When Language Makes It Worse: How Grammar Can Deepen Suffering in Mental Health
We speak of mental health in words that feel so natural we rarely question them.
“I have anxiety.”
“My mind won’t stop racing.”
“I can’t get rid of these thoughts.”
These statements sound familiar — perhaps even necessary. They help us make sense of pain, give voice to the invisible, and offer something to hold onto when everything feels out of control. But what if, hidden within these phrases, there’s a kind of grammar trap?
What if the language we use doesn’t just describe suffering — but quietly deepens it?
This isn’t about denying mental illness, trauma, or the reality of psychological pain. It’s about something subtler: how language, particularly the way we frame ownership and identity, can turn passing experiences into perceived identity. And how that shift can quietly increase shame, urgency, and despair.
When “I” and “My” Become a Cage
Human language is built on structure: subject, verb, object. And embedded in that structure is the concept of ownership.
My anxiety
My intrusive thoughts
I can’t stop thinking
I feel broken
The moment we attach a possessive frame to an experience, something shifts. We no longer see anxiety as a state — we see it as ours. As something we’re responsible for. Something we should be able to manage, reduce, or fix.
This is where grammar quietly becomes a burden.
What if I’m not just feeling anxious — what if I’ve become “a person with anxiety”?
The difference might seem small, but psychologically, it’s vast. It’s the difference between a storm passing through, and believing the storm defines you.
Mental Illness Is Not Caused by Language — But Language Can Make It Harder
Let’s be clear: this is not a claim that mental health conditions are “just” a language issue. Depression, anxiety, PTSD, obsessive thinking, and other experiences can be deeply rooted in biology, history, environment, and trauma.
But language plays a modulating role. It affects:
How we relate to what’s happening inside us
How we frame our identity in relation to it
How much shame or helplessness we attach to our experience
Think of the difference between:
“I am depressed”
and “A wave of low energy and meaning is present in the system right now.”
The first sentence collapses the entire self into a label. The second allows for distance, flexibility, and compassion.
Thoughts as Visitors, Not Possessions
If you’ve ever been caught in a spiral of intrusive thoughts, you’ll know how real they feel — how fused with identity they can become.
But what if part of the pain is not just the content of the thoughts… but the belief that they are yours?
“Why am I thinking this?”
“What does it say about me?”
“How do I stop these thoughts?”
These are natural questions — and yet each one presumes authorship.
But what if the truth is closer to this:
“This thought is happening. I didn’t choose it. I don’t need to own it. It will pass.”
This isn’t denial. It’s depersonalisation without disconnection — the capacity to witness experience without being defined by it.
It doesn’t cure the thought. It softens the war around it.
Language and Identity: When Diagnosis Becomes a Label
There’s immense value in naming experiences — especially in therapy, psychiatry, and support groups. Labels can bring clarity, validation, and access to help.
But there’s a risk: the label, once given, can harden into identity.
“I have generalised anxiety disorder.”
“I am bipolar.”
“I’m a trauma survivor.”
These are not untrue. But when repeated, internalised, and echoed back by others, they can begin to shape how we see ourselves — not just how we’re feeling now, but who we are, permanently.
The risk isn’t in the diagnosis — it’s in the grammar of identity that can calcify around it.
Healing Through Gentler Grammar
What might change if we softened the language?
If instead of:
“I’m broken,” we said, “There is fragmentation in my system right now.”
“I can’t cope,” we said, “Coping feels distant in this moment, but not impossible.”
“My trauma is ruining my life,” we said, “The echoes of past pain are active right now — but they’re not me.”
Again — this is not about false positivity or intellectual bypassing.
It’s about creating a little space. Space for curiosity. Space for compassion. Space to remember that your distress is not your identity.
The Power of Letting Go of “Mine”
There is a strange and peaceful truth that some people arrive at, often after much suffering:
Thoughts don’t belong to us.
Emotions aren’t possessions.
Even suffering itself — isn’t “mine.” It’s something the system is experiencing.
This realisation doesn’t end pain. But it often ends the shame around the pain.
It allows us to host difficult experiences without fusing with them.
You don’t need to fix the weather.
You only need to stop believing it’s your fault it’s raining.
Final Thought: Language Doesn’t Just Describe Reality — It Shapes It
Mental health is not just about what happens in the brain or the nervous system. It’s also about how we frame, narrate, and name what happens.
This isn’t about speaking “correctly” — it’s about speaking with awareness.
Every time we say:
“I am this,”
or “This is mine,”
we may be reinforcing a loop that doesn’t need to exist.
Let’s make space for experience without ownership. Let’s soften the grammar that deepens suffering. Let’s allow pain to be part of the weather — not part of the self.
Because maybe, just maybe, what we need most in moments of distress is not control or mastery…
But a gentler sentence.
