I didn’t grow up hearing people talk about mental health. In fact, for most of my life, it’s been something people around me avoided. And not because they didn’t care, it’s just that no one had the words. Even now, despite changes in other parts of India, the topic still feels like a whisper in a crowded room here in Nagaland.
We’re a proud and close-knit society. Our bonds run deep. However, I can’t help but notice how more and more young people, especially students, seem to be struggling under the weight of expectations, uncertainty, and isolation. And often, they’re doing it alone.
A Crisis We Can’t See
The community we surround ourselves with includes social media, church groups, and classrooms, which would make anyone feel supported. But the truth is, many don’t. A bright student once told me, “Ma’am, it’s like I’m surrounded, but I’ve never felt lonelier.” That stuck with me.
And it’s not just students. There’s the graduate who’s been job hunting for years, the teacher drowning in deadlines, and the elder who spends entire days without conversation. Mental distress doesn’t wear a uniform; it’s often invisible, and that’s what makes it so dangerous.
Unfortunately, our instinct here is to downplay it. We say things like “Be strong,” or “Pray about it.” Sometimes we don’t say anything at all. Not out of malice, but from habit and fear.
The Gaps Are Real
Let’s talk numbers. The National Mental Health Survey from 2015–16 revealed that 1 in 7 Indians needs some kind of mental health support. I do not doubt that the situation in Nagaland reflects this, if not more.
But what happens when someone wants to seek help? The reality is discouraging. Apart from a handful of professionals in Kohima and Dimapur, options are scarce. If you live outside those areas, you’re left with either travelling long distances or doing nothing.
The only government psychiatric hospital we have is doing its best. But it’s underfunded and overburdened.
Cultural Baggage
We don’t always realise how much our culture shapes the way we view mental health. There’s a tendency to treat emotional pain as either weakness or a spiritual test. I’ve heard stories of people being told their anxiety is a result of “not praying enough,” or that depression is “just being lazy.” It’s disheartening.
In our villages, where everyone knows everyone, privacy is a luxury. People worry about what if the neighbours find out? What will the church say? It’s this fear of judgment that often keeps people silent.
And then there’s gender. Boys are raised to hide emotion. Girls are expected to endure quietly. I’ve seen both suffer in different ways, but the silence is the same.
What Schools and Colleges Can Do
In my classroom, I’ve noticed a clear connection: when students feel emotionally safe, they participate more, create more, and grow more. It’s that simple and that powerful. Imagine if every college had at least one trained mental health counsellor. Imagine if students had regular check-ins, not just for grades, but for how they’re doing. That kind of shift could change lives. Teachers, too, need to be brought into this. We’re often the first line of contact, and with a little training, we can spot warning signs early.
Moving Forward Together
• Government support needs to be stronger. More funding, but also incentives for professionals to work in
smaller towns and villages.
• Training the next generation matters. Offering mental health courses in local colleges. Let young people from Nagaland be the ones to lead the change.
• Open conversations are crucial. Whether it’s in churches, peer groups, or street plays, anything that helps us talk more honestly about our inner lives will help.
• Tele-counselling and helplines could bridge the gap, especially in remote places. But they must be trustworthy and available in languages people are comfortable with.
• Every school needs a counsellor. Not optional but mandatory.
This article isn’t just about numbers or policy. It’s about people I see every day. Students who break down in quiet corners. Friends who carry burdens behind forced smiles. Even moments when I, too, have felt overwhelmed and unsure.
Mental health is deeply personal, and incredibly communal at the same time. The change we need won’t come from outside. It has to come from us—from how we listen, how we respond, and how willing we are to make space for each other’s pain. So maybe the next time someone seems “off,” we don’t brush it aside. Maybe we ask again, with care. And this time, we stay to hear the answer.
Degree of Thought is a weekly community column initiated by Tetso College in partnership with The Morung Express. Degree of Thought will delve into the social, cultural, political and educational issues around us. The views expressed here do not reflect the opinion of the institution. Tetso College is a NAAC Accredited UGC recognised Commerce and Arts College. The editorial team includes Chubamenla, Asst. Professor Dept. of English and Rinsit Sareo, Asst. Manager, IT, Media & Communications. For feedback or comments please email: dot@tetsocollege.org
