By Alex Candon.
As students and researchers, we often focus on what we study — but I have become increasingly interested in how we talk about it.
In particular, I am fascinated by how explanations of mental illness shape people’s beliefs about recovery, responsibility, and control. This question feels especially relevant as genetic research becomes more visible within psychiatry and public discussion.
One area that has caught my attention is the growing presence of genetic explanations in mental health.
Concepts such as polygenic risk scores (PRS) are increasingly mentioned in research, policy, and media.
Put simply, PRS are a way of estimating genetic vulnerability to certain conditions. Rather than pointing to a single “gene” for a disorder, they combine information from thousands of small genetic differences across the genome.
Each difference on its own has a very small effect, but together they can indicate whether someone has a higher or lower likelihood of developing a particular condition compared to the general population.
PRS offer a probability rather than a diagnosis, and are best understood as part of a broader picture that also includes lived experience and context. They are often discussed as part of a broader move toward personalised and preventive approaches to care.
However, beyond their technical promise, I am interested in how such explanations are understood by the people who encounter them.
Psychosis is a particularly striking context in which to think about this. For many individuals, experiences of psychosis mark a first encounter with mental health services, diagnostic labels, and explanatory models.
Early explanations can carry significant weight, shaping how people make sense of what is happening to them and what they believe lies ahead. More broadly, the way psychosis is talked about in society influences public attitudes, expectations, and stigma.
What I find most compelling is that explanations do not simply convey information; they also communicate meaning. When mental illness is described in certain ways, it can subtly suggest ideas about inevitability, responsibility, or permanence.
Other ways of explaining the same condition may leave more room for context, change, and understanding. These differences are not about rejecting science, but about recognising that scientific information is always interpreted through human assumptions and values.
This places the issue at the intersection of psychology, ethics, and communication. As genetic knowledge becomes more prominent in mental health discourse, it is not enough to ask whether explanations are accurate. We also need to consider how they are received, what they imply, and what kinds of beliefs they encourage. Language can shape attitudes just as powerfully as evidence can.
My interest in this area reflects a broader concern with responsible science communication. Advances in psychiatric genetics offer real opportunities, but they also require care. Without careful framing, complex ideas can be reduced to overly simple narratives that risk reinforcing stigma or misunderstanding. Psychology has an important role to play in examining these effects and encouraging more thoughtful conversations.
At DCU, I have been encouraged to think critically about these questions — not only as a researcher, but as someone attentive to how psychological knowledge enters everyday life.
For me, this interest is less about prediction or classification and more about perception: how beliefs are formed, how meaning is attached, and how language can shape what people think is possible.
Ultimately, I keep returning to a simple idea: how we explain mental illness matters. As psychology continues to engage with genetics, remaining attentive to the human meanings attached to scientific explanations is essential — if progress in research is to be matched by progress in compassion, agency, and understanding.
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