Words are powerful things. They can empower, but they can also wound. They can illuminate experience—or flatten it. They exaggerate, they minimise, they conjure pictures and quietly shape the stories we tell about ourselves and others. And when words leave gaps in a narrative, we instinctively fill them with familiar explanations.
In 2025, I find myself increasingly drawn to how we use diagnostic language as shorthand for everyday experiences.
“I’ve lost my keys. It must be my ADHD.”
“I’ve lost my keys. It must be the menopause.”
Curiosity seems to stop there. A label is applied, and the story feels complete.
Yet we are selective about which diagnoses we are willing to claim. Some conditions feel socially acceptable—almost comforting—to own. Others are quickly projected onto people around us.
“I’ve been overwhelmed at work recently. It’s my personality disorder.”
That’s not a phrase we hear very often.
More commonly, the unpopular diagnosis belongs to someone else:
“My ex-wife is fighting me in court. She says the children have parental alienation syndrome—caused by me—so now I can’t see them.”
“My ex-husband is a narcissist.”
That last example is especially striking. There has been a surge in workshops, books, and social media content on Narcissistic Personality Disorder—largely aimed at helping us identify narcissists in our lives. Rarely are these framed around recognising traits in ourselves.
We also hear far less about celebrating traits associated with autism, personality disorders, or other highly stigmatised diagnoses. These labels still carry shame, moral judgement, and social distancing in a way others do not.
There are three important points here.
First, losing your keys is a universal human experience. It is not, in itself, a diagnostic indicator of anything.
Second, most mental health and neurodevelopmental conditions cannot be diagnosed through Google, social media, or self-labelling alone. They require careful assessment, context, and professional understanding.
Third—and most importantly—there are people whose lives are profoundly shaped by these conditions. When diagnostic language becomes casual shorthand, those individuals risk having their very real needs minimised or dismissed. If “everyone has ADHD,” menopause, trauma, or autism symptoms, it becomes harder for those who are genuinely struggling to be taken seriously.
This trend toward shortcuts—toward oversimplified categories and borrowed identities—extends beyond mental health. When we generalise beyond the meaning of a label, we risk reinforcing stigma, misunderstanding complexity, and underserving those who most need care, compassion, and proper support.
Words matter.
