“His candidness about his struggles led to a reputation as ‘the mental-health guy’, a tag that, he says, has become ’so frustrating. Everyone wants an answer: kids come up to me and say I’ve saved their life and I’m like, ‘I don’t know you.’ Maybe something I said or did gave them some confidence, but I didn’t do anything.’
— from a recent Telegraph interview with Dominic Harrison
He seems reluctant to accept the accolade—which is understandable, as in doing so, he burdens himself with a great responsibility.
But he also seems oblivious, to some extent, to the effect he has on people. Merely crediting his music as a soundtrack. And yes, I fully understand he wants people to take ownership of saving their own lives, but I think he should see himself as a catalyst for change.
Dom did not save my life. But he helped me return to myself after the loss of my father, for whom I had been a carer for almost two years. I had erased myself to such an extent that I lost myself along the way. Until his music—but even more so, his interviews—changed something in me. A catalyst, the proverbial kick in the rear end.
It wasn’t about idolization or turning him into some kind of saviour. It was about resonance. It was about hearing something—maybe a sentence, a passing comment—that landed in the right place at the right time. A shift in perception. A reminder that I still existed. That I hadn’t disappeared entirely.
That’s the part he seems to overlook. The way his honesty cuts through. The way his defiance and refusal to conform give permission to others to stop pretending, too. His presence, intentional or not, creates space—for grief, for self-expression, for growth.
And that’s where the contradiction begins. Because the same man who claims, “I didn’t do anything,” is also the man who gently wipes away the tears of a fan in Milan. Who cracks jokes to calm her nerves. Who hugs her like it means something. The same man who, when he’s not being guarded or cynical, can be disarmingly tender.
He says he’s frustrated by the label, “the mental health guy,” but he’s the one who put that version of himself out into the world. And now, when people mirror it back to him, he flinches. Maybe that’s self-preservation. Maybe it’s weariness. Or maybe it’s something deeper—something he hasn’t figured out how to face yet.
There is also the matter of his symbolism. The video for Happier was literal. Lowlife was manic. But Hated was a wound. And Hello Heaven, Hello is a reckoning.
The visuals—bare-chested in the snow with black roses, boxing shadows, pierced by arrows, staring into a mirror that reflects a past self still curled up and hiding—aren’t just aesthetic. They’re confession. And they don’t scream “I’m okay.” They whisper, “I’m trying to be.”
I believe him when he says he wants to live. I believe the tattoo on his arm—Don’t Forget To Live. But that doesn’t mean he isn’t still navigating what life actually means to him.
So no, he didn’t save me. But something in him gave me permission to start again. His refusal to let go of who he is—even when it hurts—helped me remember who I was. And that matters.
He doesn’t have to carry everyone’s pain. But I think he should acknowledge that his work has helped many of us carry our own.
You can be a catalyst without choosing to be. And sometimes, that’s the most powerful kind.