporting frequent loneliness . In 2025, a survey  found that 72% of 16 to 25-year-olds said loneliness negatively impacts their mental health, much higher than any other age group. When talking to young adults, I have found some of the culprits for this loneliness are deemed to be the rise of social media, which ironically can exacerbate loneliness, not least because of fewer real-life interactions, but also because of the social comparison it creates, bullying, and adverse experiences online. COVID didn’t help, nor does the current cost-of-living crisis. Image by Jeswin Thomas on Pexels While it is true that it is not our job, as parents, to decide who should or shouldn’t be our child’s friends, we are nonetheless an interested party. We naturally wish for our teenagers to fraternise with supportive, suitable and loving peers, given how many teenagers are lonely or addicted to technology . Somehow, we are aiming for balance – to stay involved, but in an age-appropriate way as our teenagers mature. Making and maintaining friends is as good for our children’s emotional well-being as it is for our own. If our teenagers have friends they can rely on, the less we will worry. It is a pleasant feeling when our children’s peers reach out to support them; again, we know we are not the only people keeping an eye out for them. The Neurological Context From an evolutionary point of view, we are programmed to be part of a group, and adolescence is when our teenagers are finding theirs. Photo by Helena Lopes on Pexels During the teenage years, there are considerable changes to the adolescent brain. Some academics  explain how these changes affect their friendships and interactions with others.  For example, at the start of puberty, the brain grows dramatically. The quantity of myelin, the fatty substance that coats the neurons and allows the brain to function efficiently, increases, affording the child a sustained burst of neural activity . These shifts, along with others, aid the brain’s gradual transition from childish ways of thought (impulsive and relatively unselfconscious) to adulthood’s more logical and ruminative modes. One effect of these brain changes is a newfound teenage self-consciousness and self-awareness. Teenagers are particularly aware of their identity and whether they are popular. Having friends and being part of a group really matter to them more than it does to us. Teen friendship is so crucial that going without it hurts: a brain-imaging study  from the University of Michigan indicated that social rejection activates the same parts of the brain as physical pain. There is an evolutionary reason for this. Friendships are vital for life. Teenagers are going to have to rely on friends when they leave home. In the wild, some mammals without an adolescent peer group are as good as dead. No wonder friendships can feel like a matter of survival. This fear of being socially excluded leads naturally to associated behaviour: the urge to fit in. Given the strong urge to be part of a group, teenagers will adjust their behaviour to fit in, wearing the same clothes, adopting the same mannerisms, habits and attitude as those in their friendship group. Their overwhelming incentive is to conform; sticking out from the crowd is truly frightening to them. Linked to the desire to fit in is a longing for approval and status. The age at which teenagers want to become part of a tribe is different for every person, as each teenager develops at their own rate. True friendship is based on a solid foundation of mutual respect and individuality, and therefore needs a certain level of maturity and a capacity for social integration in our teenagers. Supporting Teenage Friendships A knowledge of some of the social challenges that our teenagers are facing means we can at least be a good sounding board for them, should they wish to talk to us about their relationships. Even better is to know some of the characters involved. This may entail welcoming their pals through the front door, as it were, of the family’s life. Likewise, while it is unrealistic to stop them from retreating to their rooms, and we all need privacy, it’s nice if teenagers and their friends are greeted and made to feel welcome in the sitting room and kitchen, rather than isolating themselves from us. This subverts the mentality that it is us versus them. This applies to teenagers hosting social events at home. Yes, they can have parties, but we parents will be around, especially for younger teens. Even if older teens have more independence, we can still be active hosts, putting names to faces, making eye contact, introducing ourselves and showing an active interest in their lives. The message is that relating to our teenager also means relating to us, their family. Our adolescents are a package deal. Photo from Lisa from Pexels For Those Struggling With Friendships My previous comments assume your teenagers have friends in the first place. Plenty of teenagers don’t feel they have enough friends, of any kind: they have no one to sit next to, are left out of social media groups, and are not being invited to events. Teenage loneliness is a real and growing problem, as we’ve seen. One mother told me that her teenager had become so shy during COVID that she would send her to the shop with a written list to hand over to the shopkeeper in case she was struck mute with nerves. For this group, we can reassure them that making friends takes time. Being a companion and keeping friendships going are skills we can learn, like any other skill, and our personalities aren’t fixed. It turns out we can, for example, practice being more extroverted, which, in moderation can lead to increased happiness . We parents need to build our teenagers’ belief that they will win on the friendship front eventually. Low-pressure activities can work well. Suggest they meet up with someone for nothing more threatening than a walk in the park. They might try certain types of exercise with others – endorphins  released by doing something physical boost mood and ease conversation. Team sports make particular sense: being on a pitch together allows teenagers to strike up a conversation about a common pursuit. Connections with others can be boosted by, quite literally, having a shared goal. Photo by John Torcasio from Pexels Meanwhile, boxing or Kung Fu, for example, can help teenagers feel physically powerful and learn to hold their bodies in a different way. Whatever exercise they choose, a regular commitment means they avoid the challenge of reaching out to others more randomly, with the possibility of rejection. Loneliness is a growing problem for the young as we’ve seen, but parents, teachers, grandparents and anyone with an interest in adolescent and young people’s mental health may be able to help. The first step to solving a problem is to acknowledge it as publicly as possible - and for that, we can be grateful to Prince Harry.   ----------------------------------------------------------- Rachel Kelly’s ‘The Gift of Teenagers: Connect More, Worry Less’  is available now at: https://www.waterstones.com/book/the-gift-of-teenagers/rachel-kelly/9781804193167

Sleep is incredibly important – for everyone. We all know the impact of a good night’s sleep: it can set us up for a great day or make everything feel more difficult. But, most of us recover quickly from a bad night; we go to bed earlier, learn from last night's late-night scrolling, or we (wishfully) ask our partner to learn the art of not snoring. We make minor adjustments, and our sleep usually recovers, as does our mood. We all go through periods of our lives with good and less-than-good sleep, but the ramifications of these patterns don’t go far beyond the next day. However, this is not the case for people with bipolar disorder. Or at least – it doesn’t appear so. What is Bipolar Disorder? Bipolar disorder affects 1-5% of the population and often debuts in young adulthood. People experience short and longer periods of extremely low or high mood, termed depression and mania, with varying degrees of impairment and impact on their lives, with periods of relatively stable mood in between. Symptoms vary between people, but depression is generally characterised by low mood, low energy, tiredness, slow thinking, and feelings of hopelessness and despair, guilt and shame. Mania, on the other hand, is characterised by very high energy, fast-paced thinking and movement, increased mood or happiness, euphoria, and anger, as well as increased confidence and, at times, delusional thinking about oneself or the world. Image by Cecilia Miraldi on Unsplash Just as the symptoms can vary, so do the implications. In the more severe cases, people become suicidal and can take their own lives, or need hospital admissions to help with their symptoms. Very often, people suffer with mental pain for years, affecting their education, work, family, and quality of life. One thing most people will have in common is that the episodes of either mania or depression are unpredictable, painful, and require help to survive, figuratively, and in some cases, literally. I have dedicated most of my career as a researcher and PhD student to finding ways of making the pain associated with bipolar disorder less severe, and one such area is predicting oncoming mood swings. Knowing when an episode is coming will ideally aid in preparing patients for the wave heading their way, encouraging them to activate any helpful behaviours or seek the medical help needed before it washes over them, thus softening the impact. At the core of it lies the hope that understanding the patterns of mood swings will give some power and agency back to people with bipolar disorder, make their illness feel more predictable and manageable, and less hopeless. Sleep patterns One thing that changes in bipolar disorder almost as much as mood is sleep – or rather, the need for sleep. Usually, people will have a lower need for sleep when they are manic, and a greater need when they are depressed . These changes in sleep needs and duration spent asleep had me wonder if the alterations occur before any other symptoms take hold. A bad night’s sleep is, after all, notorious for putting us in a bad mood. I wanted to know if this perhaps could play a role in setting off the cascade of mood symptoms in bipolar disorder. If specific sleep patterns could be the canary in the coal mine, warning people that danger is heading their way, helping them raise the alarm when needed, and receive assistance before other symptoms take hold. I approached this question from two angles: ‘what research has already been done on this topic and what were the findings?’ and ‘what can a year-long study examining mood states and daily sleep in people with bipolar disorder tell me?’. Image by Papermax studio on Unsplash Looking at previous research, it was clear that other studies had found a pattern between sleep duration and mood in bipolar disorder; sleeping longer was often followed by a dip in mood and increased depressive symptoms, and sleeping less was frequently followed by an elevation of mood and increased manic symptoms. These patterns did not indicate that a depressive or manic episode was approaching, only that patients experienced an increase in those particular symptoms. It did show, however, that people with bipolar disorder are sensitive to their sleep changes and their mood is often linked to their sleep the night before. For my second question, I was fortunate enough to gain access to a study that had already been conducted, and I examined its data for my PhD. In this study , participants with bipolar disorder were assessed every two weeks for new mood episodes, and they reported every day which hours they had been asleep the previous day. I looked at the weeks before any depressive or manic episode and investigated if any particular sleep patterns were present here, that perhaps might have predicted the episode. What I found was that participants would sleep more unstable hours in the weeks before a depressive episode. That is, there were more variations in the duration of sleep than in periods when they were not in any mood episodes (or about to enter one). Now what? What does this mean for people with bipolar disorder who wish to be able to anticipate their mood instability or episodes? My findings suggest that mood symptoms are linked to sleep duration, and it is reasonable to expect symptoms of either depression or mania on days after nights of much less or much more sleep than usual. Furthermore, if sleep duration appears to be very changeable, with alternating nights of lots or little sleep, the risk of developing a depressive episode is increased. Image by Getty Images on Unsplash In collaboration with their mental healthcare team, people with bipolar disorder may want to discuss what mood management strategies could be helpful when their sleep duration feels changed or variable, or what they may be able to do to help their sleep stay stable. Using tracking tools, such as apps or diaries, may help detect patterns that apply to them or identify other warning signs they may encounter before entering severe mood episodes. Bipolar disorder is a complex and, in many cases, a chronic condition. It may never be entirely predictable, as there will always be other factors which could interfere with the onset of severe mood symptoms and episodes. However, understanding sleep patterns could offer clearer insight into the individual moods of each person, and make a significant difference in their quality of life and outcome of their illness. I hope that my research will provide a valuable tool in helping patients regain control over their symptoms, enabling them to implement strategies at the appropriate times and reduce the impact of this disorder.   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.

This piece is part of our series for Sexual Health Awareness Week. Trigger Warning: This piece discusses themes relating to sexual abuse and violence which some readers may find distressing. S exual violence invades countless lives each year, all around the world . For me, it crashed into my life numerous times in the form of childhood sexual abuse and repeated sexual assaults in my teen and adult years. The result? A diagnosis of complex PTSD , a type of post-traumatic stress disorder that typically occurs in people who have experienced prolonged or repeated instances of trauma, such as abuse. The trauma and the symptoms of c-PTSD sent shockwave after shockwave of impact through my life as I grew up wrestling with the consequences of my childhood. We know sexual trauma has countless effects on a person’s mental wellbeing , but oftentimes, discomfort gets in the way of talking about rebuilding our sexual wellness once the trauma is in the past. In my mid-20s, I recognised the devastation my lack of sexual self-care had inflicted on my life, and I set about disentangling my pleasure from my trauma. Now, at age 31, I have reclaimed my sexuality by forging a foundation of sexual wellness, and as a journalist I am able to share my story.  However, to go forward, I had to go backwards first. The Impact of c-PTSD Experiencing trauma at any age is, well, traumatic. Trauma rewires how our brains work, meaning it’s particularly life-changing when it happens at a young age. So, when I was a child and went through the unimaginable, my brain coped by dissociating. Because the abuse occurred repeatedly over a long period, dissociation became my norm, as did the blurring of boundaries. Though the abuse stopped before I properly hit puberty, the overlap and the confused trauma its end triggered, led to a merry-go-round of c-PTSD symptoms that would go undiagnosed until my early twenties. Photo by Caleb Woods on Unsplash The effects ranged from flashbacks and night terrors to dissociation and depression. However, it was the effect on my sexuality that would trigger the longest-lasting impact. Due to the abuse, I did not understand consent, nor know that I was even allowed to say no. I treated my body like a tool for others’ amusement – that’s how I’d been introduced to sexual contact after all. So, when the hormones came-a-raging, my dissociative self pursued a series of promiscuous encounters that compounded the trauma, making me feel less safe in my own body with every touch I invited in.  Though my dalliances fluctuated depending on my mental health, my carelessness was consistent. The abuse had made me incapable of caring about what happened to my body. Changing course Dissociation had saved me as a child, preventing me from living in the moment of my abuse, but it stopped me from living in reality as an adult, especially during sex. When I met my first love at 17, I fell head over heels, yet I couldn’t connect with him physically. I wasn’t in the room. As soon as the energy would switch from casual kissing to passionate foreplay, the dissociation autopilot would switch on. I could physically feel everything, but my emotional brain would shut down. Photo by Chris on Unsplash When he noticed, I finally noticed. I couldn’t see it before because that had been the norm, always. I didn’t know sex could be or was meant to be anything else. At first, I resisted. We were both still climaxing, we had fun, so what was the issue? He had to explain it to me like a parent reading a fable to teach a hard lesson without spooking the child. “When people love each other, sex can be more than just physical. There’s a love connection, an intimacy that comes with it, which makes it even more special and pleasurable.” My cynical, traumatised brain couldn’t see the point of connecting sex and love, and yeah, that thought was a red flag. So, I listened to my first love because using my body like a pleasure tool while I dissociated into the heavens wasn’t healthy for anyone. The journey wouldn’t be linear, though, not by any means. I’m still not sure when it ends, actually. I do know that my revitalisation of my sexual wellness started by blowing up everything I ever thought I knew about sex. Building the blocks Finding a way back to healthy sexuality can be like navigating a battlefield; you have to get to the other side, but you don’t know where the landmines are or if your allies will stay by your side. While it’s not an easy thing to do, I am building something beautiful, something I defined without the interference of trauma’s sticky residues. After reviewing what I thought I knew about sex, I threw all of that away and tried to start from nothing, like a child learning about the birds and the bees for the first time. I found sex education curriculum classes online and devoured every word. I absorbed videos from online sex ed influencers and practised the basics of consent to master my "no," starting outside the bedroom first before working my way up to stopping the moment anything made me uncomfortable (still working on a 100% success rate for this one!). When my first love and I’s relationship dissolved, familiar patterns started flirting their way out of the darkness again, but I cut them off this time. I developed fun, mutually beneficial relationships instead of ones where I was purely focused on their pleasure. Photo by Baran Lotfollahi on Unsplash I also worked on prioritising self-pleasure to understand what I liked the most, to learn how to intertwine my solo pleasure with another person’s, without losing myself. What had the most impact, though, was learning how to have sex in the present without losing myself in dissociation. Using meditative and mindfulness techniques, I learned how to stay grounded in my body outside of the bedroom first and then, over the years, I perfected staying in the room with my partner mentally. With a lot of trial and error, I’ve finally learned how to have sex for fun and feel love and intimacy through and during sex. A small thing for most, the achievement of a lifetime for someone like me who thought that sex would eternally be a mechanical act. Forever ongoing I am an imperfect being like the rest of us, so I am yet to perfect the redesign and rebuild of my sexual wellness, but I’m happy with what I’ve crafted so far.  I know my wants. I know my desires. I know my boundaries. I use my "no" and my voice. I feel during sex; in every way I want to. I am capable of intimacy and of love and of having sex without surrendering to dissociation. I slip up too. Sometimes I make reckless decisions. At others, I snap into my old dissociative state for a brief moment, or something triggers a flashback that steals my breath. I’ve experienced other instances of sexual assault since childhood, too, throughout my teen years and into my mid-twenties. However, the foundation I rebuilt, step by excruciating step, is solid and has withstood multiple attacks on its stability. I have also routed out the worst of my complex PTSD symptoms, with only intermittent recurrences invading my peace now. I’m sure I’ll slip up again, somehow, in the future and forget to prioritise my sexual wellness. That’s okay, though, because I have the skills to protect my sexual wellness and I can rebuild again if I need to. 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.