Does My Generation Need Therapy?

I was walking on the rooftop the other day. Don’t worry, not in a dramatic way, just clearing my head. I looked down and for a hot second my brain whispered, “That drop doesn’t look so bad, huh?”
And I literally froze. Like, excuse me?? Not today. Not even close.
My intrusive thoughts had arrived. Again.

Fasting forward to 3 AM, I’m lying in bed scrolling TikTok like a possessed zombie. My eyes are burning, I haven’t blinked in ten minutes, and I’ve liked 47 videos in a row. In the comments, people are saying:

“Who else is here at 3 AM?”
“Insomnia si mchezo guys.”
“Let’s be real, we’re all just lonely.”
And I’m like… yeah. Honestly? That. All of that.

Meanwhile, when I got home from work, my intrusive thoughts were overachieving:

“Aai, tukule fries tena?”
“You’ve done it before and you didn’t die.”
“Cooking is a scam, you’re alone, it’s boring. Plus eating alone is the most lonely moment one can have so just do take outs again’

Guys knowing very well am surviving on my last pennies and I shouldn’t be just starching for four consecutive days, but hey, who cares?
And the thing is… they kinda win. Because cooking to eat alone? That’s a different kind of depression. Who even said that? Why is it so real?

But this is the thing: they’re always there. These little, sneaky, sometimes funny, sometimes terrifying thoughts that slide into your brain like spam emails. Some of them are harmless. Lowkey good company, even. Especially if you’re creative. Intrusive thoughts will be like:

“What if you turned your breakup into a movie?”
“What if you started a podcast with your inner child?”
Wild. But helpful. Until they’re not.

Because sometimes, these thoughts are dangerous. The kind that tricks you into spending your last 700 bob on pizza and convincing yourself “Aai, si kesho inajisort?”
Or worse, the ones that make you feel like maybe you’re the problem. That you’re broken. That you’re alone.

Welcome to the Gen Z mental landscape. We’re the generation of “lmao I’m dead” but emotionally wrecked.
We joke to survive.
We overshare to connect.
We ghost to cope.
We spiral for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
There’s inflation, breakups, family pressure, social media anxiety, a random war somewhere, and your landlord calling on the same day. And still, you’re expected to wake up, wash your face, and “be positive.”

So we find comfort in our friends. We start saying things like, “My best friend is my therapist,” because let’s be real, therapy still feels like a luxury.
But then a reality check.
What are the chances she tells her other best friend? Because we know that chain.
Mandi and I always joke: the moment someone tells either of us “don’t tell anyone,” we tell each other, and it’s our secret now. Hers. Mine. Ours. Like a mini-decentralized trauma center.

So, is my best friend my therapist? Technically yes. Emotionally? Sometimes.
Legally? Not even close.
Because what happens when she’s also going through it? When she’s too emotionally full to hold your stuff too? Or when she screenshots the texts and you become a meme in the group chat?
It’s all jokes until your private breakdown is someone else’s story time.

And here’s the truth I avoided for so long:
Therapy actually helps.
Not the Twitter threads. Not the “healing” scrolling through TikTok comedies bring you. Not even the “just journal it out” advice from your wellness colleague.
Real therapy. With a trained human. Who listens.
Who doesn’t interrupt you to tell their version.
Who doesn’t ghost.
Who doesn’t say “just be strong” and move on.

Therapy is like… holding a mirror to your insides and finally seeing that you’re not insane.
Those intrusive thoughts don’t make you broken.
That you don’t have to fight your brain alone.
That some of your chaos isn’t your fault.

It’s a safe space. A healing affair. A deep breath after years of holding it in.

Because let’s face it, our intrusive thoughts aren’t leaving. They live here now.
But you don’t have to let them run the show.

Maybe therapy is what helps you take back control.
Maybe healing isn’t this big dramatic change, but a quiet moment where someone says,

“I hear you. You’re not crazy. You’re safe here.”

So yeah, maybe my generation does need therapy.
Not because we’re weak.
But because we’re finally done pretending to be okay.

And if all you can manage today is booking a session in your pajamas?

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