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Imagine you have TikTok open on your phone, your index finger swiping up each video to get those short bursts of dopamine. You land on a TikTok of someone, hesitant at first, but then proceeding to touch a squishy substance on the ground. The text accompanying it says 'letting my intrusive thoughts win'. For many, this Tiktok may seem nothing out of the ordinary, however those with Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder (OCD) may feel disappointed. OCD is a mental health condition characterised by repetitive obsessions and compulsive behaviours to tackle these obsessions. Intrusive thoughts are a common symptom of OCD, manifesting as randomly generated words, images, or even sounds that repeatedly distress an individual. To see the term 'intrusive thoughts' used on social media in a trivialising but dangerous manner is increasing the stigma for those living with the disorder. My name is Ashika, and I am a freelance journalist with a diagnosis of OCD, who like many also loves to scroll on Tiktok. Photo by Collabstr on Unsplash I initially noticed the social media trend of ‘intrusive thoughts winning’ as I scrolled through TikTok. Eventually, this trend seemed to catch on across other social platforms, and this style of phrasing that mentions ‘intrusive thoughts’ seemed to embed itself into online culture. Honestly, this ‘trend’ has triggered some of my OCD symptoms to resurface because the last thing I ever want is for the horrific intrusive thoughts in my brain to become real, or ‘win’ as social media phrases it. What are Intrusive Thoughts? Intrusive thoughts are any thought that appears in the mind against the individual’s will. They are not deliberately thought of, and can be polar opposites of our genuine values. Some examples of intrusive thoughts include: 'What if I use this knife to stab my sibling instead of cutting vegetables?' 'I can only hold my baby niece for a few seconds, otherwise it'll mean I've molested her.' 'I have to count up to exactly 25 or something bad will happen.' 'There are certain areas in the house I need to avoid because what if they're contaminated?' As intrusive thoughts can be intense, it has been very annoying to see the term be used for silly actions on social media. The fact of thoughts being intrusive is that they are the opposite to an individual's genuine beliefs and values. As a result, the individual can experience anxiety and perform behaviours called compulsions to try and relieve the brain's throwing of these thoughts.  While some may enjoy the trend stemming from this phrase, those with OCD, like me, may find their disorder demeaned, albeit unintentionally.  What are Compulsive Behaviours? Compulsions are behaviours which are performed to neutralise intrusive thoughts. These can be physical and/or mental routines. Some examples of compulsions to neutralise the intrusions I mentioned above may include: Avoiding knives completely in the kitchen. Avoiding any contact with children. Counting from 0 to 25 to feel relief from anxiety. Following a specific ritual of cleaning surfaces with anti-bacterial wipes and washing hands until everything, including the body, feels clean. Although relief seems to follow a performed compulsion, it remains short-lived. This causes the OCD cycle to kickstart again and become a repetitive cog in the overall system.  In fact, the compulsions themselves become a harmful component to the individual in the long run. Intrusive vs. Impulsive Thoughts The term 'intrusive thoughts' has blended in with the quirky, impulsiveness some of us might have. Impulsive thoughts must be differentiated as unusual but not immoral or illegal ideas in our minds. An example may be jumping in a puddle as it rains on the street.  Impulsive thoughts are likely to be harmless, whereas intrusive thoughts are not. This is key to realising the difference between 'impulsive' and 'intrusive'. Thinking of my own experiences with 'impulsive' thoughts and actions, I can say I've had them too. While shopping, at times I would get a thought of buying an item that looks fascinating and would be useful, but that I did not really need. I would then quickly grab the item and rush to the till to make the purchase.  After thinking of these examples, at best I find them slightly amusing. Most of the time, I feel no different. With impulsive thoughts, I clearly have no worry over the kinds of thoughts my brain might suggest. I don't feel a spike in anxiety, I don't internally panic and immediately seek to perform any compulsions. In fact, I can feel joy and relief. Buying that cool item from that one store is something I'm glad I did, for example. In contrast, intrusive thoughts spark the pipeline to a set of OCD symptoms. My personal experience with OCD often begins with an intrusive thought, a moment of fear and anxiety suggested by the brain. The thoughts have the possibility of being some of the most vile and disgusting acts and descriptions. Of course, I don't want to let these thoughts 'win'.  My OCD brain may tell me to take a kitchen knife to stab a family member. But I do not want to hurt a loved one standing near me with a knife, or any weapon for that matter.  My OCD brain might suggest that every surface I haven’t personally cleaned is contaminated. I do not want to use anti-bacterial wipes to clean every surface in my room, multiple times a day.  None of this aligns with the amusement and quirkiness of impulsive thoughts. Photo by Verne Ho on Unsplash Social Media and OCD As someone who engages with social media regularly, I will inevitably land on content that propagates the phrase 'letting the intrusive thoughts win'. Any time I do, I feel my heart sink a centimetre and a tinge of disappointment ensues. Sometimes, I find myself feeling guilty for even experiencing that.  Most people using and repeating the phrase don't know any better because, sadly, OCD is not fully understood among the majority of users. I don't want to place blame on anyone either. If I peruse the comments section, I automatically search for anyone clarifying the phrase's incorrect usage and bringing awareness to OCD. However, the disappointment continues when replies consist of people defending the phrase and dismissing the concerns from OCD sufferers.  The bottom line is, 'letting the intrusive thoughts win' is a digital method of harm towards us with OCD. Any individual partaking in the online trend is most likely unaware of what they're contributing to. They don't know how mentally troubling and exhausting intrusive thoughts actually are. How painful it is when it prohibits me from getting out of bed due to anxiety followed by depression. How I keep washing my hands until they become red, sore, cracked and bleeding. How I keep thinking that maybe I'm just a terrible person simply for getting these thoughts.  Since it is so prominent in our lives today, social media can be used as an educational platform, helping users understand why using ‘intrusive’ to describe impulsive thoughts can be upsetting for OCD sufferers. It can also help switch users to more appropriate terminology to apply to this trend of filming silly and random actions. But it would need to gain traction amongst users.  Thankfully, more and more OCD content creators are using trending audios and filming styles to share facts about the condition and its symptoms, which helps prompt discussion in the comments. Progress is at least being made and I can see opportunities to educate others more about intrusive thoughts, what they actually are, and the emotions and feelings they can evoke. Because the bottom line is those with OCD would never let their intrusive thoughts win. They cannot win. 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.

My mind is calm; my breathing is slow and persistent; and my hands aren’t shaking. I couldn’t have said that years ago, and I most certainly would not have gotten where I am without him.  My partner, Roger, was the saving grace I never saw coming, but when I needed it the most. Roger and I met by chance, through a Meetup group  (a site that allows people to join groups based on personal interests and hobbies). We only spoke a few words, and it was months later before we began learning about one another through text messages.   At the age of 38, I have lived a life that doesn’t seem real. I have very little family support and was raised by an emotionally absent mother and an alcoholic father. I was a teen mom and have been married and divorced twice. I’ve experienced abuse as a child, as well as abuse and adultery in my marriages. I’ve spent most of my adult life in the courtroom battling over custody, only to have my son abruptly leave my life. I’ve held my pets in my arms as they passed–three of them in two years’ time. And today, I am a freelance writer, storyteller, and pet caretaker carrying all of that pain on my shoulders. I felt like I always needed to explain myself to new people, in one way or another. I got nervous with seemingly simple tasks like talking on the phone or going out alone, and I rarely drove anywhere by myself. Roger, like many, wanted to know why I was so elusive. I danced around the subject, as always, explaining that I wasn’t always comfortable on my own and was new to the city. But Roger was persistent. He wanted to get to know me on a deeper level, and our talks went from sporadic messages during the week to deep-dive conversations on life throughout the day. I warmed up slowly, as we shared our day-to-day lives, dreams, and even our secrets.  Image source: Author's own But explaining my anxiety through text didn’t feel like it did justice to how severely I panicked over the smallest details in real life. I tried to give words to the flight of thoughts and worries I had over completing “normal” adult tasks and how difficult it was for me to fall asleep each night. To my surprise, my words weren’t dismissed as silly or exaggerated. Roger confided in me his own struggles with anxiety. He explained that he had gone through years of therapy and was on medication to keep him calm. When asked today, Roger explained his feelings on my anxiety, “I saw that you needed help, and there was no one there to help you. I felt like it was my calling to help you.” My new friend assured me that I could get better, though I couldn’t fathom a life of calmness.   As Roger and I grew closer, he began to challenge me.  He asked me to write positive things about myself or to call him on the phone. I struggled with my thoughts and insecurities, yet I gathered the courage and pushed through each task. For, what may have been the first time in my life, I was rewarded.  “I’m so proud of you,” came his upbeat voice. I scoffed at the compliment, yet I couldn’t shake the confidence that I felt after hearing his words. Time went on, and we learned to lean on each other. The phone became our way of counselling one another through our panic or worries, and we always stayed available for one another. Roger would call me on the road during work, or even somewhere like the grocery store, just to distract his mind. It was a tactic he was teaching me to control my own anxieties, and I was quick to help out a friend in need. I got creative with my words and would think up the most random questions or scenarios to throw at him. Many would involve animals’ personalities or behaviour. I figured, who can resist imagining a cuddly critter performing tricks or creating friendships with other species? I’d reel Roger into my unique world, invite his commentary, and listen to his voice soften. “You’re so stupid,” he’d laugh, and I knew that he felt better. “That’s something I never had,” Roger admits to me, “I had people help me, but I never had people understand me.”   My panic always hit the worst at night and often left me screaming and crying on the bathroom floor or out on the deck. With shaking hands and tears flowing, I called my safe place. Roger listened as I rambled through the endless worries in my head for hours into the night. I couldn’t calm as quickly as he had learned to do himself, but he never hung up. I knew he was tired and had work in the morning, but Roger knew I needed him and didn’t give up. Looking back on that time, Roger reflects on his empathy for me, “I would leave my problems aside to try to comfort you, to try to help you get better because I know how scary it is. That’s the secret to this issue: You just have to distract your mind.” It was that night, and so many more, that our shared mental health struggles created a bond stronger than I could have ever imagined. Roger and I fell in love. It’s been over 2 years now, and we’re both in a better place with our mental health. Roger got the courage to seek out a new job while also pursuing his dream as a Massage Therapist. He credits me for giving him the push that he needed to make positive changes, “You pushed me on stuff that I was scared I would fail. You gave me that confidence. You kept my head up. You’ve been a great support.” I finally took the steps needed to begin a career in writing and have used my own experiences to create published pieces. I’m on a steady medication for my anxiety, and I’m currently undergoing trauma therapy. I couldn’t have made those hard choices without Roger believing in me. The two of us live together, with our children and pets as a family. In fact, we are engaged and happily planning our wedding! Image source: Author's own I truly believe that Roger and I were meant to find each other at just the right moment in our lives.  Not only were we able to support each other through our anxiety, but we were also able to gain strength and courage in our love and follow our dreams. Our connection fought through the intensities of the mind and panic in our hearts and still reached for one another in the end.  Anxiety did not break us--Anxiety bonded us. 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.

Authors' Note: This article was written in collaboration with Syeda Tahir, Mitul Mehta, and Joseph Barnby. Prof Mitul Mehta is a senior neuropsychiatric researcher with over 25 years of experience, specialising in neuroimaging, psychosis models, and experimental medicine, and holds multiple leadership roles at King’s College London. Syeda Tahir is an expert by experience in public and patient involvement, with a background in advisory roles and proposal review, and is actively engaged in shaping the project's PPI strategy. Dr Joseph Barnby is a leading computational psychiatry researcher known for his work on social learning, paranoia, and mentalising. The 19 th-c entury French psychiatrist Jacques-Joseph Moreau is often credited as one of the first scientists to systematically study the effects of psychoactive substances on the mind. Interested in the mechanisms of mental illness, he conducted personal experiments with hashish (also known as hash or cannabis resin) to explore altered states of consciousness. Moreau founded the Club des Hashischins (Club of the Hashish-Eaters) in Paris during the 1840s — a group of writers and artists who gathered to consume large amounts of cannabis and discuss its effects. These experiments and observations formed the basis of his book Du hachisch et de l'aliénation mentale ( Hashish and Mental Illness ): a book that remains historically significant in the fields of psychiatry and psychopharmacology. Moreau’s central thesis was that cannabis could serve as a tool to understand the origins and nature of mental illness. He believed that by inducing altered mental states using cannabis, it provided a way for clinicians to experience the symptoms their psychiatric patients were experiencing. He wrote: “Hashish gives to whoever submits to its influence the power to study in himself the mental disorders that characterise insanity, or at least the intellectual modifications that are the beginning of all forms of mental illness” Moreau fell prey to this when he experienced paranoid beliefs about his friend Aubert. Paranoia is the unjustified belief that someone intends to harm you. Aubert had supplied him with cannabis, which Moreau found to be much stronger than he expected and became convinced Aubert had tried to poison him. Aubert’s attempts to reassure him that this was not the case only increased Moreau’s conviction in his paranoia. Moreau’s experiences are a living reality for many people who experience psychosis , causing great distress and disability. However, the reasons why Moreau’s beliefs were so immutable have been difficult to explain. This is because there has been a lack of causal experiments that can precisely map the impact of cannabis on moment-to-moment cognitive processes and associated brain mechanisms. At King’s College London, we have conducted several studies investigating the effects of intravenous THC (the active component of cannabis) administration in healthy volunteers . Across these studies, we have observed several instances of participants experiencing transient paranoid thoughts. Some volunteers expressed suspicion or mistrust. For example, one participant remarked, “Your ID picture doesn’t really look like you. For a little while, I didn’t believe you were who you said you were.” Another described a heightened sense of meaning in their surroundings, stating, “Every occurrence, cough, object, test, has deeper and connected meaning… All deliberate, planned… some sort of prank, to make a fool of people.” Others questioned the integrity of the study procedures, asking, “Were you filming me during the cognitive tasks?” These subjective reports provide valuable insight into the acute psychological effects of THC and underscore the importance of understanding its impact on perception and cognition. Importantly, approaches to understanding this phenomenon must contain a convincing connection between biology and phenomenology. Moreau’s personal use of experimental compounds was not unusual for psychiatrists in the late 19 th and early 20 th centuries (at least the ones who wrote about it). This early form of experimental medicine paved the way for fascinating insights into how known neurochemistry is connected to detailed and intimate personal experience. As modern science advanced, animal models gradually replaced humans in the process of treatment development to gain mechanistic precision. While understandable, this development lost much of the subjective human experience in the process. We now have a chance to investigate this debilitating phenomenon so that we can better support those who most need it. We have been awarded a 4-year research grant by the Wellcome Trust to study paranoia in the brain, in behaviour, and across social contexts. By giving THC to healthy volunteers, we can induce paranoia to study it in a controlled and safe environment. Using computer models, we can whittle down the precise reasons as to why paranoia may arise, and how it changes the way we understand others around us. Taking inspiration from the pioneering psychiatrists of the early 19 th and 20 th centuries, like Moreau, we want to deeply understand how paranoia is related to subtle changes in the brain. Any study that actively involves individuals with lived experiences can be greatly enhanced by the sharing of their expertise. With this in mind, we have constructed a pathway that ensures these voices are included at all stages of our study. We have appointed an expert-by-experience as a co-lead on service user involvement for the project. We will continue to build on this by ensuring that we provide a comfortable, neutral, and collaborative space where experts work alongside those with lived experience. Individuals who will be part of the lived experience advisory panel (LEAP) will often have had similar experiences to those quoted above. This is why it is vital to have their involvement and perspective to fully understand the impact of paranoia and communicate the potential of the research. LEAP members will also have the opportunity for further training and get involved in other ways, including in the dissemination of study findings. By combining scientific methods with the insights of those who have experienced paranoia firsthand, this research aims to build a more complete understanding of how and why these experiences arise. Taking inspiration from early pioneers like Moreau, we hope to reconnect biological mechanisms with human lived experiences. Through this approach, we aim to generate findings that are not only scientifically robust but also meaningful and relevant to those most affected.

A new health literacy programme in East London aims to improve pregnancy experiences for women who don’t speak English. In the United Kingdom, approximately one-third of births are to mothers who themselves were born overseas. Many of these women face intersecting challenges, including unfamiliarity with the healthcare system, cultural differences, and limited English proficiency. These factors can significantly impact health literacy - the ability to access, understand, and use health information effectively. As a research psychologist in the field of perinatal mental health, I am very aware of the impact of low-health literacy and language proficiency on women’s psychosocial outcomes (the effects we see in a person’s mental, emotional, and social life), including their mental health and feelings of loneliness. Source: Elly - Visual overview (illustrated by LIM) of the programme content. Low health literacy is associated with missed appointments, poor understanding of medical advice, and reduced engagement with healthcare providers. During pregnancy, these challenges can lead to adverse outcomes for both mother and child, which if not improved will increase the health inequalities they face in the future. Addressing health literacy, particularly among linguistically diverse populations, is therefore essential to promoting equitable maternal care and future healthcare for both mother and child. Our project set out to address this gap by co-developing a Health Literacy Programme for Bengali-speaking pregnant women in East London. A Programme Built by and for the Community The project emerged from concerns raised by women, families, birthing companions and translators about the challenges faced by non-English speaking pregnant women in accessing and understanding healthcare in Tower Hamlets, East London. Tower Hamlets is a London borough where around 69% of residents are from ethnic minority backgrounds and around 20% of adults can’t speak English and are Bengali or Sylheti speakers from Bangladesh. Our group was led by Elly Charity (a Women’s Health Charity which aims to improve the quality of maternal healthcare in the UK and internationally) and included women with lived experience, researchers, community champions, ESOL (English for Speakers of Other Languages) teachers, illustrators, and health professionals. We came together to develop a health literacy programme for this group of women. The programme was developed over a 24-month period and included focus groups and workshops with local communities and healthcare professionals. The programme includes six, two-hour sessions delivered in-person weekly covering key topics on female anatomy, gestational diabetes, labour and childbirth, and postnatal care. The programme was piloted (tested on a small scale) in Tower Hamlets with women who were pregnant and spoke Bengali with limited English proficiency. The programme was co-facilitated by ESOL teachers, healthcare professionals, and a Bengali-speaking community researchers. The use of visual aids, interactive role-play, and real-life medical tools were also included to further enhance engagement and comprehension. What Women Said: Confidence and Connection Sixteen women who took part in the piloting of the programme were interviewed about their experiences, which were overwhelmingly positive. Women reported enhanced confidence in their health knowledge and communication with health professionals. They also reported increased feelings of social connection and peer support through attending the programme with other pregnant women. One woman said, “Coming to the programme was the best decision… I will carry all the information for life.” Another emphasised how beneficial the programme was for both her and her baby: “It is my first pregnancy and I am new in this country so I had very little knowledge about pregnancy and the health care system. But after doing the programme I have learned so many things about pregnancy and medical terms. I got to know how to take care of myself during pregnancy and…my baby’s health. ” Source: Elly -  Photo of women attending week 5 of the programme and interacting with learning materials and community researcher - Ruksana Begum. Key Strengths of the Programme Several features contributed to the programme’s success. These included: 1) Co-design: where women from within the community developed the programme from the beginning alongside health professions, researchers, teachers, and artists. 2) Bilingual delivery: sessions were conducted in both English and Bengali, facilitating understanding while supporting language development. 3) Practical engagement: Role-play, quizzes, and visual materials made learning accessible and engaging. 4) Community researcher: Who played a vital role in recruiting and engaging women throughout the programme delivery and evaluation.   Areas for Improvement and Future Directions While the programme was well-received, women identified areas for enhancement. Some suggested expanding content on infant care, mental health, and sexual wellbeing. Others expressed a desire for more structured opportunities to practise English, or for scope to tailor sessions to different stages of pregnancy. A key consideration moving forward is balancing empowerment with safety. While many women reported increased confidence in communicating without interpreters, it remains essential to ensure that language support is available when needed to avoid misunderstandings in clinical settings. After the initial piloting of the programme in Tower Hamlets, the programme, has now been adapted for use in other language groups with additional programme components integrated into the material based on women’s feedback.   In terms of our next steps, we will test the new content in South End and other parts of Essex, where there are high levels of child poverty and health inequality within communities with low levels of English language.   Source: Elly - Celebration event for the Health Literacy Project at Whitechapel Gallery including those who delivered and attended the programme. Why This Matters Beyond East London This project offers a compelling model for inclusive, community-driven healthcare education. By centring the voices of women with lived experience, this programme demonstrates how co-designed interventions can bridge communication gaps, reduce health inequalities, and foster trust between patients and providers. Health Literacy as a Foundation for Equity Health literacy is a fundamental component of equitable healthcare. This East London project illustrates the transformative potential of culturally sensitive, community-led education in improving maternal health outcomes. This project demonstrates that when women are equipped with the right tools and support, they are empowered to advocate for themselves, their families, and their futures. Want to dive deeper into the Health Literacy Project? Check out our overview video here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z5PsxQMudM4

This piece is part of our series for Sexual Health Awareness Week. I’m sure nobody looks   forward to their gynecology appointment, but for most, it’s a necessary–if not a bit uncomfortable–fact of life. However, for myself and I’m sure many others, mental illness has created invisible, but very real barriers, to sexual healthcare, and now, as a writer, I get to talk about it. As someone living with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD) , I’ve experienced severe and pervasive health anxiety (when the worry of illness or getting ill takes over your life) throughout many chapters of my life. Without any real evidence to support my fears, I’ve found myself certain of numerous medical concerns, from retinal detachment to autoimmune disorders to infertility to ovarian and cervical cancer. When I discuss my obsessive thoughts about my own health, an assumption people often make is that I must be something of a nightmare in doctors' offices. There’s a common misconception that people with health anxiety use up a disproportionate amount of resources by seeking out medical attention for even the slightest of symptoms. Photo by Los Muertos Crew on Unplash This might be true for some, and that’s by all means a difficult experience on its own, but it doesn’t reflect my own experience. Avoidance  is a common compulsive behaviour among those with OCD, and this can include delaying or outright avoiding vital healthcare. I’ve described the experience as a twisted sort of Schrödinger's cat situation: while I feel certain of whatever affliction I’ve been obsessing over, getting a formal diagnosis marks the moment where my entire way of life changes as a result. Putting off a doctor’s appointment allowed me to stretch out the “before” phase, instead letting the worry eat away without any support. OCD often does this: it sends alarm bells through my body  whenever I try to do the very things that can make me feel better. In short, this is how I spent my entire adult life without ever visiting a gynecologist, even for the most basic wellness exams. Even on days where I felt overwhelmed by the weight of my intrusive thoughts, I couldn’t bring myself to book an appointment, instead turning to my rituals and compulsions to temporarily manage my distress. Hearing my friends discuss their own horror stories about medical professionals who didn’t properly listen to their concerns or made them feel unsafe only intensified my existing anxieties around reproductive healthcare. Compulsive avoidance isn’t the only barrier I’ve faced as the result of OCD. Like many others with the condition, I’ve experienced sexual themes  in my OCD in various contexts. While I don’t feel comfortable divulging too much information about this (and no person with OCD owes anyone an explanation for their intrusive thoughts!), I will say that it has presented challenges for me in terms of accessing healthcare. The stigma surrounding OCD magnifies a lot of existing stigmas around sex, of which there are plenty. It’s hard enough to have candid conversations about pleasure, risk, orientation and relationships without intrusive thoughts on the subject matter. The truth is that my OCD themes shift and rotate in cycles, meaning there have been times over the years where my health anxiety was more or less manageable in comparison to other themes such as contamination, responsibility and harm. I look back and wish that I took advantage of these periods, but the truth is that even if I could overcome my health anxiety, I lived in fear that my OCD would inevitably become the topic of conversation. At best, I felt I was opening myself to the deep discomfort of being misunderstood, and at worst, I could be vulnerable to real harm. Photo by Reproductive Health Supplies Coalition on Unsplash I spent years hiding the extent of my OCD symptoms from everyone, even mental health professionals who were tasked with helping me overcome them. As impossible as it sounds, I was worried a doctor would be able to read my mind and bring all the intrusive thoughts I spent so much effort pushing away to the surface. For a long time, avoiding healthcare altogether felt like the only “safe” option for me– even though the end result was that I was forgoing preventative care and early detection opportunities that could literally be lifesaving. I wish I could point to a single moment of awakening or turning point that changed everything for me. The truth is, my approach to handling my health anxiety has come in the form of baby steps, from adding myself to the family doctor waitlist in my area to getting much overdue blood tests to, finally, booking basic wellness exams. By now, I’m sure you’re wondering if some horrible diagnostic fate was waiting for me on the other side of the exam table. Although I’m still early in this journey, so far none of the health outcomes I’ve been fearing the most have come true–but that doesn’t mean I don’t regret the risk I put my body through by ignoring necessary care for so long. I’ve taken a very “yes, and” approach to my OCD recovery. Through some trial and error (of course, with the help of my psychiatrist), I’ve found a medication combination that lessens the intensity of my intrusive thoughts, making the challenging work of exposure therapy tolerable. Although ERP (exposure response prevention, a key therapy modality for treating OCD) has been instrumental in my overall recovery, I credit values-based therapy, which focuses on what truly matters to me rather than solely on reducing symptoms, for helping me be more proactive about my health. Photo by Pixabay on Unsplash I strongly believe that reproductive healthcare is a human right, but for too many people, especially women and trans people, this right is riddled with threats and barriers in many places around the world. By reframing caring for my own reproductive health as a small but sincere way I can live my values, it makes the experience not easy, but manageable (and sometimes with OCD, that’s the best we can hope for). If you’re struggling with similar experiences, please let my own experience be a reminder that while anxieties around medical care are valid, they don’t have to dominate your life. I feel deeply fortunate that (once again, so far!) I haven’t faced any serious health issues as the consequence of my avoidance, but the risk was certainly there. Don’t be afraid to call a sexual health clinic or a provider that you already trust to discuss any barriers to access and how they might be alleviated. If you can, bring a person or an object that provides you with comfort to your appointment. Talk to any mental health professionals in your life about your concerns: there’s no shame in mentally preparing for an appointment with your therapist. I can’t promise you the process will be easy, but I do know that your health is worth 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.

Trigger warning: This article contains mentions of sexual assault and violence which some readers may find distressing. On Tuesday 9 th September, a South Asian Sikh woman in her twenties was raped by two white men. In the middle of the brutal assault, they told her that she 'doesn’t belong in this country’ and to ‘get out’. As a young South Asian woman in the UK, I have been deeply affected by the rise of anti-migration propaganda and the recent ‘Unite the Kingdom’ (a far-right campaign that weaponises patriotism and the Union Jack to spread anti-migrant messages) protests, and the violence it has brought along with it. The current political climate in the UK is inflicting both psychological and physical harm on ethnic minority groups. Communities like mine are being threatened by far-right groups with deportation and are being told to ‘go back to where [we] came from’. But here’s the contradiction: in a country where chicken tikka masala is celebrated as a national dish, why am I told to go back to my country? In a country where people sunbathe to darken their skin, sip turmeric and chai lattes, and oil their hair, why am I told to go back to my country? In a country where Friday nights often end with an Indian takeaway, why am I told to go back to my country? These contradictions seem absurd, even laughable, but there is nothing funny about them.  Racism has always been present in my life, whether it be sly comments from girls at school or men shouting slurs as they drive past. I have always been wary but never afraid of those who carry racial prejudice. I have always believed that people who feel entitled to demean someone based on skin colour or faith do not deserve my attention. But lately, it has become harder to dismiss this kind of bigotry as insulting but innocuous. Whereas before I would brace myself to laugh off the ‘you don’t look Indian’ and ‘where are you really from’ comments, I now feel a genuine fear at the thought of leaving my home. I don’t just worry about the looks I might get, or the unwanted attention I may attract, but what could happen if someone chose to act on their prejudice. And I know I am not alone in this. Racist and anti-migrant rhetoric has long been present in the UK.  Recent events, fuelled by racist and fascist ideology and amplified by mainstream media, have left minority ethnic communities feeling anxious, hyper-alert, and unsafe in the country they call home. Evidence shows that microaggressions have an impact on the mental health of minority ethnic groups; therefore, the impact of these overt acts of racism should not be underestimated. The attack on the young woman in Oldbury has left many South Asian girls feeling even more vulnerable and scared. As girls, we’re always told to be careful at night, to get home early, not to drink too much or wear revealing clothes. To simply avoid danger and be vigilant. But this attack happened at 8am. It did not happen in a dark alley at midnight. It happened on a busy road where people live, in broad daylight, when the victim was on her way to work. It was a disgusting, racially motivated hate crime carried out on an ordinary morning, all because of the victim’s skin colour. Photo taken from the BBC I feel genuine fury and disgust when I think about this attack and the sense of entitlement those men must have felt over an innocent person. Did it make them feel powerful? Did it give them something to be proud of? Right-wing groups are labelling ‘immigrants’ as violent and demanding that they leave the country, yet it is their supporters who are committing acts of violence in the name of this message. Police and politicians have since confirmed this was a racially motivated attack , and have recently arrested one of the men, who was in his thirties. In response, members of the Sikh community have gathered in protest , standing in solidarity with the victim and demanding justice. Unfortunately, this is not an isolated act of violence. In August, two Sikh taxi drivers were attacked by three white men outside Wolverhampton train station. Both victims sustained serious injuries requiring hospital treatment.   The current political climate in the UK is fuelling this cruelty. Over the weekend, hundreds of thousands of far-right and racist individuals took to the streets of London in what may have been the largest right-wing demonstration in UK history . This protest was organised by Tommy Robinson, a British anti-Islam campaigner and prominent far-right activist. Many of the protesters, who have been reported to be predominantly white men, draped themselves in Union Jack (the national flag for the UK) and St George’s (which represents England) flags while demanding the mass deportation of ethnic minority groups, claiming to ‘protect the nation’ and suggesting we pose a ‘unique threat’ to white women. The irony is sickening. Reform UK and far-right groups seem to only care about violence against women when they can frame it in an ‘anti-migration’ setting, exploiting the trauma women and girls face for their own political gain. Hijacking women's safety to be used against ethnic minorities is not only disgusting, it's hypocritical and disingenuous. The truth is, women are not unsafe because of immigrants; women are unsafe because of men. If we followed the protestors’ logic, perhaps all men should be deported. Everyone has the right to free speech and peaceful protesting. But this rally was anything but peaceful. It left several police officers injured, communities too intimidated to leave their homes, and even featured a video appearance from Elon Musk telling the crowd to either ‘fight back or die’, and warned that ‘violence is going to come to you’. Photo taken from Deccan Chronicle Aside from protests, the far right is twisting national symbols into tools of exclusion and intimidation, trying to make people like me feel unwelcome in the very country we call home. Prime Minister Keir Starmer released a statement on X , stating that the British flag represents diversity and will not be surrendered to be used as a symbol of violence or fear. Yet, it is surreal and infuriating to witness the sudden rise in flags being hung in public places such as bridges and lampposts as a clear warning to ethnic minorities. What many right-wing individuals forget, or more simply choose to forget, is that Sikhs have a long history of sacrifice and service to this country. During the First World War, Sikhs made up 22% of the British Indian army, despite representing only 2% of the population at the time. In the Second World War, the British Indian Army became the largest volunteer army in history , with Sikh soldiers earning Victoria Crosses for their bravery. Furthermore, post-war Sikhs came to the UK to respond to labour shortages in British industries such as textiles and factory work. Photo taken from the BBC So, while racists tell us to get out of their country and are furious that we supposedly stole their jobs, they need to remember that we were invited here. And while racists boast about who they have attacked, we will continue to take pride in what we have contributed to this country and our local communities. Our courage, our solidarity, our commitment to protecting and supporting one another, and our belief in building communities rooted in love and belonging. That is our legacy. That is our strength.   What we’re seeing now is not separate from history but a continuation of it. The same entitlement that once justified colonisation and building an empire is alive today in the voices that tell people of colour they don’t belong here in the UK. Far-right rhetoric thrives on selective memory: it erases the centuries of extraction and violence that enriched Britain, while portraying migrants and minorities as threats. To be told to 'go back' is not merely ignorance. It is violence. It is a deliberate rewriting of history to protect power and scapegoat the vulnerable. We don’t owe this country our silence, our apologies, or our disappearance. We owe it our truth. And the truth is: we are not going anywhere.

Until doctors took me seriously. At 21, I had a series of urinary tract infections that culminated in a bladder surgery. These infections affected me physically—the post-op pelvic floor physical therapy was brutal—but the greatest impact was on my mental health. I’m sharing my story for Sexual Health Week because most women will suffer at least one UTI in their lifetime. Photo by Sasun Bughdaryan on Unsplash The infection that started it all The first urinary tract infection I got after college never went away. Not really. The burning sensation hit on a Sunday morning. “Yep, that sounds like a bladder infection,” my doctor’s telehealth nurse confirmed when I explained my symptoms. “We’ll call in a prescription.” I took my nitrofurantoin (an antibiotic to treat bacterial infections) religiously, wanting not only to rid myself of the discomfort but also the embarrassment. At some level I knew UTIs were common, but I couldn’t help feeling dirty . When I finished the medication, something still felt off. I waited until my annual gynecologist appointment a couple weeks later to ask about it. “I had a UTI last month,” I said, “and my pelvis still feels tight.” My doctor wasn’t concerned. “Abdominal pain is normal after infections,” she replied. I tried to believe her. Photo by Towfiqu Barbhuiya on Unsplash Months of stubborn symptoms A few weeks later, my symptoms came back in a big way. A constant need to pee. Intense burning when I did pee. Eventually, intense burning even when I wasn’t relieving myself. I remember spending so much time in the bathroom at work—my first “real” job—that I worried my colleagues would notice, so I started only allowing myself to get up every hour and a half. I counted down the minutes on my computer’s corner clock, glancing around our open office plan, crossing and uncrossing my legs until I was as much pretzel as young woman. Throughout these months I went through so many boxes of AZO Urinary Pain Relief—the highest dose of phenazopyridine hydrochloride (a medication used for UTI-related discomfort) available without a prescription—that I joked about getting a punch card. Although the medication eased my burning a little, its primary purpose seemed to be staining all my favorite underwear orange. Why won’t this go away? My UTIs were debilitating. I couldn’t concentrate on anything beyond when I would next be able to use the bathroom. I wondered if I had interstitial cystitis instead ( a chronic condition associated with pelvic pain and problems urinating). I wondered if I could take a single sip of alcohol or sweet juice. I wondered if I’d ever be able to have sex—to share a loving, intimate moment with my partner—without panicking about getting sick. I was full of questions with access to so few answers. Mostly, I felt small. Other women I knew weren’t struggling like this. They could get a UTI and be back to normal within a week—or they never even got infections in the first place, even though they had sex before bed and sometimes held their pee and did other “forbidden” things I was careful to avoid. It’s not all in your head Finally, a doctor who took the time to listen to my story referred me for a cystoscopy. And what do you know: the procedure found a strange growth inside my bladder. Although the tumor was benign, its irregular surface created a breeding ground for bacteria. In January—half a year since I’d felt fully like myself—I had surgery to remove it. When all was said and done, I’d been diagnosed with six “official” UTIs with bacterial cultures. (I’d gone to urgent care even more than that.) I’d taken three different antibiotics in varying dosages, all of which interfered with my digestion. My bladder muscles were so overworked that even after two months of post-op pelvic floor physical therapy I had a hard time trusting if I actually needed to pee or not. ( Did it just feel like I did? I should hold it, right? I should definitely hold it. But what if holding it gave me another infection? There was no rest for my anxious brain.) Photo by Nik on Unsplash Am I the problem? The worst part about this saga wasn’t even the physical discomfort. It was how silly and stupid and alone I felt. Every time I went to the clinic, doctors asked questions like “do you wipe front to back?” and “do you pee after sex?” as if my infections must have a simple explanation—and that explanation must be my own incompetence. “ Yes ,” I’d insist, wanting to lace the words with venom. “I do everything you tell me and more.” Judgment came from friends, too. “Oh, you and your UTIs,” an old roommate sighed when I told her I didn’t feel up to going out one night. Later, my partner’s best friend pulled him aside for a conversation about how I “didn't seem like much fun.” People either thought bladder infections were no big deal (and so I should just toughen up) or they were something completely preventable (and so I must have poor hygiene). Photo by Miriam Alonso on Pexels Chronic UTIs aren’t unusual It turns out each UTI can make you more susceptible to getting another. About a quarter of women who get a bladder infection suffer a recurrence within six months. This is because infections can cause lingering inflammation—which affects our bladders’ immune response for the long haul. I’d gotten so many infections, and the oddly-shaped growth on the wall of my bladder had enabled them to stick around, that my urinary tract was constantly inflamed. The pressure and discomfort and burning I felt even when I didn’t have a diagnosed UTI? It was never in my head. And it was never my fault. In pursuit of long-term wellness As I write this, I haven’t had a serious UTI in more than two years. Now 28, I travel full-time in a converted camper van and write about my passions (pets, relationships, personal growth) for a range of publications. I take better care of myself than ever. But while I’m glad to have left behind walk-in waiting rooms and middle-aged male doctors throwing up their hands at my pain, I still carry anxiety about maintaining the (somewhat elaborate) routine my body needs. My partner and I rarely have sex at night (I am less likely to get another infection if I’m able to flush my system in the couple hours immediately following intercourse). I keep urinary pain relief medication and over-the-counter infection test strips on hand at all times. It takes extreme effort not to spiral at the first sign of symptoms. But that anxiety fades each day, week, and month I avoid another UTI. “It’s wonderful that you’re learning all this when you’re so young,” my pelvic floor physical therapist said during one of our first sessions. At the time, it was hard to feel anything other than frustration. But looking back? She was right. Starting to take pride in my body—refusing to feel ashamed of my body—set me up to continue living a healthier life. To sidestep embarrassment in favor of action. To advocate for myself when I know something doesn’t feel right. 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.

As the Programme Lead for the MSc Neuroscience at King’s College, I often engage with students. When I speak with our MSc Neuroscience students, one theme emerges consistently: feedback shapes not just academic growth, but emotional resilience and mental wellbeing. In today’s high-pressure, fee-paying postgraduate landscape, students expect clarity, compassion, and support. And rightly so. For many, feedback can either validate effort and guide improvement, or - if mishandled - undermine confidence and contribute to stress. Receiving feedback, especially when it points out weaknesses, can trigger self-doubt. That’s why it’s crucial not only to provide information but also to help students interpret and emotionally process it. The stakes have never been higher. At the same time, for staff across the university, the act of supporting feedback and assessment is becoming increasingly complex and emotionally demanding. As higher education scales up, academic staff face growing pressures from marking, pastoral care, and research. Meanwhile, colleagues in educational support and admin teams manage rising workloads around assessment logistics, student communications, and well-being referrals. The result is a shared and cumulative strain on mental health that affects all those contributing to the student experience. This tension brings with it a valuable opportunity: to reimagine feedback as a cornerstone of wellbeing, not just academic performance.   Moving Beyond Traditional Feedback Traditional feedback – brief and vague comments alongside a grade - often leaves students with more questions than answers. Without depth, feedback risks becoming a source of uncertainty and anxiety, especially for students navigating a competitive academic environment. To address this, we are shifting towards a multimodal feedback model, whereby students, alongside traditional marker feedback, also receive feedback on language use in their writing. This approach  recognises emotional and educational needs by providing richer, more comparative insights. The model aims at focusing on aspects such as students’ writing structure or vocabulary complexity and compares it in a sensitive way with their peers. Our final goal is to reduce the emotional ambiguity students often feel. This clarity builds confidence, and supports mental wellbeing.   Using the Cohort as a Mirror, Not a Measure A core innovation in our programme has been the development of the "King’s Corpus", a collection of anonymised essays analysed for linguistic features like readability, sentence complexity, and cohesion. This comparative feedback is not about ranking students, but about helping them understand their strengths and challenges in context, awareness and growth. Linguistic feedback supports students as they become more conscious writers, helping them recognise patterns in their own writing.  This is especially helpful for multilingual students and students transitioning from other academic genres.  It also supports long term improvement as students can apply this linguistic knowledge across modules.  This kind of feedback is specific, depersonalised, and emotionally safe. It encourages students to take ownership of their progress without feeling judged, an important balance in protecting self-esteem.   Making Feedback Emotionally Accessible As receiving feedback can trigger self-doubt, it’s important to help students interpret and emotionally process the information they receive. To this end, we’re developing resources like a feedback glossary and a “next steps” guide, tools that break down linguistic feedback terms into simple language and actionable advice. These supports reduce cognitive load and help students engage with feedback constructively, without feeling overwhelmed. We are also running focus groups to understand how students emotionally respond to linguistic feedback, and what helps them feel more in control. It’s not just about academic literacy, it’s about emotional literacy, too. Staff Wellbeing Matters, Too Feedback isn’t only emotionally demanding for students. For staff, it requires time, empathy, and often emotional labour. Delivering quality feedback to large student numbers and with tight marking deadlines can contribute to staff burnout. That’s why our model aims not to replace, but to support, academic markers, by integrating automated tools and cohort-level insights that relieve some of the feedback burden. Old student assignments sitting unused on university online platforms could be a useful source of information. By analysing the language in these assignments, we can create smarter educational feedback tools and offer richer and more personalised help to students.  When staff feel equipped and supported, they’re better able to support students in turn. As the demands of higher education continue to grow, it’s essential we also recognise and support the wellbeing of these teams, whose dedication sustains not just our programmes, but the people within it.   Feedback as Dialogue, Not Diagnosis Ultimately, our vision is to make feedback a dialogue, one that builds trust, reflection, and growth. By involving peer perspectives, data-informed insights, and self-directed tools, we aim to shift feedback from a source of anxiety to a pathway for resilience.  Our students are not passive recipients of grades: they are curious, capable future scientists and clinicians. With the right support, they can navigate feedback with confidence and emotional maturity.   Why It Matters Feedback is not simply about academic correction. It’s about cultivating a sense of belonging, purpose, and capability, all vital ingredients for mental health. When done well, feedback can help students see not just what they’ve done, but who they are becoming. Which is what we aim to do on the MSc Neuroscience programme.

'To cringe' can be defined as ‘having an inward feeling of acute embarrassment or awkwardness.’ This is a perfectly natural human reaction to seeing, hearing or touching something that makes us uncomfortable. I myself devolve into full-body shudders at the idea of touching certain fabrics such as velvet or sandpaper. However, nowadays, almost everything we do as people has been deemed 'cringe'. The word 'cringe' has been weaponised. If we, as individuals, are too interested in something or show curiosity towards anything that is deemed beyond the narrow walls of 'ordinary', we are labelled 'cringey'. Being subjected to such constant judgment is damaging. In a time when we are already so consumed with how we are perceived, succumbing to 'cringe culture' puts us at risk of becoming insular, closed off, and mere shells of the lively and unique beings we are meant to be. 'Cringe culture' often begins with small comments. But, the accumulation of such attitudes can lead to damaging rhetorics becoming popularised. For example, language that fuels toxic-masculinity combined with homophobic rhetoric can lead to men avoiding doing certain things simply because they fear being labelled ‘effeminate’ or ‘gay'. Conversely, if we partake in mainstream hobbies or trends we risk being labelled as 'basic' or 'cheugy ' (out of date, uncool, or trying too hard to be trendy). Ess entially, you are damned if you do and damned if you don't - if you stray too far from societal and gender norms you risk being labelled 'weird', but if you conform too much you are boring, unoriginal and just like everyone else. I would like to suggest a solution to this problem, and it is shockingly simple. Follow in the footsteps of people with autism, and stop caring. I recall a time when I was still in Primary School, my family took a trip down to Kingston Lacey. I noticed that, in one room, a series of pictures, possibly portraits, were out of order in terms of the historical timeline I knew they had been created in. I asked a staff member why that was, and they explained it was because of the space on the wall. Later on, impressed by my extensive knowledge of art history they asked my mum if I was studying it at GCSE level. Again, I was in primary school. Photo by Dimitry Kropachev on Unsplash Hearing this story now gives me a considerable dopamine rush. Someone thought I was a child genius, all because I knew history. At that time, I didn’t know I was autistic. However, what I did know was that I could pull history facts out of thin air. The feeling of being acknowledged and rewarded for something that others might consider ‘outside the norm’ or ‘cringe’ felt like winning an Olympic medal. Autistic folks tend to communicate with those around them and show affection in different ways to most people . For example by body doubling/parallel play (being alone together), penguin pebbling (sharing small, meaningful things), support swapping (offering help with tasks or challenges), deep pressure ( providing firm, even, and sustained pressure) and info-dumping (which is my personal favourite) and the one most relevant to what I’m trying to say. For autistic folks, we love showing off our knowledge, putting great value in our intelligence and ability to memorise what we find out. However, many have been conditioned to tamp down on these aspects of their personalities so that they can ‘fit in’ to modern society. This masking (hiding natural behaviors to fit in socially, and appear 'neurotypical') can lead to immense amounts of emotional, mental and even physical stress. Despite being harassed, interrogated and mocked by many of my pears for my atypical mannerisms and habits, I spent the majority of my formative years unaware I was autistic. The vitriol I received did not deter me and I gladly indulged in my own interests, and by the age of 16 I can say with some confidence that I had read more books in the school library than the rest of my year. I could summarise characters, themes and plots at the drop of a hat, simply because I didn’t care about what others thought. My books, these stories, were my escape, a passport into a new world where I could find friends, comrades even, and I was going to commit them to memory whether my peers liked or not. I have continued to unabashedly enjoy my hobbies and whenever I go to one of my favourite bookstores, one of my habits is to offer recommendations for others. This helps especially with younger children whose parents may be clueless about the various genres, as well as what may be appropriate for their child’s age. More often than not, the inexperienced parents have been elated with the suggestions I’ve given them. Photo by Natasha Anderson on Unsplash So, I offer this advice, let people develop hyper-fixations (I don’t want to say obsessions because of the negative connotations with the word) and let people love what they love and whenever someone tells you that something you like is immature or ‘cringe’, ask them "why?".   Throw yourself wholeheartedly into the things you enjoy, gush about it to your hearts content and, better yet, listen when others do the same. Looking back, I often wish that I had confronted my tormentors with the simple desire to understand how or why what I had done was wrong in their eyes. This isn’t to suggest that we should completely let ourselves go and indulge in our every desire. Given this chance, I’d never leave the house and would be found buried under an avalanche of books, a very real possibility given the enormity of my ‘To Be Read’ pile - ask anyone. But, if you see something that you like, such as a doll or a Lego set, get it. If you want to wander through an exhibit that was previously closed off to you, do it. Enjoy yourself, let go of the fear of being ‘cringy.’ Would you rather ignore the eyes of judgemental strangers and be happy, or stuff yourself into a box and appear to fit in. You lose so much by restricting yourself to what might be socially acceptable. The uncertainty of not knowing what is or is not going to get you ridiculed will keep you on a razor-thin line. ‘Cringe culture’ has stripped us of our ability to enjoy what we love. The constant need to perform, to appear as presentable as possible, prevents us from showing our true authentic selves. This, in my opinion, is the greatest crime that can be committed against oneself. To deny yourself the reality of who you are, of what you like or what interests you, is to deny that you are a human being. Without interests, hobbies, curiosities, likes or dislikes, then you can’t be a person. You’d only be a face in a crowd of identical other masks. If history has taught me anything, it is that when one person raises their voice, raises their words, they can change the world. You don’t need the approval of everyone, just of the people who matter. So, go enjoy that karaoke, that weird food, that obscure hobby. Life is too short for us to be worrying about what other people may think, and I like to think that life would be far more colourful if we all let go of fear of judgement. 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 breast cancer treatment changed my relationship with my body—and how I'm learning to reconnect with it Photo by Molly Blackbird on Unsplash When I was diagnosed with breast cancer, my primary focus was survival. I braced myself for the physical battle—the biopsies, the blood draws, the scans, and the surgeries. In the aftermath, grappling with post-op, post-radiation, and settling into the rhythm of daily hormone blockers, I realise there was something that I wasn’t prepared for: what comes next . When the bandages come off, the bruises fade, and your body is declared “cancer-free,” you’re expected to feel relief. Instead, I felt isolated and like a stranger in my own skin. Now, as I navigate the quiet, confusing process of reclaiming pleasure and intimacy in a body that no longer feels like mine, I’m realising that surviving cancer was only the first chapter. At 30, I never imagined I would be writing about breast cancer. I had just entered a new decade after a series of career missteps and the sudden loss of my father, hopeful that my thirties would finally bring stability, confidence, and a feeling of belonging in my own skin. Like many women my age, I was ready to leave the uncertainty of my twenties behind and feel more at home in myself. Yet, as a writer and mental health advocate who has lived through breast cancer, this Sexual Health Week I wanted to reflect on an aspect of recovery that is rarely acknowledged: reclaiming pleasure. Diagnosis is clinical. Recovery is personal. As I shared in a  previous article , I was diagnosed with hormone-positive breast cancer shortly after my 30th birthday. To say that it was a shock would be an understatement. I didn’t carry any BRCA gene  mutations (genetic mutations that increase the risk of breast and ovarian cancer). I had no family history. I didn’t even have a regular gynaecologist.   The discovery came during a routine physical examination, when my primary care doctor offered to do a quick breast exam. What followed was a whirlwind of mammograms, MRI scans, and a crash course in medical jargon that made my head spin.   Within weeks, I had surgery scheduled. I froze my eggs, as recommended. I started daily hormone therapy . I was grateful to have caught it early, and even more grateful to live in a state that mandated fertility preservation coverage for cancer patients. But the price of survival, for me, was steep: at least five-to-ten years of hormone suppression, which meant delaying pregnancy, navigating chemically-induced menopause , and living in a body that felt foreign. Grieving the loss of pleasure Photo by Khamkéo on Unsplash Tamoxifen , a tiny, unassuming white tablet, is my daily reminder that my body is no longer entirely my own. It works by blocking oestrogen, the hormone my cancer fed on. In the process, it also blocks libido, lubrication, and spontaneous desire.   Before cancer, I was in touch with my body in a way that felt natural as a young woman. I knew what turned me on. I felt comfortable in my skin. I could flirt and laugh and lean into intimacy without overthinking it. But after treatment, I felt like I was watching my life unfold through a frosted window.   My partner has been endlessly patient and kind throughout it all. Still, even within the safety of that relationship, I felt shame—shame that I couldn’t just “bounce back,” that I didn’t want to be touched, and that I couldn’t articulate what I needed because I wasn’t even sure myself. Alongside the shame was guilt. Guilt that intimacy, something that once came naturally, now requires conversation, intention, and even planning. I didn’t know how to explain why I was rarely in the mood. I didn’t want him to think he was doing something wrong, or worse, that my love for him had dimmed alongside my diagnosis. But in my silence, the distance between us grew. Why we need to talk about this more In the broader conversation about survivorship, intimacy rarely makes the agenda. There are resources about fertility preservation , yes. There are support groups and blog posts  about body image after mastectomy. But the loss of pleasure? The struggle to reconnect with your body as a source of joy and not just trauma? That’s a topic still shrouded in silence.   This isn't just about sex. It's about touch. Intimacy. Pleasure in the everyday. Wanting to feel warm in your body again, and not being expected to be satisfied just because it’s functional.    According to a study published in the Journal of Cancer Survivorship , sexual dysfunction and changes in intimacy are incredibly common among breast cancer survivors—particularly younger women. And yet, many of us are made to feel like it's an indulgence to talk about it. Like being grateful to be alive should somehow cancel out any grief we carry for what’s been lost. But both can be true.   You can be grateful and grieving. You can be proud of your scars and still ache for what your body used to feel like. You can love your partner and still feel like a stranger in your own skin. And maybe most importantly, you can want more for yourself than just survival. Reclaiming my body, one small step at a time Photo by Romina Farías on Unsplash Healing, for me, has been far from linear. There have been false starts, fragile attempts to feel normal again, to reach for intimacy before I was truly prepared. But lately, I’ve been trying something gentler.   I started with small rituals: running a hot bath and letting myself soak without rushing. Buying lingerie that fits the body I have now, not the one I used to have. Reading about the experience of women who’ve walked this path before me  to remind myself that I’m not alone. I’m not broken.   I also found a therapist who specialises in sexual health after cancer, something I didn’t even know existed until I went looking. Through that work, I’ve started to rebuild trust—not just with my partner, but with myself.   What I wish existed more widely, though, is a cultural roadmap for this kind of healing. One that doesn’t just tell us how to survive cancer, but how to live afterwards. A system that includes discussions around mental health, grief, trauma, and yes, pleasure. Because it’s not extra. It’s essential.   Some days, it’s as simple as letting the sunlight touch my skin and remembering that this body—scarred, hormonal, imperfect—is still capable of feeling good things. And that pleasure, in all its forms, is not a luxury. It’s a part of what makes life worth living. This is survivorship, too I used to think survivorship meant ticking boxes: clean scans, clear margins, annual checkups. Now I think it means something entirely different, but equally important. It means learning to live in a body you didn’t choose, finding softness where there used to be fear, and giving yourself permission to want more than just "being okay."   It means reclaiming your right to feel good—even after everything you've been through.  This article has been sponsored by the Psychiatry Research Trust,  who are dedicated to supporting young scientists in their groundbreaking research efforts within the field of mental health. If you wish to support their work, please consider donating.

Trigger Warning: This piece contains references to sexual assault which some readers may find upsetting. I lost myself some time ago.  I searched in vain until I found her in my bedroom mirror. Nineteen years later. Photo by Nahid Hatami on Unsplash Electric. That’s the word she used to describe me. “You were electric,” she said. I would have related more to passive or casual. I have never thought of myself as electric.  Then again, she knew me when I was four. Four-year-old me danced on public sidewalks and kitchen tables.  Twenty-six-year-old me struggles to make eye contact.  The fairytale creature she claims I once was is a mystery to me. Someone I’ve only heard about in stories of fond memories.  That’s why I came back—to find that girl.  The Seed My parents met on a bus in Buenos Aires, Argentina.  I am the product of a young girl looking for a way to leave home and a boy who would have followed her to the ends of the earth.  We lived happily for three years until my mom decided, once again, that it was time to go.  The Uproot The life I left behind—the one I lived for 22 years—was paved with gold. It was the American Dream—you know, the one they all talk about in movies? It’s one of the reasons my parents moved to Florida. Argentina wasn’t economically poor at the time, but it was highly crime-ridden, and after almost losing our lives during an armed attempted robbery, it was a no-brainer.  So they left in hopes of striking rich and never having to face another loaded gun.  Little did we know, and little did I know.  I was too young to understand where I was, let alone where we were going. Toddlers don’t get a say in life-changing decisions. They go where they are taken.  My dad and my grandma have always been close, and according to them, she was greatly present in my life before we left. It must’ve been hard for her to see us go. Memories from that time are in flashes and fragments. Most of what I recall comes from stories and pictures I’ve seen.  Nonetheless, before I could speak in full sentences, I was on a plane traveling 4,420 miles from home to stay for good. The Replant Florida is paved with sand and folks who look for watches with their metal detectors. Not gold.  Sure, you can make a good living for yourself, like my dad did. After he and my mom got divorced, he started his own company, got remarried, and had two more kids.  We weren’t well-off, but we never went hungry.  I adapted well, made friends, and had enough family to practice my Spanish. I danced and sang in school plays and took after-school hip-hop classes. Things weren’t so bad.  But then, my mom got remarried to a monster who had a thing for seven-year-old girls. All he gave me was the end of a childhood.  My roots were poisoned, and my light went out. I walked through life like a zombie until I was a freshman in college.  That’s when I became a fireball.  Photo by Liana S on Unsplash The Decay  I burned too hot for my own good. I scorched everything and everyone around me, including myself.  The alcohol I doused myself in only made the fire grow taller, and the marijuana made me buzz like an old fridge. The only time you could find me dancing was three shots deep in nightclubs. There was nothing artistic or creative about it.  I had learned to play guitar at a young age, and after a college experience filled with betrayal, heartbreak, and confusion, I began dedicating more time to writing and composing.  I learned to express my sorrow and grief through my songs. I took fear and shame and filled entire notebooks with them. I think it saved my life.  But music and sex soon became a drug. I prioritized intimacy with men over real friends; the concept of real stopped short of the physical items I could touch.  All I remember is wanting to feel important—like I mattered.  One day, I looked around and saw that I was surrounded by ash. I had never figured out what mattered to me. The Healing When I started therapy, I questioned everything like it was a pastime. It wasn't conventional psychotherapy, but breathwork therapy.  For the first time, I stopped dead in my tracks, turned around, and woke up to my reality.  Burned down buildings, injured loved ones, and a four-year-old me waiting at the end of it all.  After two years of therapy, I moved out of my dad’s house. Again.  St. Pete is about three hours from where I grew up, and it’s always had its appeal. I thought I had finally found my place in the world. I thought I’d be staying for good.  I lasted four months.  I lived in my car for two months and came up with the money for an apartment for the other two. With an upcoming visit to Argentina, I was ready to go see my family for a short while and come back to my humble abode in Florida. It was hard not to want to stay in Argentina whenever I was there. It was like an invisible string that tugged at me.  The way life would have it, a week before my flight, I almost faced another brutal abuse by someone I knew (or thought I knew).  And no, we weren’t in cahoots. I genuinely considered this person a friend. Thankfully, I got out in time, but the fear and anger took over.  My illusion of everything came crashing down like a floor-to-ceiling window. I couldn’t trust anything or anyone.  Within a day I had my life packed into two large suitcases and I was on my way back to my dad’s. And within a week, I was on my much-awaited flight to Argentina for a four-day visit.  I never got on the flight back.  The Resowing  We move from one place to another to find that thing we are looking for. We walk the earth in search of answers—or simply for something better.  To think that my parents left such a beautiful country and charming city will always astound me. Of course, they had their reasons, just like I had mine to come back.  But there’s something about the movement within us that has recently captured my attention. The way it travels through our bodies when we aren’t thinking about it, because we’re completely in it.  There’s a vastness in it. It’s like losing yourself completely to find the purest part of yourself. The part that has no label or role. Neither a category nor an identity.  Photo by Alexander Krivitskiy on Unsplash That’s what I saw in the mirror that night. I saw myself without thought. Without judgement. Just pure energy in motion. Pure being.  It’s been four months.  I’ve never felt more sure about anything in my life. I feel at peace for the first time in a long time.  We still talk every day, my parents and I. I think we’re closer than ever.  It took 22 years and the journey of (what seems like) many lifetimes to finally understand.  Sometimes the answers are far away, and sometimes we have to travel thousands of miles to realize they are closer than we think. 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.

Disclaimer: All names used in this piece do not reflect the real names of the individuals involved.                                 The pillow was almost as flat as I was. Almost as hollow and thin. I had exceeded my college’s tolerated threshold of crazy and got locked up. Escorted to a stark white room on a unit by people with jangly keys and tired medical uniforms.   “I guess this is the pillow I deserve.” Order of operations: concern the people around you with bizarre behavior, submit to a drug test, have personal belongings seized, sign a stack of admission forms without reading them. Solution: a tedious clinical evaluation conducted by a clinician trying to get through the end of their night shift. For me, the tedium came from the litany of questions I had to answer while struggling mentally. I answered with words that floated into a distant sky like balloons released by a startled child one by one. **** As a licensed clinical social worker and psychotherapist comfortably into middle adulthood, I am acutely aware that my empathy and intuition in my work is influenced by my early experiences. When I was 21, my world shrunk to the psychiatric ward in building F, a state-run facility in New York for adults ages 18 and up who were temporarily deemed to be a danger to themselves or others. Photo by Adham Ragab on Unsplash Passively suicidal, they determined. I wasn’t going to jump in front of a bus, but neither could I stop thinking about it. Earlier that week I had wandered the hardware store in a disconnected daze and considered razors or rope. A staff member recommended hiding the change necessary for making phone calls under my pillow. It flitted across my mind that after receiving this tip, every would-be quarter thief would know to look there. My only point of reference to a psych ward was a partial viewing of “ Girl, Interrupted .” I tried to make my first outgoing call and alerted staff “ the phones aren’t working.”  She looked up from the desk sharply. “ It’s group time .” Too timid to ask, I waited an hour until the phones were connected again. My roommate spoke only Spanish. “ Frio, ” I commented to her, hugging myself and shivering. She smiled back and nodded in agreement. Having exhausted much of what I retained from high school Spanish, we did not speak again.   The first time I was handed a little paper cup with a pill in it, I wondered whether the prescribing doctor was behind a curtain somewhere, Wizard of Oz style. “ I’m sorry…what is this?”  There was a shuffling of papers before  “Lexapro ” was tossed in my direction. Much later I would learn this was the brand name for Escitalopram, an antidepressant often used to treat conditions like depression and anxiety.   My social worker was always drowning in paperwork. I was a social work major at college. I wanted to disappear from her caseload, just so she would have less to do.   My fellow patients and I gave disproportionate weight and attention to small things. “ Do you want to get snack together when it’s time?”  Planning the snack that would be doled out two hours later, and no more than thirty steps away, somehow did not strike us as utterly pointless.   The young man sitting next to me in the day room volunteered that he was an alcoholic. His shoes were ill-fitting and his odor pungent. Our conversation started out normally – “ what are you in for ?” Moments later, he lowered his voice and asked “ so…do you like to play games ?” I quickly scanned the room. “ Um…do you mean like board games ?” I asked. He clarified patiently. “ Naw. I’m talkin’ ‘bout, like…a b*****b .” The next morning, another semi-lucid individual asked me to marry him over a bowl of cheerios.   Photo by Author Emily Randall It was Frankie who taught me how to play war, and how to pass the time. He told me where he had stashed a razor and needlessly swore me to secrecy. He wrote down his Myspace information, urging me to overlook the overwhelming satanic vibes, and assuring me he wasn’t “ into that stuff ” anymore.   One day a middle-aged man asked me about my medication. “That’s baby stuff ” he scoffed. A recently fired chef with a temper to match his cooking, he often complained about being under a microscope. “ We’re like rats in a maze right now .” He pointed to a camera on the ceiling. “ They’re watching every move we make .”   I was not convinced the staff were that invested- underpaid and overtired attendants often came in hoping for an easy shift where they could eat their Chinese takeout in peace while we watched TV or played cards without fighting. In my experience, short-term facilities like these rarely foster long-term relationships: the patient populations turn over quickly, there are frequent “repeat customers,” and professional detachment is necessary to get through the work in such an intense environment. Witnessing psychosis can be striking; on at least two occasions a patient removed all their clothing for no discernible reason. But when no one threw a cafeteria tray or defecated somewhere that was not a toilet, it was a good day.     **** Seventeen years later, snapshots of grace still shine through the faded memories. Take the banana breakfast tray lady.   She was doing fifteen-minute safety checks my first morning. On the edge of my assigned mattress, I sat alone, blinded by a waterfall of tears.   “ Aw, you still cryin’?”  She was in the doorway, urging me to get something for breakfast. I was not hungry for food.   She coaxed me to the cafeteria before it was locked and fixed a tray with a banana on the side. I hate bananas. And I’m not a big fan of orange juice. I nibbled at a few bites of cereal.   Nevertheless, it was filling. A feast prepared by Love. I stopped crying.   Determined little tendrils of healing poked through in unlikely soil. Like ping-pong with one of the security staff.   “Do you wanna play ?” Normally shyness would have held me back. But this was a chance to escape into a game I love. I let the noise of the hollow ball transport me to happier places, far away from bare walls and industrial pipes. “ You’re pretty good.”  He won. But for ten minutes, I felt less like a liability risk and more like a regular person who could be trusted with shoelaces.   My soul, thirsty for belonging, was quenched with a cup of kindness. Photo by Joshua Sortino on Unsplash Grateful when my parents came to visit, I was equally relieved when they left. I didn’t want them to see me like this. Unwashed hair, chewed fingernails, classes traded for zoning out with dull eyes on the television suspended from the ceiling.   I’d asked my parents for reading material, figuring I would get what I thought I was worth, some old books, tossed carelessly into a paper bag. I’d never seen the crisp edges of a new paperback quite like that before, as orange and clear as a dawn sprayed over a desert ridge. I still have those three books on my bookshelf because they are tangible grace.   I happened to bring with me the assigned reading for a class on spirituality that semester. I devoured it in two days. Its message of mercy was like a salve from an aloe plant, cooling my skin, then over the dry land a softness grew, as from rain, deep underground, until it settled in my bones.   Sitting in that depressing room, I felt like a failure. Evidence around me supported the idea. But it was also there, with the raggedy shards of my self-worth torn and wilted through my fingers, that my Savior met me, and assured me that He loved all of me, even as the broken mess I was.  I still find myself sifting through the shards of an old self. Sometimes they are like the jagged edges of broken littered beer bottles. Others are closer to sea glass; smooth treasures collected in a child’s overalls during a day at the ocean. Tenderly, I wash away the dirt. Nothing is wasted. From the pieces a mosaic of possibility emerges: a growing enthusiasm, fairies fluttering sparks of hope, beauty in redemption. Light shines through and illuminates a new story. The hospital didn’t make me feel better, but that isn’t really the goal of a short-term psychiatric stay. What it did do was keep me safe, offering 24/7 monitoring and enough support to help me return to society, and for that I’m thankful. It represents the turning point after which I became determined to learn how to live in harmony with a brain that often colors the whole world gray and pointless.   It provided me with a steppingstone for ongoing treatment. In my own therapy over the years since then, I have received valuable support from other wounded healers. I am indebted to them for helping me be able to do what I love now – partnering with others to create new, more empowered stories for their lives.   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.