Talking about feelings does not make you a snowflake | Deborah Orr

Prince Harry spoke over the weekend about the emotional cost of suppressing his grief over his mother’s death when he was 12 years old. Prince William followed up by saying that his work as an air ambulance pilot made him aware of the large number of people, mainly men, who attempt suicide. The two of them, along with the Duchess of Cambridge, have launched an awareness campaign that aims to highlight the dearth of good mental health provision in Britain.

For some, all this means is that – disappointingly – the royals have joined the “snowflake generation” of young people who are simply too sensitive to little things like “feelings”. For others, including myself, their Heads Together initiative is admirable, not least because in itself it calls attention to the ludicrously basic level at which the building of “awareness” needs to begin.

Imagine how weird it would be if this trio were sticking their necks out to raise awareness of physical health, pointing out that you don’t just carry on, yelling that it’s only a flesh wound if you’ve made a gash in your hand. Clean it, at the very least. Put on a plaster. If it won’t stop bleeding, see a doctor. These are things everyone is nowadays expected to know. Yet, not so long ago, humans had no understanding at all of the implications of leaving a physical wound untreated.

We’re not far beyond that point with “mental health”. For a start, this is a huge, catch-all term. In Harry’s case, normal emotional distress was left untreated, and festered into something more serious. And yet … expressing his distress? Having it addressed? That, in some people’s eyes, would have made Harry a snowflake. This dangerous attitude is particularly fostered in men and boys. It’s not masculine to show your emotions – though they tend to show in other ways, in anger, aggression, self-harm or depression. I daresay that in at least some of the cases to which William refers, men bottled up their distress until it became overwhelming.

Very often a “mental health problem” starts out as mere emotional distress, a natural, healthy part of life. It’s when that distress isn’t sensibly addressed that it can grow into something that can be labelled a problem. Simply being aware of one’s emotions is the first step towards regulating them. Telling a whole generation that they’re “snowflakes” for having such awareness is actually an awful thing to do.

Which is not to say that every manifestation of emotional distress should be indulged or validated. That, I think, is what makes people talk of “emotional incontinence”. There’s a tendency among some to start believing that if a view or opinion upsets them then it is wrong. On the contrary, that’s usually a sign that the distressed person has difficulty handling conflict. What’s really going on with the “snowflake generation” is that people are becoming more aware of their feelings and needs, but don’t have the knowledge or experience to understand what those reactions are telling them about themselves.

In January this year, Theresa May announced that schoolchildren will be given greater access to NHS mental health workers. She has also praised Prince Harry for helping to “smash the stigma” around mental health and reassuring people that they are “not alone”. (She’s also called a snap general election, of course, which isn’t going to help anyone’s mental health.)

But this too is evidence of the crudity of our thinking. What is actually needed is far more sophisticated emotional awareness, so that people can recognise and manage their own emotions and, just as importantly, interactions with others who may have unhealthy or abusive emotional agendas themselves.

The good news is that all this is not actually as difficult or complex as it may appear. Emotional awareness could easily be taught in schools. It should be seen as just as necessary as PE. Already people are doing amazing and cost-effective work that can have a huge impact in helping people understand and care for themselves and those around them. Last week, for instance, I took part in a conflict workshop run by youth charity Leap. Around 20 adults who had never met before became fairly emotionally intimate with each other over just a couple of hours.

Emotional awareness should be taught in schools, and seen as just as necessary as PE

Some declared they’d achieved insights that they were going to apply within their marriages. Someone who’d worked for years with the most troubled young people announced she was “blown away”. Yet the room was full of people who didn’t even know that conflict was a problem in their lives.

And that’s the thing. People soldier on, unaware they have a problem. Worse, that problem becomes familiar; it feels safe, even comfortable, because it’s what they know. It’s why people make the same mistakes again and again, abusing others or allowing themselves to be abused without even knowing this behaviour isn’t “normal”.

There’s a tendency to see the “snowflake generation” as narcissistic, demanding constant attention and validation, wrapped up in their own needs and unaware of those of others, refusing to take responsibility for their choices or mistakes, playing the victim. Yet these critics are themselves being typically narcissistic in denying that the youngsters they berate have any right to their own feelings and perceptions, let alone might need or deserve some help in untangling them.

If anything, I believe, this generation is suffering because generations before it were as narcissistic as any that ever lived. If you think that’s far-fetched, take a look at Donald Trump, elected King of the Baby Boomers.

Talking of kings, there’s not a lot that’s more narcissistic than the concept of monarchy. When the youth of that institution say there’s a problem, then you really, really know there is. And that it’s a big one.

Talking about feelings does not make you a snowflake | Deborah Orr

Generation snowflake is not failing us: we’re failing them | Deborah Orr

A healthy society, surely, is one that helps its children feel safe and secure. If this were a banal proposition, it wouldn’t even have to be stated. Yet there are plenty of people who would contend that it’s not up to society to make kids feel safe. That, they will announce with tremendous self-satisfaction, is the job of their parents. It’s as if they don’t even know that humans are social animals, and that it is the ability of humans to think and act from social motivations that fostered civilisation.

For these folks, any sign that children are struggling in Britain today is sneeringly dismissed as more evidence of generation snowflake’s feeble lack of resilience. This aggressive, sloganeering refusal to engage with the feelings of vulnerability of others, but instead to mock and belittle them? That in itself is a statement of intent. It is an assertion that helping young people to feel safe and secure is not in the least their business. On the contrary.

Research by the NSPCC, gathered through freedom of information requests, warns that serious cases of self-harm among young people have jumped by 14% in the last three years, with 19,000 children and young people treated in hospital in England and Wales in the last 12 months. People self-harm when they crave the primitive distraction of physical pain from the insistent complexity of emotional distress. The respite is brief and dangerous. Often, it piles shame and guilt on to a chaotic heap of negative emotions that has already proved overwhelming: snowflakes dissolving in their own sticky blood.

The fact that these children choose to harm themselves rather than others is a sign that they feel plenty of shame about their fears already, for which they blame themselves. Often, children report that they couldn’t talk to their parents because their parents were too busy. What they tend actually to mean is that they’re worried and upset because they know their parents are worried and upset, and they don’t want to add to the burden.

But if it’s the job of parents not to be worried and upset, so that they can help their children, then you have to ask why it’s such a great idea to consider human competition rather than human collaboration as the magic fountain from which all good things gush. It’s always too simplistic to theorise about how a vast range of individual and particular crises are all down to one thing. Yet the list of the usual suspects that’s aired when mass psychological struggle hits the headlines does include a lot of stuff that has competitive elements.

Any sign that children are struggling is sneeringly dismissed as more evidence of generation snowflake’s feebleness

There’s the pressure to look attractive, the pressure to succeed at school, the pressure to be popular, the pressure to get a job, to get a home. If I were growing up now, I’d be terrified. I was pretty terrified in the 1970s, when I’d no idea how much more demanding and complex life was going to get. Are children wrong to feel these pressures? Can any parent honestly tell them that none of it matters and that life has a way of turning out OK?

Yet all this is just a backdrop to the existential struggles of life. Children still have to deal with private catastrophe – bereavement or abuse, illness or trauma – as well as global horror: the horrific evidence of human aggression and the suffering it causes, there on your phone all day, every day. All this, alongside the sheer effort of becoming yourself in an era that idolises individualism.

Left and right, politically, they both do this. The left champions identity, the right champions robust economic self-sufficiency. Do we give children time to find out who they are, among the blanket demands that they should Be Themselves? We don’t give them time and we certainly don’t give them much in the way of psychological tools or support. After all, therapy costs money in this economically competitive world.

We need to feel part of something bigger than ourselves, and sometimes I think Brexit is best understood as an expression of that yearning. Young people, on the whole, felt like part of Europe because they’d grown up with it. Maybe older people just felt like their own place in the world had just become so much harder to locate in their hearts once they weren’t simply British. And how people viewed Europe in their daily lives also raised the spectre of competition; people coming here looking for work, and helpless employers, themselves governed by competition, quite unable to do anything other than pay the lowest wages possible.

I’m not saying that vulnerable young people self-harm because hashtag Brexit. That would be too simple. But I am saying that it may reflect the fact that there is too much competition in the world and not enough caring support. Competition can be a great driver of achievement, but so can collaboration. The corrosive thing about competition is that it fosters fear of failure, which has to be countered. Balance is everything, and that’s what we don’t have. People are afraid and ashamed of their fear; so it festers, and explodes in anger and resentment. It’s fertile ground for demagogues who offer glib, bogus answers and, boy, do they plough it.

You can choose to see “generation snowflake” as a bunch of wimps, or you can observe that there is plenty going on in the world to traumatise a sensitive child – or adult. Then you can think a bit about how traumatised people make bad decisions, and conclude that the aggression, the fear, the shame, the self-harm – it has to stop. The very essence of what it is to be human – to be able to look after one another and help one another find solutions to our problems – is what is at stake, and children feel it.

Generation snowflake is not failing us: we’re failing them | Deborah Orr