Why it matters

One afternoon, while scrolling through Instagram, I came across a reel where someone straightened a tilted doormat, aligned shoes kept slightly apart, and wiped a kitchen counter because something felt “out of place.” The reel was with the caption: “The OCD in me.”

In the comments, people repeated the same line: “So relatable, I do this too,” and “I also have OCD.”

At first glance, it feels harmless. But the ease with which we use the phrase “I have OCD” made me pause. What many people label as OCD is simply a preference for neatness or organization not a disorder. OCD (Obsessive Compulsive Disorder) involves intrusive, unwanted thoughts (obsessions) and repetitive behaviours or mental acts (compulsions) performed to reduce distress, often consuming significant time and impairing daily functioning. But when we casually attach diagnostic labels to everyday habits, we blur the line between normal behaviour and genuine mental health challenges. Calling ordinary tidiness “OCD” trivializes the struggles of those who actually live with the disorder.

A few days later, during a discussion, someone confidently told me, “I have OCD.” When I asked how they knew, the person replied, “My house must be neat.” That moment stayed with me. It showed how easily people attach clinical labels to ordinary behaviour. Similarly, the other day I have heard someone calling other “he is a narcissist,”

I remember one day we were sitting and talking when someone said, “Be chaz borderline.” Before I could say anything, my close friend, who has a psychology background, responded:

“Agar che borderline ashekh che ashekh ni yetan yethkin behith” (If you really had borderline, you wouldn’t be sitting here like this). Because we had interacted with her several times and nothing about her behaviour matched what someone with borderline actually goes through.

The other day someone said “mae chu na depression” ( I have depression). Hearing these things made me realise how lightly we use mental health language in everyday talk, without understanding the seriousness behind these terms.

Mental health diagnoses are not fashion tags. When we use psychological terms loosely:

We minimise the suffering of those who genuinely struggle.

We make mental health seem less serious and less credible.

We spread misunderstanding in society.

We discourage people from seeking proper help.

And over time, something I have really learned is that diagnosis is not easy at all. It’s not just a matter of matching a few behaviours and naming them. A diagnosis holds weight it can shape how a person sees themselves and how others treat them.

I remember the words I read once, and they stayed with me: “The easiest thing in the world is to give someone a label. Anyone can do that. The real challenge is knowing whether that label truly fits, whether it reflects the person’s real experience, and whether it will help rather than harm”.

Not every sad person is “depressed.”

Not every mood shift is “bipolar.”

And being extra neat does not mean someone has OCD.

Social media has increased awareness, but it has also made it easier to misuse terminology. These words are used so loosely that they lose their depth.

Mental health terms carry weight. They represent real pain, real challenges, real stories. Using them lightly may seem harmless, but it shapes how society views mental health and more importantly, how people view themselves.

Mental health deserves respect, sensitivity, and accuracy. Our words matter, because the people behind those words matter even more.