Twenty Londoners wearing padded coats start counting out loud just after midnight on a frosty Sunday, and the laughter fades. The silence breaks at zero. Over Parliament Hill, a raw, rising scream erupts into the night air for a few seconds.
What comes next is relief rather than panic. Some people chuckle. Others weep in private. A lot of people only breathe.
| Feature | Description |
|---|---|
| Activity Type | Informal therapy gatherings in public parks |
| Popular Locations | Primrose Hill, Hyde Park, Parliament Hill |
| Typical Time | Between 11:00 PM and 1:00 AM |
| Main Activities | Group screaming, emotional check-ins, mindfulness |
| Key Demographic | Primarily 20- to 30-year-olds, increasingly diverse |
| Motivation | Stress relief, loneliness, lack of affordable therapy |
| Viral Catalyst | TikTok trends and post-lockdown emotional needs |
| Notable Organizers | Mona Sharif, Shania Barnes |
| Associated Risks | Noise complaints, minor safety concerns in late-night public spaces |
| Estimated Cost | Free, self-organized, donation-based events |
These aren’t protests or parties. These therapy groups, which are growing throughout London’s public parks, were created out of equal parts necessity and creativity. Formal qualifications are not necessary. Just the guts to come and yell.
These midnight gatherings, led by individuals like 26-year-old Mona Sharif, who inadvertently shared a scream invitation on TikTok and, in a matter of days, had 600 strangers at her feet, provide a nostalgic yet strangely futuristic emotional outlet.
Their mission is very clear: to provide a judgment-free environment for young people to connect and find catharsis, especially those excluded from traditional mental health care.
Participants arrive for a variety of reasons. Some have experienced unbelievably long waitlists for therapy. The performative silence of city life, where you’re supposed to bear burnout with courteous detachment, smothers others.
They avoid financial, social, and time constraints by congregating in parks after hours. Permission to scream turns into its own kind of therapy under winter stars and sodium streetlamps.
This trend could be interpreted in the context of public health as a grassroots reaction to a system that is collapsing. The NHS is still overburdened, and many people cannot afford private therapy, which is frequently more than £80 per hour.
Thus, individuals like Mona, who battled her own breakdown and developed the ability to scream as a healing technique, fill the void. She has inadvertently created a new model for emotional release using Canva flyers and a borrowed megaphone.
As another organizer, Shania Barnes puts it, it’s “less a scream club, more a social club with screaming.” Although her wording is purposefully light, it conveys a deeper meaning: these aren’t merely healing spikes. These are experiments conducted by the community.
We saw people congregate on balconies during the pandemic to silently wave, sing, and cheer at one another across the street. That instinct seems to have evolved into these park groups. The will to be heard, collectively, has persisted.
I recall seeing a group in Hyde Park erupt into coordinated screams, hardly visible through the fog. Without even looking, a couple in the area carried on with their dog walk. It appears that even the strange soon becomes the norm in London.
The immediacy of these therapy circles is what sets them apart. No gatekeepers and no forms. You show up if you’re stressed. You scream if you can’t afford therapy. You make friends if you don’t already have any.
These meetings are becoming more and more emotional. Even though screaming is the trend, more subdued activities like walking meditations, breathwork, and group reflection are starting to surface. After the scream, some people stay to share flasks of tea. Others sit shoulder to shoulder in silence.
The biological effects are real, according to therapist Anna Lancaster. “The vagus nerve is activated when you scream, which helps control the body’s stress reaction. Although it doesn’t fix issues, it does assist people in letting go of the emotions that hold them back.
Some people find that release sparks more in-depth discussions. One participant claimed that before going to a scream night, she hadn’t made a new friend in three years. They then went to get ice cream.
The shared storytelling, the comfort of closeness, and the fleeting but powerful sense of belonging that characterize formal group therapy are all very similar to these seemingly insignificant moments.
But not everyone is ecstatic despite the optimism. Residents who have lived close to Primrose Hill for a long time have complained about late-night noise, referring to the park as a “Wild West” of unregulated parties. Others are concerned that the activities conflate spectacle with a healthy outlet.
Even critics, however, appear to agree that what is happening is unusual. Although the trend’s longevity is still up in the air, its influence has already changed some Londoners’ perspectives on healing. Despite being unconventional, it has significantly increased access to emotional support.
These meetings undoubtedly go against the norms of traditional therapy. They challenge the notion that providing mental health services requires expensive hourly rates, comfortable couches, and well-lit spaces. Instead, they imply that healing could be possible under bare trees, in puffer jackets, at midnight.
The movement is currently growing. Bristol, Leeds, and even smaller boroughs throughout Greater London are seeing the emergence of new scream clubs. On WhatsApp groups, organizers share advice on crowd control, timing, and the best portable speakers. Playlists are being added by some. Others, prayer groups.
This speaks to a generation’s desire to regain emotional agency in ways that are remarkably obvious, surprisingly affordable, and deeply human, regardless of whether it develops into a seasonal release valve or something more permanent.
