My Story is Not a Trend 

Somewhere along the way, my struggle (and the struggles of many) with mental illness became reduced to hashtags and “relatable posts.” Its depth has been stripped, making it easier to consume and harder to understand. Social media often presents mental illness in ways that prioritize relatability and engagement over accuracy, rewarding simplified, bite-sized portrayals. This flattens complex, long-term conditions into recognizable moods or traits, making them feel less serious and easier to dismiss. Stereotypes, stigmas, misinformation, and self-diagnoses have turned real mental illness into trends. This has left lots of people living with mental illness feeling misunderstood, dismissed, or alienated. Mental health disorders have quickly turned into quirks–something cute, funny, or casually self-identified, rather than complex, painful, and often lifelong experiences.

What gets lost in this reduction is the reality of it all: the exhaustion that lingers long after the post is scrolled past, the isolation that doesn’t fit neatly into a caption, and the daily work it takes just to function. When mental illness is flattened into aesthetics or punchlines, it stops being seen as something that deserves patience, care, and real understanding. Instead, it becomes something to perform, compare, or consume while the people behind it are left carrying the weight in silence.

I grew up with a series of mental health conditions. At around age eight or nine, a devastating clarity struck me: I was the “alien.” I had always felt different, even though I couldn’t put my finger on it. Eventually, I came to terms with this feeling of alienation, feeling like a stranger in my own life, trapped in a body and mind that didn’t quite fit, watching the world from the edges. It was as if everyone else had a secret manual for living, and I had been left without the instructions. 

I was fortunate to be raised by parents who were, and remain, deeply committed to my health and well-being. My dad, who struggles with his own mental health, and my mom, who has always advocated for me, created a space where conversations about emotions were possible. Their openness gave me permission to name my feelings, to explore them, and to seek intensive support, even when that process was exhausting and painful for all of us. Therapy sessions, appointments, hospital admissions, and the constant reflection required of both me and my parents sometimes felt like an unending cycle. Although it was in these moments that I began to understand the contours of my own mind, and the importance of emotional and psychological care.

Even with this support, isolation was sometimes unavoidable. It showed up in quiet moments of self-doubt, in the fear of being judged or misunderstood, and in the relentless question: Why do I feel so different? 

I remember lying awake at night, watching the ceiling, wondering if anyone could ever understand the way my mind often betrayed me with compulsions I didn’t want but couldn’t stop. There were days when simply existing felt exhausting, when navigating my own mind felt heavier than navigating the world around me. 

Over time, I’ve learned that this difference does not equate to weakness. Instead, it is part of a complex, layered identity shaped by struggle, growth, and survival. My journey through mental illness has been both a burden and a teacher, one that has shown me resilience in moments I thought I had none, empathy for others who feel unseen, and the importance of genuine connection in a world that often oversimplifies pain. I’ve realized that being the “alien” has granted me a perspective others might never experience, a sensitivity to the unspoken suffering of others, and an appreciation for the small victories that can feel monumental when you have fought so hard for them.

But this understanding has not come without costs. The internalized pressure to “fit in” with a world that often refuses to acknowledge this complexity is exhausting. I’ve had to learn how to navigate judgment, from myself and others, and to separate what is mine from what society tells me I should be. Every step of growth has required conscious effort: challenging misconceptions, demanding space to exist authentically, and holding onto the knowledge that my experiences are valid, even when they are invisible to those around me.

Ultimately, my journey has taught me that differences and struggles are not flaws to be fixed, but facets of a life lived with awareness, reflection, and meaning. I am still learning, still navigating, and questioning my mind, but I am no longer just the “alien” observing from the edges. I am a participant in my own life, capable of shaping my story, acknowledging my pain, and finding moments of joy, clarity, and connection even amidst the ongoing challenge. Hopefully in sharing this story I can help others see that their own experiences, complex, messy, and deeply human are not something to hide, but something to honour. Vulnerability is not weakness; it is a form of courage. To name one’s pain, to seek help, and to keep going in spite of it all is an act of resistance in a culture that often prefers to ignore or trivialize suffering.

Looking back, I now understand the root of this shift: the rise of online stereotyping, stigma disguised as humor, widespread misinformation, and the normalization of self-diagnosis—often fueled by oversimplified content that removes context and professional insight. Not only did this make me feel invalidated, but it also gave me a feeling of great shame.

Mental illness may seem more “accepted” than ever, but the stigma hasn’t disappeared. People are still judged, shamed, or underestimated because of it.

When mental health is flattened into stereotypes or trends it can reinforce old misconceptions that mental illness is attention-seeking or easily managed. It also encourages people to self-diagnose, especially for conditions like ADHD, OCD, and depression. Viral posts, short symptom lists, and videos portraying disorders as quirky personality traits make it tempting to label ourselves without fully understanding the complexity behind it. 

As time goes on, I have gained a better understanding that the alien inside me is not a curse; it is simply a lens—a unique perspective that allows me to see the world differently. However, the world’s tendency to oversimplify mental illness, reducing it to trends and easily digestible narratives, is a reminder that we still have meaningful work to do. Real understanding requires time, patience, and the willingness to sit with the complexity rather than scrolling past it. A diagnosis may shape how we experience the world, but it does not erase our depth, our individuality, or our humanity. We are not trends, symptoms, or stereotypes—we are people, and we deserve to be understood as such.