How Does 'Simon Sort Of Says' Handle Mental Health Themes?

I’ve been completely engrossed in 'Simon Sort of Says' and how it tackles mental health with such raw honesty. The story doesn’t sugarcoat things or wrap them up in neat little bows—it dives headfirst into the messy, complicated reality of living with anxiety and trauma. Simon’s internal monologue is a masterclass in writing mental health struggles. You feel every heartbeat of his panic, the way his thoughts spiral into worst-case scenarios, and how even mundane situations can feel like minefields. What’s brilliant is how the book balances this heaviness with humor. Simon’s wit isn’t just comic relief; it’s a survival mechanism, a way to distance himself from the pain without dismissing it entirely. The author nails how humor and darkness often coexist in real life.

The supporting characters are just as nuanced. Simon’s family isn’t reduced to clichés—they’re trying their best but don’t always get it right. His mom’s overprotectiveness comes from love but sometimes smothers, while his dad’s awkward attempts at bonding highlight how families fumble through these things. Even the townspeople’s reactions to Simon’s trauma feel authentic, ranging from genuine concern to unintentionally harmful platitudes. The book also explores the idea of 'recovery' without romanticizing it. Simon’s progress isn’t linear. Some days he takes tiny steps forward; others, he backslides hard. There’s a particularly powerful scene where he realizes healing doesn’t mean the fear disappears—it means learning to carry it differently. That resonated so deeply with me. The way 'Simon Sort of Says' handles mental health isn’t about fixing the protagonist but about showing him—and readers—that it’s okay to be a work in progress.

I’m struck by how it normalizes mental health struggles without trivializing them. Simon’s trauma isn’t treated as something to 'overcome' by sheer willpower—it’s woven into his daily life in a way that feels painfully real. The book excels at showing how small triggers, like a sudden loud noise or an offhand comment, can send someone reeling. What’s refreshing is how it avoids the trope of a single 'magic cure.' Therapy isn’t glamorized, but it’s present, messy, and sometimes frustratingly slow. Simon’s reluctance to open up feels earned, not just a plot device, and his gradual trust in his therapist is one of the most rewarding arcs.

The setting plays a huge role too. The small-town atmosphere amplifies Simon’s isolation—everyone knows his trauma, but that doesn’t mean they understand it. The contrast between his internal chaos and the town’s surface-level normalcy is heartbreaking. Yet there are moments of unexpected kindness, like the neighbor who quietly adjusts fireworks displays to avoid triggering him. These details show how communities can support mental health without grand gestures. The book also tackles the guilt that often accompanies trauma. Simon’s self-blame isn’t dismissed as irrational; it’s acknowledged as part of his healing process. The ending doesn’t tie everything up neatly, which might frustrate some readers, but I found it brave. Mental health isn’t a puzzle to solve—it’s a lifelong conversation, and 'Simon Sort of Says' honors that complexity with rare grace.