family
Family can be our support system. Or they can be part of the problem. All about the complicated, loving, and difficult relationship with us and the ones who love us.
I’m the One Who Never Falls Apart—Until I Did
By Nadeem Shah I’ve always been “the strong one.” You know the type—the person who listens at 2 a.m. when someone needs to vent, who holds space for tears that aren’t their own, who never seems to crack no matter how heavy the storm gets. That was me.
By Nadeem Shah about a year ago in Psyche
The Silence Between Us
By Nadeem Shah It had been 472 days since we last spoke. Not that I was counting—at least, not anymore. In the beginning, I counted everything. The days since the argument. The hours since I thought about calling. The number of messages I typed and never sent. The seconds I stood outside your door that one night… and turned away.
By Nadeem Shah about a year ago in Psyche
Once A Child . Content Warning.
From the moment we open our eyes—crying in a cold, sterile hospital— the conditions of love begin to blossom. Living and growing in our mother’s bellies only holds a safe place for nearly a year before we were quite literally ejected into chaos we didn’t ask for. From that point on there are conditions to the amount of love and respect we receive. From birth when we are “good babies” in the nursery, the nurses praise us for our cooperation, whereas fussy babies, while still looked at as precious cute creations, are deemed more difficult. Though this example is rather vague and lacks depth into the true meaning of conditional love, it is a pivotal reminder of how we enter and leave this world. Alone.
By The Darkest Sunriseabout a year ago in Psyche
Asylum Warehousing: Again?
The recent discourse surrounding "mental health disabilities" and their societal ramifications carries a chilling echo of a past many hoped had been left behind: the era of asylum warehousing. While framed as a solution to complex social issues, policies that empower the state to institutionalize individuals deemed in need, even those already housed, threaten to unravel decades of progress in mental healthcare and civil liberties. This approach risks re-establishing a system where individual autonomy is sacrificed for perceived public order, potentially leading to widespread human rights abuses and the erosion of fundamental freedoms.
By Sai Marie Johnsonabout a year ago in Psyche
Surrounded Yet Invisible: The Loneliest I’ve Ever Been Wasn't When I Was Alone
I used to think loneliness only looked like empty rooms and unanswered texts. I thought it meant quiet Friday nights, vacant seats across the dinner table, or crying into your pillow at 2 a.m. because no one thought to check on you. But I was wrong. The loneliest I’ve ever felt was in a room full of people who love me. The kind of love they offered was loud and warm—hugs at the door, food piled high on my plate, inside jokes tossed around like confetti. My family is the type that shows up in numbers. Holidays are crowded, birthdays are loud, and silence is rare. There’s always a cousin laughing too hard, a sibling with something to prove, and a parent trying to hold it all together. From the outside, it’s beautiful. To anyone else, it looks like I’m lucky—and in some ways, I am. But what happens when you're surrounded by people who love you, but none of them really see you? No one noticed that I had stopped laughing with them and started laughing at the right times. No one noticed how quickly I slipped out of rooms, how I dodged questions with practiced smiles. No one asked why I seemed tired all the time. Maybe they thought I was just busy. Maybe they thought I was fine. Maybe I was too good at pretending. The truth is, I’ve always been the “strong” one. The one who gave advice, who kept the peace, who didn’t cause problems. I was the one people leaned on—not the one they leaned into. So when I started to crumble quietly, no one noticed. Or maybe they did, but they didn’t know how to ask. Or worse—they didn’t want to know. It’s strange, isn’t it? How you can sit shoulder to shoulder with people who say they love you and still feel like you're on another planet. How you can smile across a dinner table while your insides ache for someone to just ask, “Hey… are you really okay?” But no one asked. So I stopped hoping they would. I became a master of small talk. I learned how to dodge concern with humor, how to hide anxiety with productivity. I showed up to family events with baked goods and tired eyes, and no one questioned either. I wore my loneliness like an invisible coat—heavy, but unnoticed. I remember one night in particular—my birthday. Everyone was there. Balloons, cake, laughter, a slideshow of old baby pictures I would have rather burned than watched. People toasted to me. They said things like, “We’re so proud of you” and “You’re always so strong.” And I smiled. I thanked them. I played the part. But inside, I was screaming. Because not one person asked what I was struggling with. Not one person mentioned how quiet I’d become over the past few months. Not one person noticed how uncomfortable I was hearing myself described in ways I no longer identified with. I wasn’t strong—I was exhausted. I wasn’t holding it together—I was barely hanging on. That night, I cried myself to sleep. Not because I wasn’t loved. But because I realized that love doesn’t always come with understanding. Sometimes, love just isn’t enough. It took me a long time to accept that you can’t feel seen by people who don’t know where to look. And it’s not always their fault. We train the people around us on how to treat us—what we share, what we hide, how we react. I had built a wall so high around my pain that even those closest to me couldn’t climb it. But part of healing, I’ve learned, is letting people in—even when it feels easier to shut them out. I’ve started doing that. Slowly. I’ve stopped saying “I’m fine” when I’m not. I’ve started sending “Can we talk?” texts instead of waiting for someone to notice I’m not okay. I’m learning that vulnerability isn’t weakness—it’s a bridge. A chance for connection. A way out of the silence. And you know what? Some people are crossing that bridge with me. Not everyone. But the ones who do—those are the people I’m holding onto. Loneliness doesn’t always come from isolation. Sometimes, it comes from invisibility. From being in a room full of people who think they know you but never ask who you’ve become. If you’ve ever felt that—if you’ve ever faked a smile in a crowd that swears they love you—just know you’re not alone in that feeling. You deserve to be seen. And maybe, just maybe, it starts with letting someone look. Thank you for reading this 🥰 ❤️.
By Azmat Roman ✨about a year ago in Psyche
The Loneliness of Always Being Online
The Loneliness of Always Being Online There’s a moment—quiet, imperceptible—when the blue light of your screen becomes the only light in the room. It could be 2:00 AM, or 4:00 in the afternoon; the clock loses meaning when you're always connected. The feed scrolls endlessly, a stream of opinions, selfies, celebrations, rage, and humor. You like, you comment, you share, but your fingers feel cold, and your chest feels a little hollow. You are surrounded by people, yet deeply, stubbornly alone.
By Huzaifa Dzineabout a year ago in Psyche
Under the Gaze: The Psychology of Social Pressure
Introduction To be human is to live in relation to others. From birth to adulthood, our thoughts, emotions, and behaviors are continuously shaped by the people and norms around us. While this interconnectedness is fundamental to development, belonging, and social survival, it also carries an invisible weight: the pressure to conform, to meet expectations, and to perform according to standards often beyond our control. This phenomenon, known as social pressure, is not just a matter of peer influence or societal rules—it is a psychological force that deeply impacts our identity formation, decision-making, and emotional well-being.
By Siria De Simoneabout a year ago in Psyche
Crawling Back To You
More times than I can count, I've sat wondering who I truly was beneath all of the shame. I wondered if I was brilliant or if I was truly destined to remain in this child-like state of confusion. Walking the world wondering my purpose as I hide in the shadows of who I knew I wasn't, yet who I'd always been. I'd been dripping in a victimhood so carefully built by those around me who claimed that their love for me meant more than what society views love and friendship as today. I spent so much time in the comfort of being the victim that I hadn't paid any attention to the fact that while these people were building this victimhood, I was handing them the nails and hammer.
By The Darkest Sunriseabout a year ago in Psyche
