inner agora

In recent years, mental health awareness in Britain has taken centre stage. Having open conversations, and encouraging people to seek help when they struggle are worthy goals but, as with any cultural shift, there can be unintended consequences. One of the more overlooked problems emerging from this mental health awakening is this: a growing number of people believe themselves to be mentally unwell when they are not. 

Increasingly, ordinary human experiences — sadness, stress, fear, grief, loneliness — are being mistaken for symptoms of a disorder. The language of psychiatry becomes so commonplace that we begin pathologising the ups and downs of everyday life.

Britain, like many other Western nations, is witnessing the medicalisation of emotion. We say we’re “depressed” when we mean we’re sad. We call ourselves “anxious” when we’re nervous. We self-diagnose as “burnt out,” “traumatised,” or “neurodivergent” based on online posts or TikTok videos. This shift in language isn’t just semantic — it shapes how we see ourselves and how we interpret our struggles. 

There are several reasons why this trend has taken root: 

1. Cultural Validation: There is a certain social capital now in claiming a mental health struggle. It signals vulnerability, authenticity, and depth. In some circles, it’s even a form of identity. 

2. Digital Echo Chambers: Social media is awash with bite-sized psychology content that encourages people to label their feelings — often with clinical terms. While well-meaning, these platforms rarely offer the nuance required to distinguish between genuine illness and normal emotion. 

3. Overextension of Diagnosis: Some mental health professionals, under pressure to diagnose and treat quickly, may inadvertently reinforce misperceptions. A brief consultation followed by a label can validate mistaken beliefs. 

4. A Therapeutic Culture: We’ve grown up in a society that increasingly sees emotional pain as something to be fixed — not endured. Discomfort has become pathological by default. 

This raises a crucial problem: when we treat normal emotional states as illness, we risk two significant harms. First, we undermine the resilience that comes from facing and working through life’s challenges without assuming something is wrong with us. Second, we divert resources away from those who truly need clinical help. 

There’s also the quiet, unspoken toll of believing you’re unwell when you’re not. It can become a self-fulfilling prophecy. You start to identify with a diagnosis, structure your life around it, and retreat from opportunities for growth — all while medical systems may struggle to say, kindly but firmly: “You’re okay.” 

So where does this leave us? 

We need to reclaim the space for emotional complexity — without immediately reaching for a label. It’s okay to be heartbroken, overwhelmed, or afraid. It’s okay to feel lost or unsure or burnt out. But these feelings, difficult as they are, don’t always mean something is medically wrong. Sometimes, they are simply part of the human condition. 

Britain doesn’t just need more therapy; it needs more emotional literacy. We need to learn how to sit with discomfort, support one another, and know the difference between needing help — and needing perspective.