For much of human history, we didn’t understand the mind—we feared it. Before medicine could explain depression, psychosis, or seizures, people turned to what they could grasp: good and evil, angels and demons. When someone screamed at shadows, spoke to unseen voices, or fell into convulsions, it was rarely seen as illness—it was believed to be possession.
In medieval Europe, “treatment” often meant prayer, confinement, or worse. Exorcisms were performed with brutal faith, aiming to “cast out” what was never there. Those who suffered most were often the ones who needed help the most—people with epilepsy, schizophrenia, or trauma-induced dissociation. Their cries for relief were met with fear, not compassion.
What’s haunting isn’t just the cruelty—it’s that these beliefs didn’t vanish overnight. Traces of them remain, quietly shaping how we talk about and respond to mental health today.
Imagine living centuries ago—your loved one begins to hear voices, or your neighbor collapses during what we now know is a seizure. There were no psychiatrists, no hospitals, no vocabulary for mental illness. The Church, the most powerful institution of the time, offered a single explanation: the devil.
Exorcisms became both ritual and punishment. People were restrained, starved, or forced to endure violent “purifications.” In some cultures, shamans or priests performed ceremonies to “chase spirits” from the body. And though these rituals sometimes brought psychological relief (through suggestion or belief), they also reinforced a dangerous idea—that mental suffering was a moral failure or spiritual curse.
Even as medicine advanced, the shadows of these beliefs clung tightly. By the 18th and 19th centuries, “madness” was still feared and hidden. Asylums were built not as places of healing but containment—out of sight, out of mind. Families often locked away loved ones, ashamed of what society refused to understand.
You’d think we’ve come a long way—and in many ways, we have. We have therapy, neuroscience, medication, mindfulness, and mental health advocacy. But listen closely, and the old echoes are still there.
We still hear people described as “crazy,” “possessed,” or “out of their mind.” We still see shame when someone admits they take antidepressants. We still see hesitation before someone says, “I have bipolar disorder,” or “I’m in therapy.”
These small, everyday hesitations are centuries old—they’re the modern ghosts of those medieval beliefs. Our language reveals how fear once ruled understanding. And fear, when left unexamined, continues to isolate those who already feel alone.
There’s also a quieter echo: the belief that mental illness must be fought or conquered, as if it were an enemy. That same framing comes from centuries of treating the mind as a battleground rather than a landscape to be understood and cared for.
Take the story of Lucia (name changed), a woman who grew up in a deeply religious community. From adolescence, she experienced auditory hallucinations—voices whispering cruel things, sometimes commanding her to act. Her family, terrified and uneducated about mental illness, sought spiritual help. For years, Lucia underwent prayer sessions and minor exorcisms. When nothing changed, shame replaced faith. She was told she wasn’t praying hard enough.
It wasn’t until her thirties that Lucia found a psychiatrist who diagnosed her with schizoaffective disorder. For the first time, she felt seen—not as cursed, but as human. With therapy and medication, her symptoms stabilized, and her life slowly regained meaning.
Lucia’s story isn’t rare. It’s a quiet reflection of millions who’ve been misunderstood because of centuries of misinformation. Her healing didn’t come from denying her reality—it came from understanding it. And that’s what compassion does: it turns fear into care.
We often think stigma is too big to tackle, but change begins with something as simple as words. Every time we replace “crazy” with “struggling,” or “weak” with “brave,” we rewrite history a little. We chip away at centuries of silence and superstition.
Education is equally powerful. When we understand that schizophrenia involves a chemical imbalance, that depression changes brain activity, or that trauma reshapes neural pathways, we see people differently. We stop fearing what we can finally name.
Even mindfulness and holistic practices—so essential to modern wellness—play a role here. They help us reconnect to the mind and body as one, not as enemies to be subdued. They remind us that healing doesn’t mean perfection; it means peace.
Here are a few ways we can continue this evolution—from fear to understanding, from judgment to love:
Our journey from exorcisms to empathy isn’t just historical—it’s deeply human. It’s the story of how we’ve learned to see each other not as broken or possessed, but as people in pain, deserving of care.
The truth is, fear once filled the space where understanding should have been. But every conversation, every act of kindness, every time someone reaches out for help—that space gets filled with something better: connection.
We are no longer trying to cast demons out of people. We are learning to sit beside them and say, “You’re not alone. Let’s figure this out together.”
That’s not just progress. That’s healing.