Therapy has gone mainstream. Once confined to hushed conversations and private offices, it now plays out centre-stage, in public. Catch snippets of Prince Harry practising eye movement therapy and Selena Gomez championing “radical acceptance.” Scroll through TikTok and you’ll hear “boundaries” and “healing” bandied about with casual fluency. In short, the language of therapy seems to have slipped its clinical roots and embedded itself in everyday conversation. Among students especially, it no longer feels taboo; if anything, it feels almost part of the script. But for all its new cultural currency, the question still remains: if therapy is everywhere, why isn’t everyone actually in it?
For all its new visibility, the stigma around therapy has not wholly vanished. Despite its fashionable online presence, beyond the screen it can still feel reserved for crisis rather than choice. Therapy language can land differently across the dinner table, for instance, where it risks sounding indulgent or unnecessary. Meanwhile, expectations around emotional expression continue to shape who feels able to seek help, nowhere more so than in the enduring appeal of the British “stiff upper lip”, where talking things through can feel faintly at odds with keeping calm and carrying on. Ultimately, a quieter scepticism still lingers, dismissing therapy as little more than navel-gazing with a professional gloss.
Among students, however, attitudes towards therapy have clearly shifted; it is no longer something only associated with crisis, but part of everyday conversation. Mental health is now openly discussed, and most people, in principle, support the idea of going to therapy. Nonetheless, that support is often more complicated in practice. As Ben (a third year) puts it: “there’s a stigma that therapy solves all problems… people want to prove they can work it out on their own.” His point hints at a quieter pressure beneath the surface; that is, if therapy is seen as a fix-all, choosing it can feel like admitting defeat rather than taking initiative. Others point to more practical limits. “I would get it,” says another third year student, “depending on accessibility… if it was an easy process.” If therapy is widely accepted in theory, in practice, the question quickly becomes one of access.
For the majority of students, that question of access is merely one of cost. Private therapy, while often the fastest route, comes with a price tag that places it firmly out of reach for many. Session fees can begin to feel less like self-care and more like a subscription you’re scrambling to justify. Alternatives do exist, such as the NHS or university counselling services, but these are frequently oversubscribed, with waiting lists that can leave students stuck in limbo just as they are ready to seek help. The result is a subtle but significant divide. Although therapy may be socially normalised, access to it remains stratified. In other words, what has presented itself as a universal good is starting to look more like a privilege, available to those who can afford to bypass the wait. Normalisation has not erased inequality; it has, in many cases, left those without access to look elsewhere for support.
Students are increasingly turning to online spaces to fill the gap. Platforms such as 7 Cups offer immediacy, which traditional therapy often cannot. Some are even turning to ChatGPT, a therapist that never charges by the hour. Available instantly and often free, this kind of support lowers the barrier to entry. However, it raises the more complicated question of whether this expands access to care, or quietly dilutes it. Without professional training or accountability, the line between support and guesswork starts to blur. What emerges is a form of “DIY” therapy, which is enough to bridge the gap, but rarely to close it, and for many students, that gap eventually points back to formal support.
At the University of Edinburgh, such formal support is found in the form of student counselling services. The University offers short-term support, including one-to-one counselling and wellbeing appointments, which are designed to help students manage a variety of issues. Nevertheless, the number of sessions is generally limited to four for standard support, with initial assessments taking one to five weeks, meaning access is not always immediate. Therefore, even within the university itself, the disconnect between recognising the value of therapy and being able to access it in practice remains.
Therapy has, undeniably, spilled into the open. Within the rhythms of student life, it is spoken about freely and readily endorsed. However, beneath this newfound visibility lies a more patchy reality, one in which access is dictated by cost and waiting times, leaving many to improvise or go without. Therapy may be more visible than ever, but for many students it hovers just beyond reach. There, but not theirs.
Photo by Priscilla Du Preez 🇨🇦 on Unsplash