Daily talk about mental health has become part of people's language: phrases like "I'm exhausted," "I have anxiety," and "I'm tired" are no longer private whispers but common descriptions in cafes, in groups, and on platforms. This shift has a clear positive aspect: breaking some stigma, reducing feelings of isolation, and normalizing the idea that mental pain is not a moral weakness.The irony is that greater awareness does not necessarily mean greater support. Awareness often turns into a social ritual, complete in form but lacking in effect: a sympathetic post, warm comments, "I'm with you" messages, and then reality returns. The paper's question arises: What does it mean to have a language for mental health without bridges to treatment?
Part of the issue is that "awareness" in digital culture runs faster than the ability of institutions and families to respond. Platforms make feelings visible, but they do not make services available. A person may learn the name of their condition from a short video, but when they try to act, they are faced with a complex map: high cost of sessions, distant appointments, lack of specialists, or social fear that seeking help will turn into a "charge" or "weakness." This is a common psychological slippage.Instead of awareness being the first step towards actual support, awareness itself becomes a symbolic dwelling place. Sharing a post about anxiety provides a moment of recognition and relief, but without changing the work environment, regulating sleep, or seeking professional help, the causes remain in the background. Awareness does not disappear, but rather becomes a "recurring diagnosis" that reproduces powerlessness: I know what I have, but I don't have a clear path to change it.
When mental health vocabulary is deployed outside the context of treatment, it can become a fixed identity rather than a manageable condition. A person begins to interpret everything through anxiety: relationships, studies, decisions, even ordinary tired days. This does not mean that the suffering is not real, but that the lack of support turns the language into a closed circle: I describe what I feel accurately, but I have no tools to modify my lifestyle, no coping skills, no follow-up plan.At the same time, an "empathy economy" can form on platforms: content that shows pain gets attention, while content that leads to actionable steps is less appealing, because healing is inherently slow and undramatic. Empathy becomes a form of consumption: we watch, we are moved, we write our hearts out, and then we move on. The result is that some people feel emotionally visible but unsupported.
To get out of this paradox, we don't need to lower awareness, but to redefine it: Awareness is not repeating vocabulary, but building a path. In other words, daily conversation becomes a gateway to small, actionable steps: a simple self-assessment for a few days (sleep, energy, stress, triggers), seeking trusted help from someone close, learning about available services, or trying thoughtful interventions like organizing routines and reducing draining sources, then - when needed - reaching out to a professional.Most importantly, society needs to treat treatment as a practical right rather than a luxury: school and university support, mental health-sensitive employment policies, and safe spaces to seek help without stigmatization. Only then will a "sympathetic post" become the beginning of a story, not the end. The question remains: Do we want a culture that is good at describing pain ... or a culture that is also good at accompanying people out of pain?
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