The university mental health infrastructure has never been bigger, and students have never been less aware of it.
The University Mental Health Charter now has 113 signatories, counselling teams have been expanded, wellbeing hubs have been built, digital platforms have been commissioned, and training has been rolled out to staff.
And yet new polling data raises real questions – not just about whether all of that is reaching the right people, but about whether institutional investment is approaching the limits of what it can achieve when the external factors that most shape student mental health are all moving in the wrong direction.
Cibyl’s Student mental health study 2025 – fieldwork October 2024 to August 2025, 6,685 respondents from 140-plus universities, weighted for gender and institution – opens with a modest improvement narrative.
Life satisfaction is marginally up, at 5.7 from 5.6. There’s been a small decline in the proportion worrying about their mental health daily or weekly.
Fewer respondents than ever – 13 per cent, down from 16 per cent – say they’ve never received any mental health training, information, or advice. The proportion with very low mental health by all three of the report’s composite measures has dipped fractionally, from 5 per cent in 2023 to 4 per cent.
If you squint, you can see progress. But the structural picture tells a different story.
Built it, didn’t come
The headline finding is that service awareness is declining. In 2021, 53 per cent of respondents were aware of counselling services. This year, that’s down to 42 per cent.
Mentoring and buddy pairing awareness has dropped from 33 per cent to 20 per cent over the same period. Two in five respondents weren’t aware their university offered preventative and recreational services like yoga, nature walks, or art classes.
More than half – 54 per cent – have never used any university support service. And a quarter don’t know any services exist.
This can’t be a teething problem with new provision. The UMHC was launched in 2019, Student Minds has been working with universities for years, and the services have been built, expanded, promoted, and evaluated. And students are less aware of them now than when the whole thing started.
Among those who are aware, a fifth say shame stops them engaging, while three in ten saying they don’t know how to express what’s going on – as the report puts it, articulating mental distress is itself a barrier.
A quarter feel nothing can be done to help them, and one in ten reports difficulty securing an appointment. In-person counselling is preferred over online by a margin of more than four to one – 62 per cent versus 14 per cent – but fewer than three in ten respondents have actually used the services offered through their university.
Four in five who have used university and SU wellbeing sessions rate them effective or very effective. The services aren’t necessarily bad – the people who need them most aren’t walking through the door.
Scroll to cope
Something else is filling the gap. Two in five respondents agree they over-prioritise social media, and heavier use correlates with lower mental health scores – yet two-thirds use it to watch wellbeing videos, more than a third for mental health testimonials, and nearly three in ten cite it as a useful source of mental health information.
Social media is simultaneously the villain and the substitute counsellor, and the report holds both positions without resolution.
Harder to ignore is that as formal service awareness declines, informal digital self-help is expanding to fill the vacuum. Whether that’s a coping strategy or a warning sign depends on which page you’re reading.
The report describes a kind of paradox of engagement:
…those most affected by mental health concerns are often least likely to engage with or trust available support.
The narrative framing reaches for stigma reduction and proactive outreach as solutions. But the data points somewhere else.
When you ask respondents what actually prevents them from using strategies to stay mentally healthy, the answer isn’t shame or ignorance. It’s poverty. Fifty-seven per cent say financial constraints are the barrier – up from 43 per cent when the study launched in 2021.
Among respondents with low mental health scores, 60 per cent worry about money daily. Among those with a mental health disability, 53 per cent worry daily. Among those in unsupportive environments, 60 per cent.
That doesn’t just seem to be impacting access to formal services. Financial stress is preventing students from deploying the basic self-care strategies that every wellbeing campaign pushes at them. Exercise costs money, or at least time that could be spent earning.
Eating healthily costs more than eating badly – the Food Foundation’s Broken plate 2025 report says the poorest fifth of the population would need to spend 45 per cent of their disposable income to meet the government’s recommended diet, rising to 70 per cent for households with children.
Social events cost money. Even being in nature, one of the most commonly cited coping strategies, requires the time and transport that come from not needing a third shift at a part-time job.
In our Belong polling last year, students told us in their own words what this looks like in practice.
I can’t afford a lot of things. I struggle to buy food, period products, and other healthcare. I’m inclined to work when I’m sick because I need to cover tuition and rent.
One wrote simply:
Feel very tired due to uni, aware my health could be better, but do not have the time.
Seven in ten respondents in this year’s study attributed their mental health difficulties either partly or fully to concerns about living costs. Daily money worry has risen steadily across the full five-year series, from one in four in 2021 to two in five today. Only 6 per cent of respondents enjoy the luxury of never worrying about money, and that falls to 2 per cent among those with low mental health scores.
Students from low socio-economic backgrounds rank financial concerns at 8.2 out of 10, compared with 7.3 among those from high socio-economic backgrounds, and two-thirds of low-SE respondents say finances prevent them staying mentally healthy, compared with 43 per cent of high-SE respondents.
Low-SE students are also less likely to have satisfying friendships – 38 per cent versus 61 per cent – and more likely to be dissatisfied with the friendships they do have – 40 per cent versus 21 per cent. Poverty doesn’t just deprive students of services. It deprives them of each other.
Whose framework
There are some uncomfortable questions that surround who the frameworks are even designed for. Black and Asian respondents are the most likely to report no experience of mental health difficulties – 25 per cent and 23 per cent, versus 10 per cent of White respondents – but they also receive less mental health training at school (22 per cent and 25 per cent versus 38 per cent of White respondents), less at university (40 per cent and 36 per cent versus 46 per cent), and are less likely to use social media for mental health information.
A quarter to nearly a third say none of the suggested barriers to services applied to them, compared with 16 to 19 per cent of White respondents. The pattern raises a difficult question – are Black and Asian students genuinely experiencing fewer difficulties, or are the measurement tools and support frameworks culturally calibrated for White British experiences in ways that systematically miss how mental health presents in other communities? The data can’t answer that, but it should prompt the sector to ask it.
Add it all up and you get the sense that the sector has spent years building mental health services that assume students have the time, money, and headspace to access them. The data increasingly suggests that assumption is wrong. The students who need help most are working extra shifts, skipping meals, and choosing between bus fare to a counselling appointment and eating dinner.
As one graduate respondent in the Cibyl study put it:
My full-time graduate role was incredibly demanding on my time, so I was unable to prioritise my mental health at all.
Proactive outreach doesn’t fix that. The support paradox, on this reading, isn’t an engagement problem. It’s a poverty problem.
Attitudes up, conditions down
This matters because the report’s improvement narrative rests almost entirely on attitudinal shifts. Students value mental health provision more. Slightly fewer have never received any training. First-years who say good mental health provision was important when choosing their university rose from 39 per cent in 2021 to a peak of 60 per cent in 2023, and it’s still at 58 per cent this year.
Among graduates, 82 per cent say it’s important that their employer prioritises employee mental health – up from 32 per cent in 2021. Only 5 per cent say it doesn’t matter. These are cultural shifts.
But every structural indicator is moving the wrong way. Daily financial worry is up. The proportion saying finances prevent them staying healthy has risen from 43 per cent to 57 per cent over the study’s life.
Six per cent of graduates have now quit a job because of mental health difficulties – double the 3 per cent recorded in 2021, and up from 4 per cent last year. One in four employed graduates finds themselves in a role that didn’t require a degree, doubled from one in eight last year. And awareness of the services designed to help is in decline.
None of this is to say that the institutional effort doesn’t matter, or that the UMHC has been wasted. Charter progress has been real, if slow – but the vast majority of UMHC signatories have yet to achieve an award, and the framework itself has no enforcement mechanism.
The harder question is what even an excellent institutional mental health strategy can achieve when the financial, housing, and social conditions surrounding students are all deteriorating simultaneously. There may be a ceiling on what universities can do from inside the system, and the data suggests we’re approaching it.
Money worries don’t stop at graduation, either. Three in five graduates say finances prevent them using strategies to stay mentally healthy – 62 per cent – and two in five have daily financial concerns – 38 per cent – virtually identical figures to students. The financial stress is a condition graduates carry with them into the workplace.
The graduates
Some of the most uncomfortable – and underreported – data in this year’s study concerns what happens after graduation.
More than a third – 37 per cent – of graduates seeking work have low mental health, compared with 23 per cent of employed graduates and 22 per cent of students. Job hunting is brutal – two-thirds say their mental health declined during the process, and graduates rate the stress of it at 7.5 out of 10.
From a small sample, just 3 per cent said their mental health actually improved while job seeking. Only two in five secured a job offer within three months, one in four took four to six months, and one in five waited more than a year. Job-seeking graduates were more likely than those in work to worry daily or weekly about not being good enough – 68 per cent versus 60 per cent – and about their finances – 65 per cent versus 59 per cent.
Employment doesn’t just provide income and structure – it provides the social contact and framework through which people recognise and articulate their mental health difficulties. Working graduates are, on some measures, more distressed than job-seekers, but they’re also more capable of identifying what’s wrong.
Unemployment appears to produce worse composite outcomes and less capacity to name them. The structure of work may help people see themselves clearly. The absence of it leaves them invisible – to services, to employers, and to themselves.
This matters for how we think about the post-university transition. Neither universities, employers, the NHS, nor the DWP treats recently graduated job-seekers as a population deserving of targeted mental health intervention. The moment a student crosses the stage, they fall out of every institutional framework designed to catch them – and the data says that’s when a large proportion are at their worst, and least able to ask for help.
As one international student told the study:
All international students experience mental health concerns after moving abroad to study as they have to cope with immense study load, part time jobs, financial stress, and the stress of living alone with no proper friends.
International graduates were significantly more likely than their UK peers to experience a mental health decline when looking for work, at 66 per cent versus 51 per cent.
Belonging again
Belonging is in there again, as we would expect. Students who live with friends, who have satisfying friendships, who participate in extracurricular activities – all report life satisfaction scores of 6.0 or above. Students with no friends score 4.6.
Students with dissatisfying friendships score 4.5 – below the Covid-19-year average. The difference between a connected student and an isolated one is larger than almost any other variable in this study.
One in three respondents worried about making friends daily or weekly, and among students taking a year out, that rose to 42 per cent. Seventeen per cent reported having no friends at university at all, while 53 per cent said social anxiety prevented them from using strategies to stay mentally healthy, rising to 64 per cent among those with low mental health scores.
Isolation worsens mental health, and poor mental health deepens isolation – the cycle is hard to break from inside it.
Before they arrived
One other finding deserves more attention than it typically gets. Among respondents who had experienced suicidal thoughts, 85 per cent first had those thoughts before university. Among those who had self-harmed, 80 per cent started before arriving.
Forty-two per cent of first-year undergraduates had some kind of mental health diagnosis prior to starting, with a further 13 per cent diagnosed during their first year. One in five of all respondents was diagnosed at university, while fewer than two in five had been diagnosed prior to arrival.
Universities are inheriting real problems from a school system, an NHS, and a childhood and adolescence that are failing to provide adequate early intervention. Universities are coping with the downstream consequences of upstream failure – and being expected to do it within the tight timeframes and squeezed budgets that characterise the English system in particular.
This is the context in which the diminishing returns question becomes acute – even the best-resourced university mental health service is intervening late in a process that began years before the student enrolled.
One in six respondents had used A&E for mental health – rising to two in five among those taking a year out – suggesting crises severe enough to warrant emergency intervention, or barriers to GP care so profound that the emergency room becomes the only option.
Nearly half of year-out students had used NHS or HSE counselling – 51 per cent – and close to half had used private counselling. Meanwhile, one in six respondents doesn’t seek advice from anyone when experiencing mental health difficulties, a group who are functionally invisible in any service-based strategy.
It does raise real questions about where investment needs to go. Every pound spent treating a crisis at university is a pound that might have been better spent preventing it at school, and every policy that treats student mental health as a university problem is a policy that lets the NHS, local authorities, and the Department for Education look the other way.
But as long as the only investment in non-clinical student mental health is expected to come from students’ tuition fees is as long as we’ll be prevented from having proper conversations about both coordination between providers and intervening early enough.
What would actually help
Students’ mental health is being shaped primarily by three things – whether they have enough money, whether they have friends, and what happened to them before they arrived. University mental health services are a fourth-order intervention, important for the minority who use them, invisible to the majority who don’t.
Thus far, the sector’s strategy has been to build better fourth-order interventions. It has succeeded, in so far as those services exist and are, by most accounts, effective when accessed. But the students who need them most can’t afford to get there. Awareness is declining. The structural drivers are worsening. And the improvement narrative is resting on attitudinal data that masks material deterioration.
As one respondent in our health polling said:
I literally went to university at the wrong time with how much it currently costs. It’s impossible to concentrate on my studies without the constant fear of how am I going to eat tonight.
Is there more that universities can do? There always is. But on this evidence, it would be a very silly place to start.











