Open TikTok and it doesn’t take long to land on a video diagnosing your personality. You might have ADHD. Or maybe it’s trauma. A creator lists vague symptoms—low motivation, overthinking, fear of confrontation—and you find yourself nodding. It feels relatable, even comforting. And just like that, the app becomes a kind of therapist, algorithmically tailored to your worst fears and best guesses.
“TikTok’s algorithm thrives on engagement, feeding users content that aligns with their interests—and anxieties,” said Dr. Monica Vilhauer, a philosophy professor who studies culture, communication and how therapy language is shaping younger generations online. “For Gen Z, this often means a steady stream of mental health-related videos.”
To be fair, the trend isn’t all bad. Mental health has never been more visible. Gen Z talks openly about therapy, sets boundaries and normalizes medication in ways that would’ve scandalized older generations. But that new openness comes with a glitch: nuance gets lost in the scroll.
“Videos describing symptoms of ADHD or OCD often lack nuance, reducing these conditions to catchy soundbites,” Vilhauer said. “This can create a confirmation bias loop in which users interpret normal emotional experiences as signs of a disorder.”
Feeling sad becomes depression. Forgetfulness turns into ADHD. General social discomfort? Probably undiagnosed anxiety. The app serves users a steady stream of emotional content with no clear line between clinical diagnosis and everyday human messiness. At best, it makes therapy language feel accessible. At worst, it pathologizes being alive.
“Creators, both professionals and amateurs, share mental health tools and terminology, often stripping them of their clinical context,” Vilhauer said.
The result is a TikTok-ified mental health education system with no experts, no syllabus and no graduation. What starts as solidarity can spiral into over-identification, especially when creators promote self-diagnosis to an audience that’s already anxious.
“TikTok’s design encourages users to seek validation through likes, comments and shares,” Vilhauer said. “For Gen Z, this can reinforce self-diagnosis behaviors, as peers validate their concerns without professional insight.”
Watch one video about burnout, and soon you’re deep in content about trauma bonding and dissociation. The spiral feels like concern but operates more like confirmation bias on autoplay.
“The algorithmic feedback loop amplifies this effect, pushing users toward increasingly extreme content,” Vilhauer said.
This has real consequences. Misdiagnosing yourself with a personality disorder isn’t just cringey—it’s risky.
“Self-diagnosis through TikTok carries significant risks,” Vilhauer said. “Misinterpreting symptoms can lead to inappropriate self-treatment.”
She adds that the consequences don’t stop there:
“Serious conditions like bipolar disorder or schizophrenia are often reduced to stereotypes. Relying on social media for guidance can postpone professional consultation.”
Still, millions of Gen Z users keep watching.
It’s not because they’re gullible. It’s because therapy is expensive, insurance is confusing and mental health waitlists stretch for months. According to a 2024 report from the White Institute, over 83% of TikTok’s mental health advice is misleading. But if you don’t have access to a therapist, a TikTok creator might feel like the next best thing.
Even so, creators aren’t licensed to diagnose—and often aren’t pretending to be. The problem is, the algorithm doesn’t make that distinction clear. And when serious conditions are treated like personality quizzes, it becomes harder to know what to take seriously.
Still, TikTok isn’t all red flags.
“Viral trends can introduce users to mental health concepts they might not otherwise encounter,” Vilhauer said.
She also pointed out that TikTok provides a sense of connection for people struggling with isolation or stigma.
“Peer support networks provide comfort and solidarity for those struggling,” she said.
And some creators are using their platforms for good—pushing for policy changes, creating awareness campaigns and urging followers to seek real help.
“Creators are pushing for better mental health resources and policies,” Vilhauer said.
So what’s the answer? Not deleting the app, necessarily. Not shaming young people for searching. But building some digital immunity—tools to help them recognize the difference between helpful and harmful content.
“To mitigate TikTok’s risks, experts emphasize the importance of digital literacy,” Vilhauer said.
That means teaching users to evaluate content critically, not just emotionally. To ask whether a video is coming from a therapist or just a well-edited confession. To know when to log off and call someone who’s actually trained to help.
“Platforms like TikTok also have a responsibility to flag misleading content and promote credible sources,” Vilhauer said.
Ultimately, the goal isn’t to stop the conversation. It’s to make it better. Because the conversation is already happening—with or without professionals in the room.
“While TikTok has democratized mental health discussions, it’s no substitute for professional diagnosis and treatment,” Vilhauer said.
Gen Z doesn’t need to be told to care about their mental health. They already do. What they need is a map—one that leads somewhere more solid than an algorithmic echo chamber.
