Did you know that the theme for this year’s Mental Health Awareness Week 2025, which runs from 12th to 18th May, is “community”? In this blog post, mighty TMC Youth Board member and creative social activist, Hannah, shares her own mental health journey and personal experiences about what community means to her.
What does “community” really mean when your whole life you’ve been told (directly and indirectly) that you don’t fit?
For me, community has never been a given. It has been a question. A longing. A quiet ache in the background of my life – not because I didn’t want it, but because I had never seen a version of it where I truly belonged.
Growing up undiagnosed autistic, with a PDA (Pathological Demand Avoidance) profile and ADHD (Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder), I didn’t understand the rules of social engagement. I couldn’t make friendships last, I struggled with sensory overload, and I masked constantly just to survive. I also grew up experiencing abuse and trauma, and by the age of 9, I was battling suicidal thoughts.
As I got older, my mental health worsened and, eventually, I was detained under the Mental Health Act. I was locked inside psychiatric hospitals for years, often on constant observation. It was dehumanising. I was seen as a risk, a challenge, a diagnosis – not as a person.
And still, I longed for somewhere to belong.
When you’ve lived with Complex PTSD, the world feels unsafe – even people who mean well can feel like threats. You stop trusting that others will stay. You start believing that maybe you are too much. That maybe community just isn’t for people like you.
But over time, I’ve begun to question that belief.
Because community isn’t just about who you’re surrounded by. It’s about who makes space for the whole you , even the parts that are harder to hold.
I’ve learned that community doesn’t mean you have to be “fixed” before you’re allowed in. It doesn’t mean being easy to love or emotionally predictable. Real community means:
And that, I’ve realised, is radical.
I found community in the margins – in bullet journals, music rehearsals, drama groups and art collectives. Not because I was suddenly “well” or “better,” but because I was allowed to show up fully.
In creative spaces, I didn’t need to be perfect – I just needed to be present. Whether through singing, painting, acting or journaling, I began to speak the language of emotion. A language that made sense to me, even when I couldn’t form the words.
Creativity gave me:
I began to build a patchwork of community, not one big, fixed “group” but overlapping, intersecting circles of support, many of them creative. People who understood the power of making, not just fixing.
It’s easy to assume recovery is an individual journey – therapy, medication, journaling, mindset. But for trauma survivors like me, recovery is deeply relational.
When you’ve been hurt in relationships – especially formative ones – it’s in safe relationships that healing becomes possible.
That doesn’t mean needing someone to “save” you. It means finding people who:
So many times in my recovery, I’ve started to open up only to have people pull away. Each time that happens, it reinforces the belief that I’m too broken to be held. That I’m unlovable. That I don’t belong.
But every time someone stays patiently, gently, it creates a new neural pathway. A new blueprint for connection.
That is what community really is. It’s not just being invited. It’s being welcomed, again and again, even when you’re not sure how to show up.
The biggest shift for me came when I stopped waiting to find community and started creating it.
That meant:
Being part of The Mighty Creatives’ Youth Board has been one of the most affirming communities I’ve ever known. Not because it’s perfect or easy, but because it allows difference. It values lived experience. It welcomes people like me who don’t fit the usual mold.
I’ve also worked with over 25 organisations as a creative, speaker and youth voice advocate. More importantly, I’ve met people who understand that justice, inclusion and healing all begin with relationships.
When we talk about mental health, we often focus on crisis intervention. But what happens after the hospital discharge? What happens in the long, slow, daily process of recovery?
Without community, you relapse. You isolate. You lose purpose.
With community, you find mirrors. You gain perspective. You begin to imagine a future.
For neurodivergent, disabled and traumatised people, the right community can be life-changing. Not because it “cures” us, but because it affirms our worth – consistently, quietly, gently.
I dream of a world where community:
I dream of community where creativity is seen as healing, not hobby. Where youth voice is not a tick box but a partnership. Where mental health care includes belonging, joy, and freedom.
If you’ve been hurt by people, locked out of systems or made to feel like you’re too much, I see you.
🌿 You’re not too complicated.
🌿 You don’t need to be fully healed to be worthy of connection.
🌿 You’re allowed to keep searching and to start building.
Community doesn’t always come knocking. Sometimes you have to sketch it out in pencil first – in the corner of a journal, in a song lyric, in a blog post no one reads (yet).
That’s okay. Belonging is not a destination – it’s a practice.
A movement. A journey. And you are already on it.
Creative Activist & Youth Board Member at The Mighty Creatives
To find out more about Hannah’s work, visit her website here.
And follow her on Instagram here: @legallydetained
