Why I started a podcast about my schizophrenia

This is a composite story, drawn from common experiences shared in the schizophrenia community. It does not depict a real individual.

I am 29, non-binary, and I live in Atlanta. I was diagnosed with schizophrenia at 21. Two years ago I started a podcast about living with the illness. It has about 1,200 regular listeners, which is small in podcast terms and large in mine. I want to write about why I started it, what it has actually been like to make, and what it has done for me — because most of the public stories about people who do mental-health advocacy skip past the unglamorous parts.

The reason I started

The spark was specific. I had spent my early twenties listening to mental-health podcasts that were almost entirely about depression and anxiety. The hosts were lovely and their content was useful, but I never heard anyone talk about my actual experience — the voices, the medication conversations, the months after a hospitalisation. The few schizophrenia voices I could find were either academic experts or recovery-narrative books from a generation older than mine.

I sat with that absence for about a year before I bought a microphone. The thought I kept having was: if I had heard a podcast like this when I was first diagnosed, I would have been less alone for a long time. The thought that finally pushed me to record was: if I never make it, the next 21-year-old who needs it will not have it either.

What I had to think through first

Going public with a serious mental illness is not a small choice. I spent four months thinking it through with my therapist before I recorded the first episode. We talked about:

• Disclosure permanence. Once it is online, it is online. Future employers, future partners, future medical providers — all can find it.
• The risk of becoming "the schizophrenia person." I did not want my entire identity to collapse into the diagnosis.
• The risk of speaking during a wobble. What if I had an episode and said something I would later regret?
• The risk to my family. My parents and brother appear in some stories. We talked about what they were comfortable with me sharing.
• The risk of audience. Online communities can turn. I needed to be ready for that.

I made a few rules for myself before I started, with my therapist's help. I would never record during a wobble. I would not give individualised medical advice. I would always cite reputable sources — NIMH, NAMI, SAMHSA, WHO — for any clinical statements. I would have someone close to me listen to every episode before publishing.

What making it actually looks like

This is the part nobody talks about. Producing a monthly podcast, even a small one, is a real amount of work. My typical episode involves:

• A week of thinking about the topic.
• A weekend of outlining (I do not script — I notice it sounds wooden when I do).
• A 60-90 minute recording session, sometimes redone if my voice is flat.
• An hour or two of editing — cutting out long pauses, evening out audio levels.
• Show notes with sources.
• A social-media post or two.

I do this on weekends. I am careful not to let it cut into sleep, because sleep is my most important medication. I take a month off whenever I need to. The audience accepts this; in fact, the audience often messages to say they appreciate that I model not pushing through.

What the audience has been like

Most listeners message me to say a version of the same thing: "I have schizophrenia and I have never heard anyone say what you just said." Or: "My brother has schizophrenia and your podcast helped me understand him better."

There is also a smaller stream of harder messages — from people in active crisis, from people angry that I take medication, from people wanting me to be their therapist. I had to learn to respond with warmth and clear limits. I have a saved set of replies pointing to crisis lines, peer support, and the 988 lifeline. I do not engage with arguments about whether antipsychotics are good or bad. I had to learn that I am not obliged to.

The trolls have been fewer than I feared. The kind messages have been more than I expected. The messages from clinicians who use my episodes in patient education have been the biggest surprise.

What it has done for my recovery

This is the part I want to underline, because it surprised me.

• Articulating my experience aloud has clarified it. I understand my own illness better than I did before I started recording.
• The structure of monthly production is a stability tool. A predictable rhythm of work I care about is good for me.
• The audience is a low-grade form of accountability. Not pressure — but a quiet sense that someone is listening.
• I have become less ashamed. Public-facing acceptance has slowly metabolised into private acceptance.
• I have built a small network of other advocates. Some have become real friends.

What I would say to someone considering this

• Talk to a therapist before you go public. Make rules. Stick to them.
• Do not start during a wobble or in the first six months after one.
• Have at least one trusted listener review every piece of public content.
• Know your "I am not a doctor" boilerplate before the first episode.
• Take breaks. The audience will be there when you come back.
• Ground every clinical claim in a reputable source. Your credibility, your safety.

For more on advocacy and online presence, see building an online community and becoming a peer support specialist.

This article is for educational purposes only and is not medical advice, diagnosis, or treatment. Always consult a qualified mental health professional. If you or someone you know is in crisis, call or text 988 in the US, or your local emergency number.