On a spring day in 2023, I was subbed on at half-time in a rugby game between my university team and the British Army. Two minutes into the second half, I clashed heads with a teammate and briefly lost consciousness. When I came to, I realised something felt very wrong. My first thought was about the exams I had in two months. In the end, the exams went smoothly, and I returned to rugby within 2 months. However, I didn’t realise that this ‘routine’ concussion would fundamentally change my life in so many ways. My name is Tony Cowen. I started playing rugby when I was 10. I played all throughout school and university, where I studied psychology. I hope that any rugby players reading this article are encouraged to put their cognitive health first. Image by Patrick Case on Pexels Though I had been concussed before, this incident was far more severe and impactful. I had difficulty recalling anything from memory, struggled to carry a conversation, and was perpetually tired. After a week or two, I felt some symptoms abate. However, the tiredness didn’t go away. It was surprisingly difficult to articulate how this tiredness really felt. It didn’t feel like I had done loads of exercise, or that I had slept three hours the night before. It was as if thinking now took twice the time that it used to. I found myself having to concentrate very hard to understand a paragraph of text, or struggling to commit phone numbers, names, and the like to memory. At university, I loved keeping myself as busy as possible. In the months that followed this latest concussion, I realised that I simply couldn’t keep up with myself anymore because day-to-day tasks that I had previously never had difficulty with became noticeably more challenging. I’d accidentally miss appointments and lose track of my deadlines. Though these symptoms improved, I never felt like my cognitive function returned to its prior baseline. This was a very sobering feeling for my 21-year-old self. A few years earlier, I had broken a finger playing rugby. The knuckle on my right ring finger is still misshapen, and I can’t make a fist with my right hand due to the reduced range of motion. My anatomy was permanently altered. I didn’t particularly care about my fist-making abilities, so I never gave it much thought. This concussion was another matter entirely. Society is increasingly aware of how much we rely on our physical function, but my experience made me appreciate just how dependent we are on our cognitive function. To give a contrived example, it would be much easier to find a job if I were to be unable to walk than if I had anterograde amnesia. At 21, I found myself contemplating the possibility that a single concussion had perceptibly and permanently reduced my cognitive function, and with that my chance at success in so many areas of life. Rugby is often praised as being a sport for all body types, and I don’t disagree. Cheslin Kolbe, South Africa’s World Cup winner, stands at 5’7” and weighs 75 kg. His teammate, Frans Malherbe, is 141kg and 6’3”. At every level of the game, having different body types, and the abilities they afford, is an essential asset to the team. So much of rugby is centred on manufacturing and exploiting mismatches. A gazelle-like winger can use speed and agility to run around someone twice his weight, while a larger opponent can use size and power to run ‘through’ the winger. I weighed 70 kg at university and possessed nowhere near Kolbe’s freak athleticism. I knew that opposing teams would try to exploit me by forcing one-on-one tackles against someone 20 to 30 kg heavier than me. I was obsessive about making my tackle technique as good as it could be because, as a lighter player, the consequences of bad technique would be severe. The picture below illustrates bad technique in a tackle. The defender ought to have put his head on the other side of the attacker’s body, as in the image above. In the case below, he’ll experience a lot of the attacker’s momentum through his neck and head. Head placement is complicated by the attacker as they zig-zag, sidestep, and extend one arm to try to evade a tackle, which also in turn lowers their head position, making them vulnerable to head impacts from the defender’s head or shoulder. Image by Noel Patterson on Behance As I returned to rugby, a cycle developed. I would experience a fairly minor head impact, which would trigger intense anxiety, making it difficult to enjoy the game. I would feel disappointed in myself that I allowed myself to experience a head impact, both through my actions in the moment and the fact that I was playing rugby at all. When I went home, I’d obsess over every symptom, trying to determine if my fatigue and dullness were due to concussion, exercise, lack of sleep, or if this was simply my new normal after the injury in 2023. On and on this went. By the time I stopped playing rugby at the end of 2024, I had lost all confidence in my ability to tackle safely. I still enjoyed playing rugby, but that enjoyment was overshadowed by worry, which was inevitably followed by guilt. Given how I felt about the importance of cognitive function, I really struggled with the enjoyment of playing rugby pitted against the possibility of damaging my long-term health and career prospects. My feelings after playing rugby began to resemble how I’d felt after getting an alcohol-fuelled night out horribly wrong: waking up the next day with the mother of hangovers and my bank account in an even worse condition than me. Perhaps the most frustrating aspect of the perpetual dullness was how it impacted my relationships. Prior to the concussions at university, I was no motormouth, but I often enjoyed the ‘buzz’ of conversation at social gatherings and never struggled for ways to keep a conversation going. I’m now often keenly aware of the silence as I grope for an interesting reply to a friend. As a result, I’ve developed a sense of trepidation about seeing friends, especially when I was feeling tired as I knew, of course, that I was likely to perform better after being well-rested. From being an escape from stress, socialising turned into another form of stress. When I visited close family, they would comment that I seemed tired and was quieter than usual. Some of the longer-term symptoms have started to improve, many months after my last match. I know that I made the right decision to stop playing, but it’s a poor recompense for losing something which had given me joy since I was a young child. 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.

Rethinking lifestyle interventions in mental health care, together. Marianne would like to thank Anastasia Goula and Yuri Milaneschi (Amsterdam UMC) for generously sharing their expertise in appraising and discussing the latest scientific literature, and members of the ImmunoMIND Co-production Council for their invaluable critical review of this piece from the perspective of persons with lived experience. Photo by Hannah Busing from Unsplash Lifestyle advice has become almost inseparable from conversations about mental health. Open a newspaper, scroll through social media, or visit a health website, and the message is strikingly consistent: exercise regularly, eat well, sleep properly, reduce alcohol, stay connected. These recommendations are usually well-intentioned and evidence-based. Yet for people living with severe mental illness (SMI), they can feel strangely out of reach. I am a medical doctor who worked on co-production (explained later) within ImmunoMIND, one of the research hubs composing the Mental Health Platform, the UKRI-funded network aimed at accelerating research on SMI. Working shoulder-to-shoulder clinicians, researchers, and people with lived experience, gave me the opportunity to reflect on how feasible standard lifestyle advice truly is in the context of mental health. For instance, on the NHS webpages, including self-help guides and tools for mental health, it is indicated that “To stay healthy, adults should do 150 minutes of moderate-intensity activity every week”. Targets like this may be motivating for some, but for others, they can feel like a quiet rebuke -especially when symptoms such as fatigue, hypersomnia (that is, excessive daytime sleepiness), low motivation, cognitive slowing, or medication side effects are central features of the illness itself. The implicit assumption is that behaviour change is simply a matter of choice or effort, when in reality, the illness can directly undermine the abilities required to act on that advice. There can also be a mismatch between recommendations and reality. Media articles may suggest asking a GP about exercise on prescription or social prescribing, but this assumes time, confidence, and access. This gap becomes even more visible in healthcare settings. In practice, appointments are short, services are often stretched, and many people may hesitate to raise anything that does not feel urgent enough. As a result, lifestyle support can end up framed as optional, or as something to come back to later, once things are “better”. Something that can go unacknowledged is how contradictory this can feel to a person with SMI. Being advised to be more active when motivation is low, to socialise when anxiety is high, or to improve sleep while medication disrupts it can feel disheartening rather than empowering. When advice does not openly recognise these tensions, it risks sounding simplistic, even if the evidence behind it is strong. Bridging this disconnect requires not abandoning lifestyle interventions, but rethinking how they are framed, delivered, and personalised for those living with more complex and enduring mental health conditions. Image from sketchplanations.com What Does Research Tell Us About Lifestyle Interventions for Serious Mental Illnesses? Patients with SMI are twice as likely to suffer from physical health problems, such as cardiovascular disease, contributing to a higher risk of premature death. The good news is that lifestyle interventions can make a real difference. Today, their benefits are well established for both mental and physical health, particularly in four key areas: physical activity, nutrition, quitting smoking, and sleep. With ample research supporting the effectiveness of lifestyle interventions, the latest report of the Lancet Psychiatry Physical Health Commission - an international panel of researchers, clinicians and health experts also connecting to groups of individuals with lived experience - emphasises the need to also focus on implementation research. That is, understanding how such interventions can be best delivered and integrated as core clinical practice while acknowledging the social and financial nuances. The report discussed that these interventions can and should be offered across all settings, including inpatient, outpatient, and community contexts, and at any stage of the illness. Notably, introducing lifestyle changes as early as possible is crucial for two main reasons. First, it can help prevent physical health problems, which often arise either from long-lasting, untreated mental illness or from the chronic side effects of medications. Second, early intervention can help overcome the barriers that often make it difficult for people with SMI to engage with and stick to these programs. These barriers include physical or somatic symptoms, such as low energy or cognitive difficulties, as well as psychological factors like low motivation or lack of confidence. Admittedly, as mentioned before, the suggested interventions often seem counter-intuitive or particularly challenging for patients, mainly because of the conflicting nature of the disease and the intervention. For instance, engaging in regular physical activity when energy and motivation levels are low, participating in group programs when social anxiety is high, or reducing smoking when it serves as a primary means of social connection can all feel overwhelming. These challenges highlight the importance of tailoring interventions and providing structured support, ensuring that lifestyle changes are both achievable and sustainable for people with SMI. Co-production: bringing research results into real lives If lifestyle interventions are to benefit people with SMI, the future must lie not only in what we recommend, but in how knowledge is generated, communicated, and implemented. Over the past decade, research has firmly established that interventions targeting physical activity, nutrition, sleep, and smoking can improve both mental and physical health outcomes in SMI. The challenge now is no longer proving that these interventions work in principle, but understanding how they can work in real lives. This is where patient-centred research and co-production become essential rather than optional. Co-production means involving people with lived experience at every stage, from study design to dissemination and striving to work in equal partnership. Too often, research questions are shaped without meaningful input from those most affected, resulting in interventions that are theoretically sound but practically misaligned. Co-production helps ensure that research reflects real priorities, real barriers, and real definitions of success. Importantly, to realise the full potential of co-production, it is crucial to involve a diverse range of people with lived experience, reflecting different backgrounds, contexts, and perspectives. Photo by krakenimages from Unsplash Co-production is a key pillar we are developing in ImmunoMIND, where we established a council bringing together researchers, clinicians, and people with lived experience across several projects. One of these projects explores lifestyle changes that could be more effective and accessible for people living with SMI. Combining the complementary experiences and perspectives in the collective work of co-production councils can challenge hidden biases and assumptions about motivation, capacity, and engagement related to lifestyle changes in SMI. Co-production councils can help reframe lifestyle interventions not as moral imperatives or performance targets, but as flexible tools that can be adapted to fluctuating symptoms, social contexts, and personal values. Equally important is how research is communicated. Public understanding of lifestyle and mental health is often shaped by simplified headlines or one-size-fits-all messaging. Involving people with lived experience in translating research findings can make guidance more nuanced, compassionate, and credible. It also helps counter the misunderstood narrative that recovery depends on ‘willpower’. Looking ahead, the future of lifestyle interventions in SMI depends on this shift. Fewer prescriptions, more collaboration. Less assumption, more listening. Co-production does not dilute the science. It grounds it, making it far more likely to matter.

Image by Anna Tarazevich on Pexels Amidst growing discourse surrounding mental health, there is one condition that, I feel, has been left out. That condition is obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD). The condition has been discussed previously on Inspire the Mind, both in regard to avoidance and reproductive care and first-hand, lived experience. I strongly recommend reading these pieces to get a fuller understanding of the condition. For the purposes of this piece, I will say that broadly speaking, OCD is associated with significant anxiety caused by intrusive thoughts and significant disruption to day-to-day life, through compulsive behaviours that people engage in to reduce their anxiety. Moreover, there are strong links between OCD and depression; this understanding is hierarchical in that OCD causes depression, not the other way around. As such, for the majority of people, when OCD symptoms improve, depression appears to lift. However, for many others, depression lingers. This piece explores why that might be. I'm a researcher with a background in mental health. I am currently working within King's College London’s Social Genetic Developmental Psychiatry Centre on large-scale studies of anxiety, depression, and eating disorders, using people’s survey responses and biological data from blood and saliva samples to understand what causes poor mental health. Alongside this, I also live with OCD. Over the past few years, I have led an independent research project exploring how OCD is experienced in real life, including surveys and interviews with people living with OCD and clinicians working in the field. What has become increasingly clear is this: while we know a lot about OCD symptoms and treatments, we know far less about why some people recover fully from comorbid depression, while others continue to struggle even after treatment. This gap is the core focus of my recent paper. OCD and Depression: A more complicated relationship than it looks The relationship between OCD and depression is not always consistent, and the reasons for this remain unclear. One idea explored in the literature is attachment style - blueprints established during early childhood that shape the way we engage and relate to others. Some studies suggest that a person's attachment style may influence how OCD and depression interact, and how recovery unfolds. One such study found that attachment style moderates the relationship between OCD and depression. What this means is that a person’s attachment style has an effect on how likely someone is to develop depression as a result of their OCD. The more secure your attachment style, the less likely you are to develop depression. Image by Cottonbro Studio on Pexels This makes logical sense as insecure attachment styles are already associated with depression and anxiety, so someone living with OCD would understandably be more vulnerable to depression that lasts. It was this finding that my research sought to replicate. While I did not find exactly the same thing, I did uncover a particularly interesting finding: a mediatory effect of attachment style on the relationship between OCD and depression. Contribution vs Cause The previous study found that attachment style moderated the relationship between OCD and depression. This meant that attachment exists as a trait independent of a person's OCD or depression, and a naturally secure attachment style acts as a buffer against the depression that OCD can bring about. The key point: attachment is external and constant. My findings identified a mediatory effect. Rather than being an external force, my findings indicate that OCD causes insecure attachment, which in turn increases the likelihood of experiencing depression. Two things follow this. First, similar to the previous paper, attachment style does play a role - but rather than as an external force, our model suggests that living with OCD erodes secure attachment, leaving people more vulnerable to both depression and insecure attachment, even after OCD lifts. Second, this adds to emerging literature suggesting that significant life stressors, such as living with a chronic condition like OCD, can, in fact, shift a person's attachment style - something previously understood to be fixed across the lifespan. This work is at an early stage, and further longitudinal research is needed. But the findings do raise a meaningful question: for people who complete OCD treatment and still experience depression, has the condition reshaped how they relate to others? And could addressing that help? What’s more, if attachment styles are more open to change, how many people could benefit from interventions, such as those outlined by The Attachment Project, which seek to encourage secure attachment? Why I Want to Develop This Further These findings point towards something broader: OCD recovery is not only about symptom reduction. It may also involve changes in emotional regulation, attachment, and depressive vulnerability over time. As such, I am seeking funds and collaborators for a longitudinal study that follows people with OCD over time, exploring how state vs trait attachment style, developmental history, and symptom change interact to shape outcomes like depression and recovery. The aim is not only to understand OCD better, but to understand why recovery looks different for different people. If we can better understand why depression persists for some people with OCD, we may be able to improve how treatments are tailored, identifying people at higher risk of persistent depression earlier, refining how therapy is delivered, and moving from "does treatment work?" to "for whom does it work, and under what conditions?" Final Thoughts OCD is not a static condition, and neither is recovery. My own experiences have been one of ups, downs, and perseverance. The hope is that by combining quantitative research, qualitative insight, and lived experience, we can move towards a more complete picture - one that reflects the reality of the people living with this condition every day.

I want to ask you a question. How many close friends do you have? And I mean close friends - friends you could call at 11pm in an emergency and they’d pick-up the phone. Friends who know the things about you which you don’t post on social media. My name is Tom Stroud, and I’m the co-founder of the Shoulder to Shoulder men’s community. In this article, I talk about why feeling connected to others is the most important factor in long-term health and happiness. Because the research - 85 years of it - suggests meaningful relationships are more important to your long-term health and happiness than almost anything else you could name. Not your bank balance. Not your diet. Not how many times you make it to the gym. The Harvard Study of Adult Development, the longest-running research project on adult wellbeing in history, is pretty unambiguous about this. Its current director, Dr Robert Waldinger, puts it simply: "Good relationships keep us happier and healthier. Period." And yet one in three men in the UK report having no close friends at all. And Ipsos research published last year found that one in three young people feel lonely at least once a week, despite most of them saying they have plenty of friends. There's a difference between having people around you and feeling truly connected. A lot of men are learning that the hard way. Dan and Tom- Co-Founders of Shoulder to Shoulder | Image Source: Author's Own Why We Started Shoulder to Shoulder My co-founder Dan and I didn't set out to build a men's community. My dad left when I was young. The last time I saw him, I was 14. And the anger and confusion that created - the distrust of other men - impacted me significantly. It made it hard to build real friendships. Hard to be honest about what I was actually feeling, because I'd learnt early in my life that people you’re meant to rely on don’t always stick around. Dan's story is different, but the root of it is similar. His dad struggled with severe depression and psychosis. Struggles Dan didn't fully understand until his dad was sectioned, when Dan was in his final year of university. His dad pulled through. But when Dan asked him, years later, what he thought was at the core of it all, the answer wasn't what he expected. Lifestyle and exercise were small parts of it. But it was a lack of connection and purpose which were the core reasons. Both of our dads suffered from a lack of the very things the Harvard study says matter most. And that's why we set up Shoulder to Shoulder - to help create an environment which would’ve helped our dads, and indirectly, would help us too. In February 2025, Dan and I hosted our first walk and coffee in London. Ten guys showed up. We talked about male friendship, about feeling disconnected, about the stigma that exists around men admitting they want more meaningful connections in their lives. 18 months later, we now have over 1,550 members and run around 30 events a month - anything from paintballing, dinners, summer hikes, retreats. I quit my corporate job at the end of January to go all-in on the community, and I couldn’t be happier. Image Source: Author's Own What We've Seen in Our Members The primary reason men join Shoulder to Shoulder isn't that they're in crisis. It's that they have it together on paper - whether that’s a good job, a relationship, maybe a family - but they still feel like something's missing. And this isn’t unique to our members. In big city environments, it’s incredibly common. You look around and realise the friendships you had at school or university have slowly disappeared, not because of any falling out, but because of geography, different life stages, or you’ve simply grown apart. What we've also noticed is that when men do find a genuine sense of connection and community in our group, something changes. The guys who show up feeling nervous, anxious or isolated will, within a few months, start developing real relationships with other men. And slowly, they become brighter, more positive, and start thinking about how they can help and support others in the group who are in the same position they once were. The Harvard study backs this up. And it found that close relationships don't just make us happier, they actively protect our health. People with strong social bonds show better immune function, lower rates of heart disease, and slower cognitive decline as they age. The men with the warmest connections at 47 were the ones in the best health decades later. Connection isn't a nice-to-have. It’s something which will literally make you live longer. Image Source: Author's Own The Purpose Piece Connection and purpose aren't separate things. In our experience, they're deeply linked. A lot of our members find real purpose through the community, not just by being members of it, but by contributing to it. We put out a call for volunteers last year and were overwhelmed with responses. The men who became our ‘Connectors’ - the guys who organise events, moderate our spaces, show up week after week - do it for free. And when you ask them why, very few of them talk about recognition. They talk about feeling like they're doing something that matters. That they’re giving back to others. That it helps them feel more connected to the group. Dan and I had a walk last summer where only three people showed up, and we started questioning whether any of this was worth it. It was the clarity of why we were doing it that kept us going. Not the numbers. The why. And that’s something which drives all of our volunteers too. Viktor Frankl wrote about this after surviving the Holocaust. That those who had a sense of meaning were more likely to endure. That's an extreme context, obviously. But the principle applies at every scale. When you know why you're doing something, the how gets easier. What We're Still Figuring Out Building connection and purpose is an ongoing practice. And for men especially, there's a real stigma around admitting you want more of it - that you're lonely, or that you feel like your life lacks meaning. That somehow makes you weak, or ungrateful, or both. I felt it when Dan and I first met for coffee to talk about our own struggles and isolation. Two grown men, meeting to talk about their feelings. It felt strange. That stigma is part of what we're trying to dismantle. Telling men to be more vulnerable doesn’t do much on its own, but by creating environments where vulnerability is what happens naturally, men become more used to it. When you show up and someone who looks like they've got it together admits they've been feeling lost, something opens up. You give other people permission to do the same. Image Source: Author's Own My Personal Reflection My dad passed away last year at the age of 68. I never got to see him. He was a man who’d felt those familiar feelings of isolation, of shame, and couldn’t find a way out of it. He had five people at his funeral. Four of them were the children he never knew. I don't say that to be bleak. I say it because it's the clearest illustration I have of what a life without connection actually looks like. And because it's made me think a lot about what I'm building - in the community, yes, but also in my own life. The Harvard study says the men with the warmest relationships in their 40s were the healthiest in their 80s. I'm in my 40s now. I'm paying attention. Shoulder to Shoulder is a men's community based in London with over 1,500 members, running 30+ events per month. You can find out more at shoulder.mn.co or by visiting www.instagram.com/shouldertoshouldercommunity 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.

Just a few weeks ago, before speaking on a panel for Black Inclusion Week, I suffered a major panic attack. From the outside, nobody would have known. The “Mental Health Jedi” public persona still worked perfectly well. But internally, I felt completely drained — anxious, overwhelmed, and emotionally flat. Not dramatic, not visibly distressed, just… absent. The strange thing is, that feeling wasn’t new to me. Over the years, I’ve become particularly good at performing while emotionally disappearing underneath. Many men have. My name is Chris, and I am a lived experience practitioner. As a suicide survivor, I use my lived experience to improve the experiences of mental health for Black men in the UK through my advocacy platform Project Soul Stride. I started this after my own experiences with suicidality and mental illness, wanting to create more honest conversations around Black mental health, loneliness, identity, and emotional survival. Over time, it has grown into a platform for advocacy, storytelling, and systems change. For Men’s Health Week, I wanted to reflect honestly on something I think many men struggle to articulate: not simply the pressure of masculinity, but the emotional silence many of us inherit long before we understand its impact. This piece is less about blaming men and more about understanding how certain emotional patterns quietly travel through generations. When Nothing Became Dangerous People often describe masculinity as pressure, but if I’m honest, pressure wasn’t the main thing I experienced growing up. It was silence, or more specifically, what silence meant. Author's own image As a child, I was terrified of silence. I learned very early that silence meant that something was off and ‘nothing’ became dangerous. The shouting and arguments were bad enough, but the silence — and the fear of what silence could project — was worse. The atmosphere would change and, looking back now, I realise how much time I spent trying to read moods rather than express my own feelings. My understanding of masculinity began there, at home, watching my father. In many ways, he was a remarkable man. He arrived in the UK from Dominica as a child, the eldest of five siblings. He became a father to twin boys at the young age of 20, and he worked while studying for his MSc to provide for his family. As a young boy, I saw strength in him. Responsibility. Sacrifice. Discipline. Endurance. Yet, in him, I also saw what happens when pressure has nowhere to be released. Over time, the emotional weight he carried seemed to harden into silence. Eventually, that silence fractured relationships within the family, including his relationships with me and my brother. Witnessing that as a child was terrifying, but what’s difficult to explain is that only now do I understand how the struggles he endured shaped him and his relationships with us. Finding Ways to Be Seen Author's own image Growing up, my dad used to tell us something repeatedly: “As a Black man, you’ll have to work twice as hard to be recognised as being as good as a White man.” At the time, it sounded motivational, even necessary. Two young Black boys being prepared for the world. So, I absorbed the message the way many boys do: keep pushing, keep proving yourself, keep performing, never fall behind. What I didn’t understand then was how dangerous that mindset can become when your sense of worth gets entirely tied to performance. Because if you constantly feel you must be exceptional to deserve recognition, failure begins to feel unbearable. If you can’t find ways to shine, sometimes you find ways to self-destruct instead. My twin brother was academically brilliant, calm, focused, and naturally gifted in ways I admired but couldn’t compete with. So, I found other ways to become visible. I became loud, funny, disruptive, and difficult. What many would label as the “naughty kid.” At the time, I thought I was rebelling. Looking back now, I was searching for identity. That version of masculinity followed me for years. Not because anyone explicitly taught me to suppress emotions, but because I absorbed the lesson anyway. Through body language, discomfort, what made people uneasy, and what was rewarded. Inherited Quiet Masculinity isn’t always taught, sometimes it’s “inherited” - not biologically, but through what we quietly absorb from those around us. When I cried or struggled emotionally, it felt like a weakness, shame, failure. So eventually, I withdrew emotionally in much the same way my father had. That’s the frightening thing about “inherited behaviours”. Sometimes the very things that hurt us as children can quietly become the coping mechanisms we carry into adulthood ourselves. I remember a former partner once saying something to me that stopped me cold: “You’re turning into your father.” At the time, I wanted to reject it immediately, but deep down I knew exactly what she meant. Even now, working in mental health advocacy, I still see how heavily masculinity is tied to endurance and emotional control, especially for Black men. Strength is admired. Survival is admired. Holding everything together is admired. But uncertainty? Emotional confusion? Exhaustion? Those things still make people uncomfortable. I think many men become experts in controlled vulnerability. We reveal just enough to appear emotionally aware, but not enough to truly disrupt how people see us. That isn’t manipulation. I think it’s protection, because many men grow up understanding that emotional exposure can fundamentally change how the world responds to you. So, silence begins to feel safer, until it becomes isolating. Looking Through Old Photographs Author's own image Recently, I found myself scrolling through old family photographs. What struck me most was how little visual history I have with my father; that absence speaks volumes on its own. I looked at photographs from my 30th birthday party, just before moving to Hong Kong, and saw smiles hiding years of emotional pain underneath them. I looked at the only photograph I have of my twin brother and me together in our adult years, and I saw distance sitting quietly between us. It would be easy to paint my father as the villain in my story. But life is rarely that simple. He was carrying emotional burdens and pressures that I only began to understand much later as a man myself. The problem was never simply silence. It was what silence projected onto the people living around it. As a child, I learned to read moods, tension, withdrawal, and emotional distance long before I learned how to express my own feelings safely. As I grew up, without realising it, I developed many of the coping mechanisms that once frightened me as a child. That’s the danger of silence. It doesn’t just hide pain. Over time, it teaches people how to disappear into themselves. So, it’s my hope that young boys learn the word vulnerability so they can spell it in their sleep. In this day and age of superhero characters, we can turn vulnerability into a superpower, not something to hide. This article has been sponsored by the Psychiatry Research Trust, who are dedicated to supporting young scientists in their groundbreaking research efforts within the field of mental health. If you wish to support their work, please consider donating.

Image generated with AI by Author How Social Media Affected Me I’m eight years old and I receive my first phone. I am discovering social media, there is COVID, and I experience bursts of happiness in doing TikTok dances. Overthinking every comment and every “like”. “Will I get 100 likes today?” This dance, that routine, the lip sync, the newest trend. I am 10 years old, and I love seeing older girls posting makeup and hair tutorials. “I want to grow up to be just like them”. Looking at videos about beauty makes me curious and excited. I want to try all these trends; everything is new to me. “But why is my hair not like that girl, why are my lips ugly”? Also, my feed on TikTok and Instagram becomes more and more depressing as I scroll. Pinterest comes into the mix: pins and explicit videos on how to end your life and on drugs. I am 11 and I discover the dull power of self-harm. It ruins my perspective on life drastically. Hiding behind band aids and rusty blades hidden in my pink Pandora box. Everything is black, pitch black, so, so dark. I cannot distinguish myself from my phone anymore. And everything is so loud. I am 12 and the world loses its colour. Black and white, sly details of grey. Social media is making me miserable in many ways, relatable posts... too relatable. Making me enter a deep void of exasperation. It’s a loop, it’s like an addiction, once you live with it, you cannot figure out a world without it. Jealousy, envy, comparison. I am 13, a teenager, and I am unlocking a new perspective on life. Maybe life isn’t as dull and colourless as I thought? I keep scrolling and everything is so fast, I must do everything they do, I must look like them, I must think and be like them. I must I must I must… The more I grew up, the more the world became dull, empty. Social media makes me grow up thinking I am not alone. Yet so alone at the same time. There are times when my only escape is being able to see other people going through what I am, in different ways and forms. I try to control loneliness and sadness by embracing it. I keep scrolling, I keep messaging, strangers in Roblox, people I have never met in Snapchat. I am Joana, I am 14 years old now, and like many teens I experience the ups and downs of socials: addiction, mood dysregulation, body dysmorphia, all the bad and all the good. I am against the ban. Taking everything away will not fix a problem that has already been created. Image generated with AI by Author The Ban The very people who should protect us, panic instead. They cannot find a better solution for online protection and take away everything we have been given until now. Leaving us with silence, boredom. The lack of excitement towards simple things. Hobbies and sports can only entertain kids for a few hours per day. What happens when we are alone? What happens to the kids that can’t attend activities? Opportunities are not born equal. Also, replacing social media with active sport and youth activities prevents teenagers from relaxing after a tiring day. Social media is an escape from reality where we can drown ourselves in our own world and thoughts. Without it, nothing will be as it used to be. No entertainment. No late-night texts between friends. No latest trends. Nothing, just… silence. It’s all too quiet. If the ban were to happen to me, I would be trapped in a state of derealization. I imagine it: “You are real. You are here. You belong.” I keep repeating to myself. The addiction of needing to scroll constantly but not being able to because of the ban would drive me crazy. The ban would leave behind an eerie stillness. A quiet groan of emptiness. In a couple of years, I will turn 16. And the first thing I would do is to install social media again. I have looked forward to acquiring socials so much so that I will quickly forget the beauty in living in the present. Acquiring social media all at once at 16 is a very dangerous thing to do. At 16 we are still very vulnerable. Comparison, body image, friends. The feeling of not being perfect. I will feel overjoyed to be able to be a part of the community again. However, this excitement will slowly fade once I realise how self-destructive social media is and can still be. Can the Ban Be Really Enforced? Us teenagers, the source of technology, will find a way to use social media. Even if there are consequences. Especially if there are. Removing something that has become an everyday routine to many other kids and me will damage mental health in deep, ground-rooted ways. Teens will go to unimaginable extents to go around the ban. Because when we want something, we want it as soon as possible. We already do. When TikTok asks for age verification selfies, we ask anyone over age to take it, no explanation given. We can create fake emails, we can scan our parents’ or old relatives’ IDs to bypass the algorithm, and we are the generative AI generation. The strong addiction we have will be the driver. We need to be attached to a screen instead of spending time with our loved ones. Addiction is bad and a hard thing to get over. But Do We Really Need a Ban? Social media has ruined my perspective on life in many ways. Like the unbearable loneliness of being able to call someone yet not knowing if they will answer. I wish I could have enjoyed my childhood. Being free without the constant urge to be better. Being able to live without the constant voices in my head telling me I was not good enough. Social media leaves not only physical, but mental battle scars; but it also teaches us maturity and lessons far greater than if we were just told by adults. Social media has left me in a pool of my own tears, but it has also taught me how to float in them and use a mop to spread them out…, not fully drying up the surface yet preventing me from slipping. If I had not gone through a rabbit hole of deep overthinking and constant comparison, I would not have learned that there is so much more to life than what you see on a screen. People say I am mature for my age. I agree, but I have been through the gates of hell to get to where I am today. I am glad I did because it made me who I am, and I would never change that for anything. We live in a loud multitude of interactions, so we are able to picture the world with open eyes and various perspectives. How can you discover yourself if you only have access to the people around you? There are alternatives, instead of forcefully banning social media. Shutting everything down after 9 pm to ensure proper bedtimes. Invest in intelligent security to prevent online predators. Block specific content pages. I believe adults can do better than just banning something teenagers have lived with their whole lives. What is the point of a ban if it does more harm than good? 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.

We like to think health psychology helps people make better choices. But what if, sometimes, it just makes it easier to blame them? Photo by Enst-Günther Krause on Unsplash I’ve always been fascinated by the gap between what people know they should do and what they actually do. Why do some people ignore health advice, while others make lasting changes to improve their wellbeing? As a lecturer in health psychology, I spend most of the academic year teaching and supervising research on health promotion and behaviour change. We explore why people smoke, struggle to exercise regularly, attend screening appointments, or take medication as prescribed, and how psychological theory can help explain and predict these behaviours. In many ways, health psychology is built around an important question: how can we help people live healthier lives? Over the past few decades, behaviour change has become one of the dominant approaches in public health, and for good reason. The behaviours people engage in can have major implications for disease prevention, long-term health, and quality of life. Psychological theories are now embedded everywhere: smoking cessation campaigns, vaccination strategies, and even workplace wellbeing initiatives. I regularly taught theories and models that focused on beliefs, motivations, habits and decision-making. But over time, I’ve become increasingly uncomfortable with how easily behavioural explanations can drift into behavioural blame. The logic seems straightforward: if unhealthy behaviours contribute to poor health outcomes, then changing behaviour must be part of the solution. But this raises an awkward question: what happens when the primary barriers to health are not the individual behaviours themselves, but the wider social, economic and structural conditions shaping them? The Behaviour Change Mindset Across public health campaigns, healthcare systems, and even social media, behaviour change approaches have increasingly become the default response to complex health problems. Smoking? Emphasise the health consequences and encourage cessation. Obesity? Promote healthier eating and increased physical activity. Vaccine hesitancy? Reassure people about vaccine safety and address misinformation. Over time, this way of thinking can subtly reshape how we understand health itself. Health becomes framed as a reflection of discipline, motivation, and personal responsibility. Admittedly, I’ve recently caught myself slipping into this way of thinking too. During supervision of one of my PhD students examining parental influenza vaccine decision-making, I became heavily focused on beliefs, attitudes, mistrust, and hesitancy. But after speaking with a Director of Public Health, I realised I had overlooked something much more basic: for most parents, the key barriers had included difficulty navigating complicated consent procedures, understanding information forms, language barriers, or not knowing how to access catch-up services. Here, my error was placing disproportionate emphasis on the psychology and overlooking the broader influences of vaccination uptake. Psychological factors matter, but they exist within wider social and structural conditions that shape whether healthy behaviour is realistically possible. This is not to say health psychologists ignore social determinants of health. Contemporary behaviour change models recognise environmental and structural influences on behaviour. Nevertheless, public health interventions often continue to emphasise individual responsibility for health behaviour, potentially obscuring the broader structural factors that shape people’s opportunities and choices. Therefore, behaviourally informed interventions designed to change knowledge, beliefs or attitudes, are unlikely to prove effective if individuals face barriers that hinder their ability to engage in healthy behaviours in the first place. For example, encouraging women to attend breast cancer screening through educational campaigns may have limited impact if appointment times, transport difficulties, caring responsibilities or inflexible working arrangements make attendance impractical. The Hidden Shift from Understanding to Responsibility Behavioural explanations do not just shape how we understand health - they also shape who we hold responsible for it. Discussions about health inequalities often begin by acknowledging wider social problems such as poverty, insecure employment, or unequal access to healthcare. But surprisingly quickly, the conversation can drift back toward individual choices, behaviours, and personal responsibility. Structural problems become reframed as behavioural ones. Take vaccination, for example. Vaccine hesitancy has often been approached through a knowledge-deficit model – the assumption that low uptake primarily reflects a lack of knowledge or misunderstanding about vaccines. Consequently, interventions have frequently focused on providing information and correcting misconceptions in the hope that this will increase vaccine acceptance. Yet, vaccine attitudes are shaped by far more than information alone. Trust, social norms, previous experiences with healthcare, and wider social contexts can all shape whether someone chooses to vaccinate. This means institutional credibility may be just as important as factual knowledge itself. During the COVID-19 pandemic in the UK, campaigns such as “Can you look them in the eyes?” relied heavily on emotional appeals to encourage compliance with public health restrictions. While such approaches may influence behaviour in the short-term, communication strategies perceived as manipulative or fear-driven may carry longer-term consequences for institutional trust and public engagement with healthcare. Photo by Habib Dadkhah on Unsplash Psychologically framed explanations can feel progressive because they focus on empowerment and personal agency. But they can also allow governments and institutions to sidestep conversations about inequality, poverty, and access to care. It is often easier to ask individuals to change their behaviour than to tackle the structural conditions that limit their choices. When Behavioural Interventions Miss the Point Many behavioural interventions are designed around the assumption that people simply need more education, changed beliefs, or stronger motivation to alter their behaviour. However, Albarracín and colleagues’ (2025) review, “Determinants of behaviour and their efficacy as targets of behavioural change interventions”, found that interventions focused primarily on knowledge, general attitudes and beliefs were often far less effective than those addressing access and social support. Smoking illustrates why purely individually focused approaches can fall short. Smokers are repeatedly exposed to graphic warning labels and messages about cancer risk. Most know smoking is harmful. Likewise, many people experiencing financial hardship know the importance of eating healthily, sleeping properly, and managing stress. The problem is not always education. People’s circumstances can make healthy behaviours far harder to maintain. Telling someone to exercise more while they work multiple insecure jobs and care for family members ignores the realities shaping their behaviour. Discouraging “unhealthy choices” means little when healthier foods are financially inaccessible or unavailable. Photo by Tanya Barrow on Unsplash So, What Should Health Psychology Do Instead? None of this means behaviour change should be abandoned. Behaviour matters, and psychological interventions can genuinely improve health outcomes. Before attempting to change behaviour, we may first need to ask whether people realistically have the opportunity, stability, resources, or access required to engage in that behaviour in the first place. In some cases, the most effective intervention may be improving service accessibility, reducing financial barriers, or addressing wider structural conditions. Perhaps that is what I have come to appreciate most about health psychology. The longer I teach and research behaviour change, the less interested I become in asking why people fail to make healthy choices, and the more interested I become in understanding the circumstances that make those choices easier for some people than others. If there is a risk of over-psychologising public health problems, it is not because psychological explanations are wrong. It is because they can become so persuasive that we forget to look beyond the individual. Photo by Centre for Ageing Better on Unsplash

What happens when anxiety fuels achievement, but achievement still isn't enough I was four years old when I was diagnosed with generalised anxiety disorder (a mental health condition characterised by anxiety about many different day-to-day situations). As an anxious kid, I became very good at performing competence, earning the “gifted kid” label. I was often bullied by my peers, so I found comfort in books, where I didn’t have to talk to anyone. I put all my efforts into academics and prided myself on being the one who always knew the answer. Image by Olia Dalinevich on Pexels Achievement became not just something I did, but the architecture I built my sense of safety—and self—in. Yet, at the age of 28, the achievements I collected throughout my life didn’t really show up the way I expected, if at all. Lately, I have been relating very hard to Rory Gilmore in Gilmore Girls: A Year in the Life. Like her, I did everything “right”, but I still ended up floundering as a young adult. Beyond both being brunettes from New England, we were known by everyone around us as hard workers who were obviously going to have bright futures. Yet, as young adults, we both ended up freelancing in London, watching our friends pull their lives together while quietly panicking about our own. As a freelance women’s health consultant, I find myself writing through this experience, trying to make sense of how achievement doesn’t always pay off in the way we are taught to expect, and what it means to navigate that dissonance as a young adult. The Girl Who Had It All Lined Up As a kid, I watched my parents struggle financially and felt the stress it put them under; I didn’t want that for myself. My mother had dreams. I carried the weight of honouring them, and building the better life that her sacrifices were supposed to make possible. Like Rory had to be the proof that Lorelai’s choices were worth it, I had to show that everything my family had worked hard to give me wasn’t wasted. I overachieved in high school. Honours. AP classes. Over-scheduled with after-school activities and titles to boast: co-president of the dance club, lead in operettas, string quartets, recipient of foreign language awards. Then, in 10th and 11th grade, tragedy struck, and my biggest asset—my brain—took the hit (literally). Two Traumatic Brain Injuries (TBI) changed everything. For someone whose way to manage anxiety since childhood was achieving, my whole identity was forced to shift. I didn’t give myself enough recovery time, believing I needed to push through, resulting in dire consequences. Focus was hard to summon, fatigue loomed constantly, and emotional regulation felt fragile. The mental health challenges I had previously masked with structure and overachievement became harder to conceal. My anxiety spiralled to the point that I had to go on medications, which I still take today. Yet, I got into every college I applied to, with many scholarship offers, and I ultimately enrolled in my dream school. When the Architecture Cracks I was hoping that after all of the suffering with my TBI and navigating their long term impact, college would be easy in comparison. However, when I started my undergrad, the myth of “working hard will inevitably pay off” cracked. Everyone around me was hardworking, accomplished, and had been the best somewhere. I was no longer exceptional. Some semesters, I really struggled. Some courses left me feeling behind in a way that felt existential, not just academic. I had spent my whole life being the one who understood first, and now I was working twice as hard for results that felt average. Because I built my identity on being exceptional, average felt like failure. Image from Getty Images on Unsplash+ I still graduated magna cum laude, and landed an impressive sounding job right out of college, but the pay was poor. I thought a master’s degree would help me succeed in today’s cut-throat job market, so I went back to university and earned another degree. Did it help? Well, no. If anything, I’m worse off. While searching for full-time work after graduating with an MSc, I worked in a pub to make ends meet, and it felt demoralising. Don’t get me wrong, I have a huge respect for hospitality work and for the people who do it (it’s definitely NOT unskilled labour); but, doing a job outside of my interests and taking home minimum wage felt like everything I had built academically counted for nothing in the world I was navigating. I’ve been out of full-time work for a year and a half. The other day I printed my CV and walked from café to café asking if they were hiring. Out of roughly sixty shops, five took my CV. Two were actively hiring. Neither has called. Career coaches have called my CV impressive. They say my experience makes me uniquely qualified—often even overqualified—and admit they cannot understand why I have not been hired yet (neither can I). Despite holding a master’s degree, I find myself begging for minimum-wage work, and sadly, I am not alone. Unemployment is on the rise, particularly among young people, who currently face an unemployment rate of 16.2% in the UK. The Burden of Performing 24/7 I’m embarrassed to show people how I’m really doing. My family doesn’t know how scared I am. They grew up with much less than I did, working hard to give me opportunities they never had. While I am so grateful for them, I feel extremely guilty that I don’t have anything to show for it. I know how to put a good front on, so friends assume I’m fine. They don’t know I've been walking into cafés with a printed CV and rehearsing humility in the mirror beforehand. I’ve been performing this role so convincingly that, at this point, I don’t know how else to exist. Image from Kathrine Birch on Pexels. On top of everything, I’m living in London as an immigrant, navigating the high cost of living and added pressure of a visa and the restrictions that come with it, which carry the constant need to perform at my best just to stay afloat. When Achievement ≠ Success In Gilmore Girls: A Year in the Life, Rory drifts between London and New England, insisting she’s freelancing, that “it’s [her] time to be rootless,” with no permanent address and no stable job at 32 years old. Being rootless may be exciting at 22, but by 32, it sounds panic-worthy. Recognising some of these “rootlessness” in my life, sent me into immediate panic. Like Rory, I was groomed for success; but, unlike her, I don’t have grandparents who could bankroll Yale. So, if she stumbles with all that cushioning, what does that mean for me? The emotional landscape feels eerily similar: the performance of being fine, the insistence that your stumbles are temporary. Worst of all, the quiet shame of not matching the trajectory everyone assumed you were on, and the feeling that you’ve let your family down. I’m struggling to live as an anxious person in a world where my hard work hasn’t paid off yet. For my whole life, achievement has been an answer to my anxiety: a proof of safety, of worth, of belonging. What nobody warned me about is what happens when achievements stop paying off. The anxiety remains, but the armour is gone. I’m still figuring out how to exist without it. Some days, that feels like falling. Other days, it—tentatively—feels like finally being honest. 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.

Eric Kandel, Nobel Prize-winning neuroscientist in Reductionism in Art and Brain Science, argues that our brain is not a camera that simply replicates an image. It is a creativity machine that takes incomplete information from the outside world and makes it complete. This means when you stand before a masterpiece, you're not passively observing, you're actively creating meaning. In The Age of Insight, Kandel calls this the beholder's share: a concept rooted in art history and developed by Ernst Kris and Ernst Gombrich- the viewer's role in completing the artistic experience. Your emotions, memories, and personal history become part of how you see the work. And when you understand the story behind that painting, you activate deeper layers of empathy and connection in your brain. This is where art and science converge, revealing that great art isn't just beautiful, it shapes how we think and feel. In a recent King's College London study -The Physiological Impact of Viewing Original Artworks vs. Reprints: A Comparative Study, participants who viewed original masterpieces by Van Gogh, Manet, Toulouse-Lautrec, and Gauguin at London's Courtauld Gallery showed significant reductions in cortisol and inflammatory markers compared with those viewing reproductions. Researchers also observed changes in heart-rate variability, suggesting a physiological state associated with both emotional engagement and stress regulation. These findings suggest that engaging with art is not merely an intellectual or emotional experience. It can trigger biological processes linked to wellbeing, resilience, and reduced physiological stress. Far from being a luxury, art may represent a unique meeting point between culture, neuroscience, and health. A 2025 study-The impact of viewing art on well-being-a systematic review of the evidence base and suggested mechanisms by Trupp and colleagues, analysed 38 studies involving over 6,800 people across museums, hospitals, and galleries worldwide. Their analysis identified five key mechanisms through which viewing art may support well-being: emotional response, cognitive engagement, social connection, personal transformation, and resilience. Science is showing what artists, philosophers, and dreamers have sensed for centuries: great art can profoundly influence both the mind and the body. But what if the experience could go even deeper? Imagine standing before a masterpiece that has captivated people for hundreds of years. You admire its colours, its composition, its beauty. Now imagine knowing the secrets behind its creation, the struggles of its artist, and the journey that brought it to the present day. Suddenly, you are no longer just looking at a painting. You are stepping into a story; you become more than a spectator. You become part of a neuroscience experience. This is an invitation to do exactly that; we will explore four masterpieces. When you encounter these, whether in person or from afar, you may find yourself experiencing them differently. Not simply as works of art, but as living conversations across time. If you’ve ever paused, struck by something, a work of art, a discovery, or an idea, then you already understand what drives me. As an artist and psychologist, I am here to bridge those moments of awe with the science behind why they move us. Let’s dive into how knowing the story behind art amplifies that connection. Metamorphosis of Narcissus- Salvador Dalí 1937 Metamorphosis of Narcissus- Salvador Dalí 1937 In The Metamorphosis of Narcissus (1937), Salvador Dalí creates an optical puzzle that seems almost alive. At first, you see Narcissus gazing at his reflection. Then, suddenly, the figure dissolves into a hand holding an egg from which a flower emerges. Your mind shifts back and forth between the two images, unable to settle on just one reality. Dalí painted the work during a turbulent period in his life, while becoming increasingly fascinated by the ideas of Sigmund Freud, whom he would meet the following year in London. The ancient myth of Narcissus, a young man so captivated by his own reflection that he is transformed into a flower, became, in Dalí's hands, a meditation on obsession, identity, and transformation. What makes the painting extraordinary is that the metamorphosis does not occur only on the canvas. It occurs inside the viewer's mind. As perception shifts and meaning unfolds, you become an active participant in the artwork itself. Standing before the painting at the Tate Modern in London, you are not simply observing a transformation; you are experiencing one. Birth of Venus-Sandro Botticelli (Firenze 1445 – 1510) Birth of Venus-Sandro Botticelli (Firenze 1445 – 1510) Sandro Botticelli's The Birth of Venus, painted around 1484-1485 and housed in the Uffizi Gallery in Florence, is one of the most iconic images in Western art. It depicts the goddess Venus arriving at the shore on a shell, fully grown from the sea, carried by the winds, while a figure on the shore reaches out to clothe her. But the story behind it is what makes it extraordinary. Botticelli painted it for the powerful Medici family during the height of the Florentine Renaissance, a moment when beauty and classical mythology were being celebrated as almost divine. Yet years later, Botticelli fell under the spell of the radical preacher Savonarola, who condemned beauty and art as sinful. Botticelli was so tormented that he allegedly threw some of his own paintings into Savonarola's infamous Bonfire of the Vanities. A man who created perhaps the most iconic image of beauty in history later questioned whether beauty itself was a sin. That tension, between celebrating beauty and fearing it, adds a profound emotional layer when you stand before that painting. And that emotional layer is exactly what activates the deeper neural mechanisms Kandel and the science describe. The Two Fridas, 1939 by Frida Kahlo The Two Fridas, 1939 by Frida Kahlo Frida Kahlo's The Two Fridas, painted in 1939 and housed at Museo de Arte Moderno in Mexico City, is one of the largest and most emotionally devastating self-portraits ever created. Frida Kahlo sits beside another version of herself, their hearts exposed, connected by a single artery. One is the Frida that her husband, Diego Rivera, loved. The other is the Frida left behind after his betrayal. What makes this painting extraordinary is that it is not only about heartbreak. It is about survival. Frida created it while enduring the emotional devastation of her divorce from Diego Rivera that same year, a wound as raw and physical as any she had suffered, including the devastating bus accident that had shattered her body fourteen years before. Standing before the painting at the museum, you are witnessing something rare: a person turning grief into beauty, vulnerability into strength, and a broken heart into one of the most unforgettable images in art history. Marilyn Diptych- Andy Warhol, 1962 Marilyn Diptych- Andy Warhol, 1962 Created just a few months after Marilyn Monroe's death in 1962, Warhol's Marilyn Diptych transforms a simple publicity photograph into something almost immortal. Repeating her face fifty times, he captures the strange tension between fame and fragility. Marilyn becomes more than a Hollywood star; she becomes a modern icon. What first appears to be a celebration slowly reveals itself as a meditation on memory, loss, and the desire to preserve what inevitably fades. Standing before the work, now housed at Tate Modern in London, you are not simply looking at Marilyn Monroe. You are witnessing the moment an image became a legend. Art is far more than something we simply look at. As neuroscience increasingly reveals, it is an experience that engages our minds, bodies, memories, and emotions in profound ways. From Dalí's surrealism to Kahlo's resilience, from Botticelli's celebration of beauty to Warhol's image that became a legend, these masterpieces remind us that art lives not only on the canvas but within the mind of the viewer. Science may explain why art moves us, but it does not diminish the mystery. For every time we stand before a great work of art, we are not simply looking at colours or history, we are becoming part of it.

Image Source: Azwedo L.LC on Unsplash With men combating loneliness, suicide and the rise of the manosphere, Men’s groups are providing an opportunity to explore masculinity and the pressure they feel. From prison support groups to men-only hikes in nature, from dad clubs to celebrity circles, men are turning to a growing number of communities and brotherhoods to explore their identity, connect with their emotions, and voice their concerns. Lad Culture. As a British writer and a man in his 40s, I have settled into a version of myself that has developed through habit, observation, and familial and societal patterns. Growing up, I couldn’t escape the laddish culture of the 90’s - where men's magazines like FHM, Loaded, and Nuts glamourised an unsanitary brand of toxic masculinity and the swagger of the Gallagher brothers ruled. As a sensitive and shy adolescent, I felt out of step with the culture at the time. But in the days before the internet became ubiquitous, there wasn’t much of an alternative, so I developed a version of myself that I reserved for the company of men. Football, pints and women – these were the go-to subjects, and nobody ever, EVER discussed mental health or those strange things called feelings. Fast forward two decades, and the public discourse around men’s mental health has changed dramatically. With male suicide rates being three times higher than women's, and suicide being the leading cause of death in men under 50 in the UK, there has been a concerted effort and cultural shift towards men seeking help. However, as recently as 2024, only 32.6% of NHS Talking Therapy referrals were for men, so there is clearly still a long way to go. Festival Connection. I had my first experience of a men’s sharing circle at a music festival, run by Merlin Matthews, who runs the Man Academy - a community of like-minded men who have discovered the power of opening up. I stumbled across the tent by chance, and initially, I was a little sceptical, and stayed within my shell - only speaking up when prompted. But as I listened, I was surprised by the variety of men’s experiences – fathers, sons, husbands, brothers - coming together to discuss what masculinity meant for them and the pressure they felt to be providers, protectors, lovers and leaders. Image Source: Merlin Matthews Merlin, who has been running men's groups for 5 years and has regular sessions in London, Brighton, Lewes and online, was a soothing presence and held the space sensitively. On my return to non-festival life, I joined him at one of his Men’s groups in London, but then life got in the way, and a year passed. Frustrated by some old recurring habits, I resolved to give it another go and joined one of his groups in Brighton. Active Listening and Being ‘Witnessed’ The room in the loft of a community centre is sparse, with a handful of chairs in a circle. Merlin burns some sage and places a tealight in the middle as a focal point. As the men enter, they warmly greet each other like old friends, and there is a genuine warmth radiating from them. There is a list of rules that all men must agree to beforehand. Paramount among these are respect, boundaries, authenticity, and owning your feelings through “I” statements rather than “My” or “We”. Merlin gives a refresher, explaining that confidentiality is key, and he encourages us to experiment and test-drive who we are, “beyond old playground or professional personalities.” Over the next 2 hours, we are encouraged to check in and voice what we’re feeling physically and emotionally, and what big things are happening in our individual worlds. I talk about my father, who is terminally ill and whom I’ve been caring for and the issues around that. Nobody interrupted or ‘hijacked’ what I was sharing, and when I finished speaking, I felt as if I had been deeply listened to. People-Pleasing, Lone Wolves, and Pushing Through. Indeed, being heard or ‘witnessed’ without judgment was one of the main things the men in the room said they wanted when prompted. Others asked for advice pertaining to their circumstances or to be held accountable - another tenet of Merlin’s groups. The men discuss themes ranging from small to large, including health, relationships, careers, anxieties, blessings and wins. If something resonates, we can raise our hand in solidarity, nod our heads or agree vocally. At times, I felt shaky when talking - a sign of tension in the body, but gradually I softened to the experience. Image Source: Cedric Fauntleroy on Pexels Inner narratives, relationships with parents, dynamics at school, and men’s tendency to suppress emotion, to be a ‘lone wolf’ or go at it alone, and the habit of ‘pushing through’ were all discussed. The theme of authenticity came up, which touched a nerve, as I’ve never been great at expressing my true feelings due to fear of conflict. As a result, I’d learnt the art of being agreeable and a people pleaser to a certain degree, which a few of the men related to. As the circle came to a close, I felt uplifted and buoyant. On my way home, I reflected on this during a follow-up call with Merlin. He explained that it was a common side effect of these groups, but stressed the importance of attending regularly; otherwise, it becomes easy to fall back on old patterns of self-reliance. Wandsworth Prison. Back in London, I also spoke to JP from Camden, a yoga teacher and construction worker who runs free men’s groups, which I had previously attended. After running a 6-week programme in Wandsworth prison, he started a similar group in the community, with the help of Live Karma Yoga, a non-profit CIC, as a “way for men to talk without making it awkward”, making it accessible in a way that seeing a therapist isn’t. Unlike in prison, his community sessions typically attract a variety of people from different backgrounds. His biggest take: “It allows men to take the pressure off themselves, and get things off their chest without bottling it up.” He explains that “Rather than having a discussion in your head, which is only going to give you one answer, you get to see your problems from a different perspective – through the eyes of the other men.” Image Source: Matthew Ansley on Unsplash His approach involves taking the emotion out of the conversation, and he found the themes of patience, responsibility and pressure to be common. He continued saying that “Men would initially be apprehensive and allow their pride to get in the way. But over the weeks, trust was gained and bonds built, which allowed the men to open up and come out of their shells.” Men do talk. With the dominance of social media, a booming comparison culture is fuelling an image of what a modern man looks like. Meditation, journaling, workouts, ice baths, be masculine, but not too masculine - pressure cooker messaging which leads to loneliness and mental health issues. For me, men’s groups might be the antidote to this, allowing men to discover the value of vulnerability, connection, and growth. Since I attended these groups, I have found solace in the company of other men and learnt how to express myself more authentically while creating healthy boundaries in my life. I hope other men find joy in the power of speaking up, too. ----------------------------------------- Helpful Resources: The Samaritans CALM (Campaign Against Living Miserably) 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.

Photo by Author When the swimmer pictures the lido in her mind, the summer sun is always shining, and the water looks blue and inviting. But it’s September now. Brown leaves are curling by the side of the pool, the evening sky is grey and overcast, and the water, when she jumps in, is cold. She closes her eyes, starts swimming, and waits. “How are you?” says her mum. “Fine,” the swimmer replies and opens her eyes. There are trees all around the pool and it is practically empty, just the way she likes it. She breathes in through her nose, out through her mouth, propelling herself forward, thinking about the warmth of her mother’s voice. Her hands. Her touch. “I miss you,” she says. “I know,” says her mum. That’s not right. Her mother would have said: “I miss you too”, of course. But they never really missed each other before. Not like this, not the way she does now. The swimmer remembers the pool where she learned to swim that summer, all those years ago. Not the pool, so much, but the effort. Lessons every day during the long school holidays. Her determination to complete the course and take home the certificate. She remembers her mum taking her each morning, rushing to be on time, get changed and get in. Then looking up and seeing her mum in the stands, watching her, her smile blazing. Encouraging her, day after day. She had thought, at the time, the effort was all hers. Water has gotten inside her goggles somehow. She tries to blink it away and notices a man doing a splashy front crawl in the adjacent lane. As he passes, she ducks under, slowing her breaststroke and closing her eyes. She wants to stop. To cease. To sink. “Aren’t you cold?” At the sound of her mother’s voice, the swimmer forces her eyes open. Presses her hands together flat, turns her fingers into two curves of a heart, pushes them out against the water and joins them together again, thinking of her mother. Making heart after heart – and listening. “You are, aren’t you?” her mum asks. “I’m fine,” she says. Ha. Her mum wouldn’t have believed her. Her mum, who grew up by the Mediterranean and loved swimming – but in the sea, in the summer. Not in an unheated lido, in Cambridge, in autumn. Wind is rustling in the trees by the side of the pool, and there are dark leaves scattered across the surface. The swimmer catches some in her hands but, on her next stroke, releases them. She used to gather them as she swam and deposit them on the side, but she thinks it is pointless, now, to clear a path. No matter what she does, more leaves will fall. The swimmer thinks about how cold the branches of the tree will feel then. How bare. She turns away, onto her back, her hair in the water, and allows some of her favourite memories to float into her mind. On a summer holiday, swimming in the sea with her mother, being treated to a strawberry ice cream afterwards. The sweetness of it in the heat, in the sun. “That’s right - you used to love those Strawberry splits,” says her mum. “And on the beach, we held hands and jumped with the waves - do you remember?” “I remember,” the swimmer replies. The clouds overhead are darkening. She swims another lap of the 100-yard pool, reaches the wall and flips back into a breaststroke, checking her smartwatch on her way. She makes a deal with herself. One kilometre. Eleven laps. That’s her goal. She moves out in the lane to overtake a wrinkled old lady wearing a bright red bathing cap. She wonders if the woman is in her seventies or eighties. The swimmer has started noticing it more than she used to, how old the old are. “I miss you too,” says her mum. The words disturb and comfort her. She redirects her focus to her breathing. In, out, in, out… It feels like flying sometimes, the kicking, the surging forth through the water. The swimmer particularly likes the moment she reaches the end of the pool and kicks off the wall, catapulting herself into her next lap. “Wow you’re doing so well,” says her mother. “Keep going.” Her body is in a really good rhythm now, her arms and legs working in unison, breathing in concert, forcing the water to part, pushing her way through. The swimmer tells her mother about the delicious meal her husband made last night, that funny film they watched, how her daughter Rose is settling in at secondary school. She tells her what Rose said that morning at breakfast, how she made them both laugh. “I miss her so much,” says her mother. “I wish I could see her.” The swimmer wonders whether she should reply: ‘She’s growing up so fast’. Whether she should tell her mother: ‘She’s not a little girl any more.’ She doesn’t want to. “You must give her a hug, from me,” her mother says. “Yes,” she promises, a lump in her throat. Yes, she must. She swallows - hard - and glances at her watch again. She’s on her final lap. The lifeguard is walking back and forth along the side of the pool, his yellow pack slung across one shoulder. He looks bored. “I love you,” says her mum, just the way she used to. She can always hear them, those words, in her mother’s voice. It’s never too cold to hear them. It’s never too hard. She knows that. She hears again those words, audible, in her mother’s voice. And again, and again. She turns her face towards the pool. There’s water in her goggles again, and she doesn’t want anyone to see. It’s then that the swimmer feels the first one land on her shoulder, then another. She looks up. The whole pool is alive with raindrops. They are hammering, scattering, dancing on the surface. They are falling and bouncing, colliding with each other, the other swimmers and the water. She lifts up her face, feels them land on her forehead, on the tips of her ears, on her exposed skin. Cleansing. Soothing. She reaches the end of the pool, stands up. Her heart is beating and her muscles are aching. 1.006km. She presses the stop button on her watch, removes her goggles and breathes deeply. Tears from the sky are still falling onto her face and arms like raindrops. Her cheeks are wet and the air is cold but she knows her towel is waiting for her. That she will wrap herself in it, then peel off her wet swimsuit and treat herself to a boiling hot shower and an even hotter cup of tea. That she will put one foot in front of the other and miss her mother and drink her tea in the rain and miss her mother and cycle home across Jesus Green and miss her mother, and it will rain and it will rain and it will rain and she will do it all in the rain, despite the rain. And in a few days, she will come back to the lido and tell herself it isn’t too cold, it isn’t too hard, and she will get in and do it all again. And swim her heart out in the whirl of the wind and under another dark sky. And, when autumn departs and the trees are bare and winter turns the lido into ice, the swimmer will think of her mother and look each day towards the sun, and for the light. She heaves herself out of the water. “Well done,” says her mum. “Well done.” Author's Note: My beloved mother and my best friend, Prof Pnina Werbner, died very suddenly and unexpectedly three years ago. She had always encouraged me to be a writer. I took a creative writing course after she died, to honour her memory, and this is the first short story I ever wrote: the homework for the class was 'write an imaginary conversation with someone you know'. It has never been published before. It was longlisted for the Edinburgh Short Story Prize and the Bournemouth Writing Prize, and came runner-up in two contests, the SaveAs Writers' Creative Writing Awards and the Sunspot Lit Goldilocks Zone award. This story was inspired by cold water swimming in Jesus Green Lido in Cambridge, which is fundraising for a new community sauna. To donate to the campaign please visit JustGiving. 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.

Artwork by Olivia Marsh As my friends and I approach our 25th birthdays, we have been apprehensively awaiting the arrival of our text messages from the NHS inviting us to our first cervical screenings. These screenings, previously referred to as smear tests, are offered every 5 years to women and people with a cervix aged 25 to 64 to check cervical health and help prevent cervical cancer. During the appointment, a tube-shaped tool called a speculum is inserted into the vagina to push open the vaginal walls, and a sample of cells is taken from the cervix for testing. The sample is checked for specific types of the Human Papillomavirus (HPV), a sexually transmitted virus that can cause abnormal cell changes and significantly increase the risk of cervical cancer. A speculum can be quite an invasive instrument for a tender muscle; while some feel only pressure, many describe insertion as uncomfortable, and for a few, it can be painful. Since the 19th century, there has been little change to the cold, metal design of the device. Only recently has innovation begun to consider comfort during appointments. Students in the Netherlands designed the ‘Lilium’ in 2024, a speculum made from rubber that allows for gentle opening, which received worldwide celebration. While alterations can be made to the device, the nature of gynaecological appointments shapes a power dynamic that reflects the vulnerability women continuously encounter. A way around this can be the option of self-insertion, which, when offered, is thought to reduce anxiety and encourage attendance. Cervical cancer is one of the most prevalent forms of cancer amongst women, and of the estimated 880 deaths each year in the UK, 99.8% are thought to be preventable. Numerous challenges can explain avoidance of these appointments, shaped by an individual’s intersecting identities and experiences. Common examples include medical mistrust, history of sexual trauma, disability, fear, misconceptions about the HPV vaccination and the sexual transmission of HPV. Since graduating from KCL, studying MSc Psychiatric Research, I’ve been researching the lived experiences of inequalities in women’s health with the aim of spreading awareness. Lying in the Shadow of Exploitation Artwork by Olivia Marsh Medical mistrust is steeped in a history of exploiting the female body; some of the most grotesque examples of gynaecological research were the experiments of J. Marion Sims. The lack of care and protection the ill-fittingly titled “Father of Gynaecology” showed for the enslaved Black women he relentlessly operated on without anaesthesia has left its scar. Institutionalised racism and medical stereotypes have resulted in people from Black, Asian and other minority ethnic (BAME) backgrounds suffering poorer health outcomes and turning away from routine exams. The UK government has found that people from BAME backgrounds are less likely to attend their cervical screenings than White British people. It is believed that different cultural attitudes surrounding sex and a lack of knowledge about the necessity of these screenings could be in part responsible for this difference, evident from interviews with women from ethnic minority backgrounds, revealing that several women did not recognise the term ‘cervical screening’. For some, the language barrier poses as the greatest obstacle to access. A recent case study of a clinic in England providing care for many patients whose first language was not English found that educating staff on how to most effectively discuss cervical screenings, offering flexible appointments, and placing cervical screening leaflets in different languages in the waiting room, helped increase screening attendance rates. Implementing inclusive communication strategies across the NHS and updating cultural competence training could dramatically aid attendance, especially in the most densely populated, diverse communities. The ‘M’ and ‘F’ Label Artwork by Olivia Marsh NHS communication systems can also affect trans patients’ screening invitations. I recently spoke to my friend about an aspect of his transition, which he is happy for me to discuss. As a trans man, he changed his NHS profile to ‘Male’ and, despite having a cervix, stopped receiving invitations for appointments. The distinction between sex and gender remains inconsistent across NHS services, and while not always the case, responsibility is often placed on trans patients to be aware of what sex-specific anatomical exams they need. My friend explained to me that trying to access gender affirming care is fatiguing enough without the added burden of requesting routine tests. Also, the nature of the appointment can cause severe dysphoria for trans patients. Ensuring staff partake in sensitive communication training is therefore essential to minimising non-attendance. Going forward, research is needed to understand the barriers present for trans patients and how clinicians can prevent dysphoria, as well as a consistent system to ensure all patients are correctly identified for their routine tests. An Epicentre of Anxiety Artwork by Olivia Marsh One of my closest friends faces her cervical screening with an overactive pelvic floor; she agreed to discuss her experience for this article. An overactive floor can cause numerous issues in the pelvic region, including painful sex – often associated with vaginismus, the involuntary spasm of vaginal wall muscles, and vulvodynia, pain in the vulva caused by an unidentifiable source. While often portrayed in the media as associated with sexual trauma, there can be no obvious explanation. Typically described as feeling the vagina is blocked by a wall, my friend has made the distinction that her general anxiety holds itself in her body, and upon instances of possible vaginal penetration, her anxieties are directed there. She’s been attending physiotherapy to ease her pelvic floor and recommends belly breathing for anyone during their next cervical screening to relax pelvic muscles and increase comfort. While my friend still wants to attend her cervical screening, the looming prospect of the appointment has created greater anxiety for her to urgently progress in therapy. The Future of Cervical Screenings The Renewed Women’s Health Strategy for England was just published - echoing concerns of pain and discomfort during gynaecological procedures - acknowledgement of which should hopefully propel progress. Furthermore, the news recently highlighted research advances being made into testing for HPV at home using samples of period blood. Collecting menstrual blood at home using pads or tampons would overcome many obstacles to cervical screenings, and for those who do not menstruate, such as post-menopausal women, other options would still be available. While this method is in early stages of testing, the NHS has been developing a self-test kit, which began rollout in early 2026 for anyone overdue for an appointment by over 6 months. A vaginal swab is taken at home, then posted to a lab for analysis of signs of HPV. However, this cannot detect cell changes that may lead to cervical cancer; therefore, an in-person appointment would be required if signs of HPV were found. These alternatives would mitigate the fear, embarrassment, and logistical challenges of attending an in-person appointment for many. Unsurprisingly, from the women who have completed both the self-test and clinical cervical screening, 85% agreed that they would like the option to choose between the two. During the writing of this article, I had my first cervical screening, and although I was slightly apprehensive, I was pleasantly surprised by how little discomfort I felt, helped by the nurse’s friendliness. However, women lie on a vast spectrum of differences and do not conform to a one-size-fits-all model. We need greater choice in the healthcare we receive to accommodate the various challenges that are associated with accessing reproductive care; crucially, to ensure that as many people as possible attend life-saving screening appointments.