7 “Weird” Habits That Actually Keep My Mental Health on Track

From the desk of a psychotherapist with a dodgy spine, a chaotic mind, and a secret stash of emergency crisps.

Let’s be honest. Most people’s mental health doesn’t hinge on kale smoothies and vision boards. Sometimes it’s about knowing when to cancel a phone call or rearrange your bookshelf instead of crying into your laundry.

As a therapist—and a human person, not a wellness oracle—I’ve developed certain… methods. Not ones you’ll find in textbooks, necessarily. But they work. They keep the wheels turning. They let me feel like I have some kind of grip on things, even when I clearly don’t.

These are the seven habits that look a little odd from the outside. But they’re part of the quiet scaffolding I’ve built around myself, and I won’t be giving them up any time soon.

1. Narrating My Life Like a Low-Budget Nature Documentary

I don’t do this all the time. Just when things are a bit much. Which is… often.

In a calm voice—usually borrowed from a BBC narrator—I’ll say things like:
“The therapist approaches the dishwasher with cautious optimism, unaware she’s forgotten the detergent again.”

It’s part theatre, part survival strategy. Creating a bit of narrative distance softens the edges of stress.
It’s not a breakdown. It’s self-distancing. With flair.

2. Petting Textures Like a Sentimental Ghost

Some people have a fidget cube. I have a drawer full of fabrics. Also: a fondness for stroking the edges of my jumpers like a Victorian widow waiting for a telegram.

It’s not a conscious choice—it’s just something I do when I need grounding. The texture of soft cotton, the raised grain of a book spine, even the weirdly satisfying surface of certain tea towels.

Call it strange. I call it sensory regulation.

3. Making Ridiculously Specific Playlists

I have playlists with names like:
– Songs That Sound Like Crying in a Cafe
– Gentle Chaos With a Hint of Rage
– Everything is On Fire But There’s Still Tea

Music doesn’t just match mood. It reshapes it. It lets you move through a feeling instead of freezing in it.
I don’t always want comfort. Sometimes I want to feel exquisitely, melodramatically seen by a sad cello solo.

4. Keeping Ugly Little Objects That Make No Sense to Anyone But Me

A wonky clay toadstool from a charity shop. A rubber duck that’s slightly melted. A rock that looks like a baked potato.

I don’t display them. I just keep them close. They’re reminders of softness, humour, history. A sense of self not tied to productivity or public image.

Psychologically speaking, they’re transitional objects. Emotionally speaking, they’re my lumpy little friends.

5. Reading the Same Book for the Fiftieth Time

For some, re-reading is boring. For me, it’s sanctuary.
There are books I return to the way some people return to churches or childhood bedrooms.

The familiarity is calming. The predictability soothes the part of me that can’t stand surprises.
Also, frankly, I don’t have the bandwidth for a new plotline at 10pm on a Wednesday.

6. Scheduling “Blank Time” on My Calendar Like It’s a Meeting With God

Once a week—or whenever life feels particularly unhinged—I block out a stretch of time labelled simply: “Do Not Even.”

I don’t answer emails. I don’t do errands. I don’t try to be useful. I might stare at the ceiling. I might draw in the margins of my planner. I might lie on the floor like a Regency heroine. It depends.

But something always resets in that stillness.
Not every hour has to be filled. Some just need to be survived.

7. Turning Ordinary Tasks Into Tiny, Sacred Rituals

I light a candle before writing.
I wear a specific jumper when I’m tired but need to pretend I’m coping.
I pour my tea in a very particular order, even though I know it doesn’t matter.

Rituals are quiet anchors. They whisper: This moment has shape. You are safe here.

There’s power in making the ordinary feel ceremonial. Especially when your insides are loud and your outside life is crumbling just a little.

A Final Note

If you’ve got your own weird habits that keep you afloat—bravo. That’s what coping looks like. It doesn’t have to be tidy. It just has to work.

You don’t need a perfect morning routine or a Himalayan salt lamp (though if you love one, keep it glowing).
You need tiny, human-sized practices that remind you you’re still here. Still worthy. Still making it through.

Even if that means whispering to your houseplants or playing “angsty violin solos for emotionally repressed Tuesdays.”

You’re not weird. You’re wise in your own peculiar way.

And if you’re looking for something a little more structured (but still lovingly chaotic), my Mental Health First Aid Kit is packed with printable tools for navigating emotional overwhelm, sensory overload, and those “I’ve absolutely had it” kind of days.