Feeling Unlovable

Our fourth support group meeting was centred around one of the most difficult experiences many people living with schizophrenia carry—the experience of hearing voices. As each of us spoke, I noticed that the conversation was about much more than voices themselves. Beneath them lived deeper questions about love, belonging, and whether we deserved to exist. One participant shared that the voices sometimes told them they should die, that they did not deserve to live. Another described living with both comforting and frightening voices, never quite knowing which one would arrive or how to make sense of them. The uncertainty itself could feel exhausting. As we listened to one another, it became clear that these experiences often leave people feeling profoundly alone. Not only because of the voices, but because it is so difficult to speak about them in everyday life without fear of misunderstanding or judgement. Another member spoke about something that stayed with me long after the meeting ended. "When people learn that I have schizophrenia," they shared, "they begin to look at me differently." Small changes in tone, subtle shifts in behaviour, or assumptions about their abilities slowly accumulated until they were left with a painful conclusion: Perhaps I am the most unlovable person in the world. Those words settled quietly in the room. So much of the suffering surrounding schizophrenia comes not only from the illness itself, but from the way people are seen after receiving a diagnosis. The label can begin to overshadow the person. Instead of being recognised for their kindness, creativity, humour, or vulnerability, they become reduced to an illness. We reflected together on how difficult it can be to keep seeking acceptance from a world that does not always understand. Perhaps there comes a point where healing also means creating spaces where we no longer have to earn our humanity. Places where we can simply arrive as we are. Throughout the meeting, we returned again and again to practices that help us stay connected to ourselves. One participant spoke about walking barefoot along the seashore whenever possible, feeling the sand beneath their feet and allowing the rhythm of the waves to steady them. Another shared that they too found comfort in grounding themselves through nature. It struck me that healing is often surprisingly ordinary. Sometimes it is found in the feel of the earth beneath our feet. Sometimes in a quiet walk. Sometimes in sitting together for ninety minutes with people who understand. One member reflected that these live conversations felt very different from online discussions or social media. Here, there was time to pause, to listen, and to feel. Rather than becoming overwhelmed by constant information, they found themselves feeling calmer, lighter, and more grounded after each meeting. As our conversation deepened, another participant described how intensely they absorbed the emotions of others. It was as though the grief of family, society, and even the wider world settled inside them. Their sensitivity felt both like a gift and a burden. I found myself wondering how many people living with schizophrenia carry not only their own suffering, but also a profound awareness of the suffering around them. By the end of the meeting, something had shifted. The voices had not disappeared. The uncertainties remained. The challenges of finding work, living with stigma, and navigating everyday life were still present. Yet there was also something else in the room. One participant quietly said that they felt accepted. Not because anyone had solved their problems. Not because they had been reassured that everything would be fine. But because, for perhaps a brief moment, they no longer had to hide. As I reflected afterwards, I realised that perhaps healing does not always begin by silencing the harsh voices inside us. Sometimes it begins when another human voice gently reminds us that we are worthy of love, exactly as we are.

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