Mental health has become a prominent issue, amplified by the pandemic and its long shadow. Support groups now exist across countless platforms, offering spaces where those struggling can connect, speak, and feel less alone. I participate in many of these groups, sharing my own experiences and updates in the hope of shedding light on a subject still weighed down by stigma. I read the questions, the comments, the advice—sometimes for understanding, sometimes for writing inspiration. It’s there, in that reading, that I often notice how sharply my experience differs from that of others.
As I scrolled, my eyes widened. People were desperate for answers. Yet the administrators seemed preoccupied with numbers—tens of thousands of members displayed like trophies. These spaces were monetised through subscriptions, paid access, courses, affiliate links, sponsorships, coaching, and “exclusive” events. Genuine engagement felt absent. I saw no one truly listening. No one asking what people needed. Instead, the same questions appeared again and again, subtly rephrased to harvest the same reactions, the same likes, the same hollow reassurance.
It is a cruel cycle—one that offers false promises to those who are already on the edge. When someone feels like they are burning from the inside, like they are dying in slow motion, they will reach for anything that promises relief. They read silently, hunched over glowing screens, hoping that one sentence, one comment, one stranger’s words might steady the ground beneath them. Anxiety claws at their thoughts. Doubt whispers. Their bodies tense as they scroll, searching for something—anything—to keep themselves from breaking apart. Calling it a horrible feeling doesn’t come close.
They scroll endlessly. Thumbs fly. Eyes blur. Still, they remain tethered to the screen, prisoners of its flickering light. Each refresh is a gamble. Each new comment a quiet plea—most often answered by silence, not solace. The world beyond the screen fades to a dull hum as the digital space becomes the only reality, the only battlefield. And so they stay, fighting an internal war, fuelled by the dying embers of belief that tomorrow might be better.
I felt a chill despite the warmth of my laptop. The disconnect was jarring: vibrant graphics and polished platitudes masking something bleak and hollow beneath. The frantic energy, the unanswered cries, the relentless positivity—it all formed a suffocating atmosphere. It became clear that I was witnessing a performance: an illusion of support carefully constructed for visibility, not care. Spaces designed to comfort had become echo chambers of despair, where vulnerability was met with polished indifference. The realisation settled heavily, a suffocating blanket of disillusionment.
Beyond those actively seeking recovery are the ones who remain quietly present. They acknowledge their condition but neither accept nor deny it. They see themselves as strong, different—untouched. They treat mental illness like a contagion to be avoided rather than confronted. Occasionally, it surfaces. They glance at support groups. They hover over a phone. Then denial reasserts itself—sometimes for years, sometimes for life.
Eventually, it catches up. Their world unravels. Many find themselves in a clinic, after which life is irrevocably altered. The demons have taken their toll. Medication dulls the voices but never silences them. Triggers lurk everywhere, waiting to ignite fear, rage, or collapse. Yet they reassure themselves they’re fine. It’s just the condition. The therapist warned them. The support group said it happens to everyone. And so the cycle resumes—denial, anger, fear, rejection—eroding their existence grain by grain. The demons don’t vanish. They wait.
And still, hope flickers.
Buried beneath denial and fear, a fragile ember of self-awareness survives. It whispers of another path. It is easily smothered—by despair, by triggers, by exhaustion—but it endures. Every so often, it flares, illuminating the possibility of healing rather than management, of living beyond the cycle instead of inside it. That ember keeps them reaching, even when they insist nothing can change. It is the quiet plea for a different ending—a final battle fought not against the demons, but with them.
The stage is set. The demons are poised.
All I can do is try to make it through.