Burns Night - The Scots’ Relationship with Stoicism and Mental Health
Tomorrow is Burns Night, and across Scotland, we'll be gathered around haggis, raising a dram, and reciting poetry about mice and mountains with the kind of passion usually reserved for footie matches.
But here's something Rabbie Burns knew that we've somehow forgotten: feelings are allowed.
The man wrote entire poems about heartbreak, loneliness, and existential dread. He wasn't afraid to admit when life was hard. Meanwhile, most of us modern Scots would rather chew our own arm off than admit we're struggling.
"How are you?"
"Och, I'm fine. Cannae complain."
Narrator: They absolutely could complain. They just won't.
The Stoic Scot
There's something almost... heroic about Scottish stoicism, isn't there? We wear it like a badge of honour. We pride ourselves on being tough, resilient, unbothered by anything life throws at us.
Bad weather? Fine.
Job loss? We'll manage.
Relationship breakdown? Ach, these things happen.
Crippling anxiety? Just get on with it.
We've turned "keeping calm and carrying on" into an art form. The problem? We've mistaken endurance for wellness.
Somewhere along the line, we decided that admitting you're not okay was the same as admitting defeat. That asking for help was weak. That talking about your feelings was... well... a bit much.
So we don't. We just crack on. Stiff upper lip and all that. (Wait, is that the English? Never mind, we've adopted it anyway.)
"A Man's A Man For A' That" (Unless He's Anxious, Apparently)
Burns wrote beautifully about equality, humanity, and the struggles of ordinary folk. He didn't shy away from the hard stuff. He wrote about poverty, injustice, and the weight of simply existing in a world that wasn't always kind.
But somehow, we've taken his legacy of honest expression and twisted it into "Just be stoic and Scottish about it."
Here's what we've normalised:
Working yourself into the ground because "that's just what you do"
Feeling guilty for resting because there's "always something needs doing"
Carrying stress like a heavy rucksack you're just expected to manage
Treating anxiety like a personality flaw instead of something that needs support
Saying "I'm fine" so automatically that you've forgotten what "not fine" even feels like
The Cultural Weight We Carry
Let's be honest, a lot of this comes from generations of cultural conditioning. Hard work is virtuous. Suffering builds character. Complaining is self-indulgent. Emotions are... suspicious.
We've been culturally marinating in "don't make a fuss" for centuries. It’s woven into the fabric of who we are; that quiet resilience, that ability to weather any storm without complaint.
And sure, there's something to be said for resilience. For getting through tough times without falling apart. But there's a difference between resilience and repression.
Resilience is bouncing back.
Repression is pretending there's nothing to bounce back from.
When "Getting On With It" Stops Working
Here's the thing about bottling everything up: eventually, the bottle cracks.
Maybe it's the panic attack in Tesco that came out of nowhere.
Maybe it's snapping at your partner over something tiny because you've been holding everything else in.
Maybe it's lying awake at night, chest tight, mind racing, wondering why you feel so awful when you're "managing fine."
You're not managing. You're surviving.
And Scotland has the statistics to prove it. We have some of the highest rates of anxiety and depression in the UK. Suicide rates among Scottish men remain heartbreakingly high. And yet we still cling to this idea that real Scots just... cope.
What Would Rabbie Do?
Burns didn't just "get on with it." He wrote about it. He expressed it. He turned his pain, his joy, his frustration into something that connected with people.
"To see her is to love her,
And love but her forever;
For Nature made her what she is,
And never made anither!"
That's a man wearing his heart on his sleeve. No apologies.
Or how about this one:
"The best laid schemes o' mice an' men
Gang aft agley."
Translation: Life doesn't always go to plan and that's okay.
Burns understood that being human means feeling things; the good, the bad, and the messy in between. He didn't hide it. He didn't pretend everything was fine when it wasn't.
So why do we?
Breaking the Pattern
People who've spent years saying "I'm fine" until they genuinely believed it. And then one day, they're not fine. And they don't know what to do about it because they've never learned how to not be fine.
Asking for help isn't weak. It's wise.
Admitting you're struggling isn't failure. It's honesty.
Seeking support when life feels overwhelming isn't giving up. It's taking responsibility for your wellbeing in a way that "just getting on with it" never could.
A Toast to Honest Conversations
So tomorrow night, as you're raising a glass to the Bard, maybe raise one to something else too: the courage to admit when you're not okay.
Burns Night celebrates a man who put feelings into words. Who didn't hide his struggles or pretend life was easy.
Maybe it's time we followed his lead.
Slàinte mhath.
