In the sterile language of diagnosis, a person becomes a patient. A symptom. A chart entry. What once was a son, a daughter, a poet, a chef, a teacher, becomes instead a walking embodiment of a term—bipolar, addict, schizophrenic. These words, designed to assist clinicians in forming treatment paths, too often become identities in themselves, stripping away the nuance of lived experience. A mental health label may open doors to medication and therapy, but it can just as easily close them to compassion, patience, and understanding. It becomes harder to see the human being behind the label when society, media, and even systems of care begin to frame them as their diagnosis first and foremost. Professionals in the field, like Thomas Cothren New York, whose advocacy and leadership in healthcare have shaped conversations around stigma and recovery, have long warned of the danger in allowing these descriptors to become social absolutes.
What’s left when people are seen only as their diagnosis? Often, a shell of who they are. Self-worth crumbles under the weight of perception. Families distance themselves. Employers grow cautious. Friends disappear. In their place stands a figure seen not as dynamic and growing, but as defective or risky. In this climate, it’s no wonder many who live with mental illness or substance use disorders withdraw further—not just because of the condition, but because of how the world responds to it.
More Than Meets the Diagnostic Eye
Mental illness does not look the same on everyone. A person with depression might still smile in public. A person with schizophrenia might live independently, work a full-time job, and manage their medication without issue. A person with anxiety might be the one cracking jokes at the party. The public’s idea of mental illness is often shaped by television, film, or exaggerated anecdotes. Reality, however, is far quieter and far more varied.
This misalignment between image and reality allows stereotypes to flourish. When someone doesn’t “look” mentally ill, they may be dismissed, denied care, or pressured to act more “normal.” When someone does present in ways society fears—disoriented, erratic, withdrawn—they are often met with punishment instead of help. The crisis response system frequently defaults to police intervention, particularly in communities of color, turning a moment of psychological pain into a potential tragedy. Meanwhile, those who quietly suffer are invalidated or ignored because their pain doesn’t match society’s expectations.
We must start by recognizing that people’s lives exist in layers. A diagnosis might explain part of someone’s behavior or needs, but it doesn’t tell us who they are, where they’ve been, or what they care about. There is always more to the story than the label allows.
The Psychological Toll of Misrecognition
When someone is repeatedly reduced to a diagnosis, the psychological effects are profound. They begin to see themselves through the lens of pathology, losing sight of the complexity of their inner life. This internalized stigma becomes a second illness—one that erodes self-esteem, distorts identity, and feeds despair. The mental health community has a name for this: “self-stigma,” and it has been shown to decrease treatment adherence, reduce social engagement, and prolong episodes of illness.
People who internalize negative views about their diagnosis may avoid seeking care altogether, fearing judgment from doctors or the confirmation of their worst suspicions. They may stay silent about worsening symptoms, isolate from support systems, or try to overcompensate in an effort to “prove” they are still worthy of love, opportunity, and respect. This creates a feedback loop where unmet needs lead to more severe symptoms, which then lead to more judgment, more shame, and further isolation.
Breaking this cycle requires a radical shift in how we talk about mental illness—not as a flaw or failure, but as one thread in a much larger tapestry of a person’s life.
Institutions and Invisibility
In institutional settings, the pressure to simplify and categorize is even greater. Hospitals, prisons, schools, and shelters are often overwhelmed and underfunded. In such environments, labeling becomes shorthand—an attempt to bring order to chaos. But in doing so, it frequently sacrifices the richness of the human experience. Instead of seeing a trauma survivor navigating anxiety, staff might see a “problem client.” Instead of understanding that a man’s anger stems from untreated bipolar disorder and systemic racism, they see a “threat.”
Labels become a means of containment, not understanding. Protocol replaces conversation. Risk assessments replace real relationship-building. People are managed rather than known.
To counteract this, some institutions have begun to implement trauma-informed care and peer-support models that prioritize the client’s voice. These approaches shift the question from “What’s wrong with you?” to “What happened to you?” It’s a start, but to be truly transformative, systems must also be willing to question their own roles in perpetuating invisibility and dehumanization.
The Power of Language and Story
Language matters deeply. The difference between saying “schizophrenic” and “a person with schizophrenia” may seem small, but it signifies a world of difference in how we regard people. The former fuses identity with illness. The latter allows room for individuality, choice, and growth.
Stories matter too. When people with lived experience of mental illness and addiction are given the platform to share their journeys in their own words, the world begins to shift. These narratives pierce through bias. They reveal the truth beneath the label. They challenge the idea that recovery is impossible or that people with certain diagnoses are “lost causes.” In fact, some of the most empathetic, creative, and emotionally intelligent people walking among us are also managing conditions that many fear or misunderstand.
The media, advocacy groups, clinicians, and communities have a shared responsibility to amplify these stories—not as “inspiration porn,” but as evidence of resilience and truth. Every story told is an antidote to the invisibility the system so often imposes.
Seeing Means Believing
To truly support healing, we must first learn to see. To see what lies beneath the diagnosis. To see the young man with schizophrenia not as a threat, but as someone’s son who once loved to build model airplanes. To see the woman in recovery not as a statistic, but as someone who fought her way through darkness to become the parent she never had. To see the teenager with PTSD not as broken, but as someone who survived what no child should have to.
Seeing is not passive—it requires intention. It means listening deeply, asking questions, challenging assumptions, and letting go of the need to categorize everyone neatly. It means walking into every room—clinic, courtroom, classroom—with the belief that the person in front of us is more than their chart.
Healing starts here. Not with prescriptions or protocols, but with the radical act of recognition. Because you can’t heal what you refuse to see. And once you do see—really see—it becomes impossible to look away.