Crap Life Disorder: It's Not a Disorder, It's Just a Tuesday

“Crap life disorder.” It sounds like a punchline but it might be one of the most quietly accurate description of modern emotional life—coined by Michelle Higgins. It’s a phrase — a kind of wink to all the ways we’re increasingly turning ordinary human struggle into something that needs a diagnosis, a treatment plan, or a specialist.

Don’t get me wrong — life is hard. It knocks us sideways. It breaks our hearts, drains our energy, scatters our focus. We get anxious. We lose hope. We lie awake at night wondering if we’re doing any of it right. That’s not a disorder. That’s a Tuesday.

But increasingly, I see people — especially younger people — coming to therapy with the belief that if they’re struggling, they must have a diagnosable condition. They say, “Maybe I have anxiety,” or “I think I’ve got burnout,”or “Someone on TikTok thinks I’m neurodivergent.” They’re trying to find an explanation for their pain, which is understandable in a world that offers reassurance through labels. If it has a name, it feels legitimate and perhaps there is a cure  

And sometimes, that name really is a lifeline. For some, a diagnosis is a relief. It will then open a portal to tools and treatment that can significantly help. For others, it may lead to a limiting belief. A new identity that narrows what they believe is possible for them.

We’ve developed a culture where emotional discomfort is quickly filtered through clinical language. If you’re sad, you must be depressed. If you’re tired and forgetful, maybe you’ve got ADHD. If you’re worried it anxiety disorder. We're becoming less able to sit with the rawness of being human.

I worry about what gets lost in the process. The way it teaches people that being in pain means they’re broken — rather than simply being alive during a difficult moment in time.

There’s also a sense of hope that we risk leaving behind: that we can recover. That we can feel better. That we can learn, grow, adapt and emerge changed but not diminished. When we see every emotional challenge through a medical lens, we forget that distress is not always a disorder — sometimes, it’s the mind doing its job: signalling that something isn’t right, something needs attention or simply that something hurts.

And hurting is not a failure. It’s not weakness. It’s human. Even necessary.

In therapy people are given space. To talk, to cry, to not be judged. They need to know they’re not the only ones who feel overwhelmed by life, or who carry shame about their messiness. They don’t need a diagnosis to justify their pain. They need someone to say, of course this is hard. Of course you feel this way. Let’s make sense of it together.

We all want to feel seen. And in a world that prizes perfection, the idea that a diagnosis might explain why we feel behind, or out of step, or not quite good enough — that can be a comfort. But it can also rob us of the chance to discover our own capacity for resilience. It can nudge us toward seeing ourselves as permanently limited.

So instead of rushing to find a label for every emotional wobble, maybe we can practise something simpler and far more radical: listening. Asking what’s going on around someone, not just inside them. Not “What’s wrong with you?” but “What’s happened?” or “What are you carrying?”

Crap life disorder isn’t real — but the pain it describes is. Life is unpredictable, beautiful, maddening and hard. Sometimes, you just need to say “this is awful,” and have someone nod and say, “I know.” No labels. No prescriptions. Just two people connecting together.

That, in the end, might be the most healing thing of all.