By Dr Michael Carr-Gregg
If you’re a parent, teacher, or policymaker and you’re not worried about TikTok’s role in adolescent mental health, you should be.
Right now, millions of young Australians are bypassing GPs, psychologists, and psychiatrists — and turning instead to influencers and algorithms for answers about their wellbeing. Google has been replaced by TikTok. Evidence has been replaced by anecdotes. And self-reflection has been replaced by self-diagnosis. The results? Confusion, contagion, and in some cases, catastrophe.
The research is damning. Less than 15% of mental health content on TikTok comes from professionals. Over half of ADHD videos are misleading. Autism, trauma, and DID content is riddled with errors. Algorithms push this material at teens even if they aren’t searching for it.
During COVID, we saw a wave of functional tic disorders linked directly to TikTok content. That’s not awareness — that’s algorithm-driven iatrogenesis. Iatrogenesis is the unintended causation of a disease, injury, infection, or other harmful complication as a direct result of medical intervention or treatment, including diagnosis, therapeutic procedures, drugs, errors, or negligence. It reflects any adverse effect on a patient that is not considered part of the natural course of their underlying condition but instead results from external activities.
Adolescence is a perfect storm: identity confusion, peer pressure, and a brain wired for risk-taking. TikTok dangles easy answers: vague “symptom lists” that fit anyone (the Barnum effect), confirmation bias delivered on demand, and a culture where mental illness is normalised — even glamorised. Be clear, the platform doesn’t just reflect teen struggles, it shapes them.
To be fair, social media isn’t all bad. I am a big fan of the work of Dr Julie Smith a UK psychologist. Dr Smith began documenting her insights in short TikTok videos in 2019 after realizing that lasting therapeutic knowledge often feels inaccessible. She wanted to empower more people outside the therapy room by distilling psychological concepts into quick, digestible content. Her creative use of props (think overflowing "stress buckets", trauma filled waste paper baskets, fish tanks, or finger-trap metaphors) makes complex concepts like emotional regulation and anxiety relatable—without sacrificing clinical accuracy. Teaching through visual metaphors is a hallmark of her content, has resonated so well that she’s amassed millions of followers and is a trusted voice.
Unfortunately research shows that not all the content is as good. Parents report fractured relationships. Schools see distracted, distressed students insisting they “have” disorders based on TikTok clips and clinicians like me, spend valuable session time unpicking myths spread by influencers.
We don’t need another moral panic. We need action:
Parents: Talk with your kids about what they’re watching. Model healthy screen use. Don’t outsource mental health care to an app.
Schools: Make media literacy as fundamental as maths. Enforce phone-free classrooms.
Clinicians: Ask about social media use at intake. Offer credible alternatives.
Platforms: Stop pretending. Enforce algorithm transparency. Flag unverified health content.
TikTok is not going away. But if we leave our kids’ mental health in the hands of algorithms and amateurs, the cost will be enormous.
Young people deserve better. They deserve professional help, credible information, and adults willing to guide them through the noise. Self-awareness is healthy. Self-diagnosis on TikTok is not.