Wearing the Wounds: The Changing Face of Prince Harry

I have a confession to make. (Shame, shame! 😉) For as long as I can remember, I did two things—and I did them well: I wanted to be a journalist, investigator, and I wanted to provide counselling. Even as a teenager, I was drawn to truth and healing. The inner counsellor in me wanted to reach out to people in pain. And like most teenagers growing up in the 1990s, I admired Princess Diana. There was something about her humanity that made you feel seen, even from afar. So, it’s no surprise that I once wrote letters to her sons—William and Harry. I’ve never shared this with anyone in any serious manner before. It was just one of those adolescent moments you tuck away in your memory, expecting nothing. But to my surprise, I heard back. Not from a staff member, but from a kind young man called Harry. The details of what he wrote remain personal, but I remember the tone: it was genuine, thoughtful, and warm. It left an impression on me.

All these years later, as a sociologist, counsellor, investigator, and writer, I still reflect on those values—authenticity, kindness, vulnerability. They're the backbone of what I do, whether I’m supporting a client in crisis or unpacking social patterns in a blog or video. That’s why, when I recently saw footage of Prince Harry—his posture, his energy, his tone—I felt a sharp sadness. Something in him looked heavy. Strained. Changed.

Now, I say this with no intent to blame or simplify what is obviously a deeply complex situation. I don’t believe in idolising institutions. The palace is not perfect. No one is. But what’s been difficult to watch is the unraveling of a person who once seemed deeply grounded in who he was. I’ve seen a shift—not just in his circumstances, but in his essence.

Yes, the pressure must be immense. Losing a mother at such a young age, growing up in the public eye, feeling suffocated by expectations, then choosing to step away. There are few people in the world who could truly understand that. And I can empathise with the need to protect one’s spouse and children. That primal instinct is real and valid. But I also sense a loss of clarity. A fragmentation of self.

It’s not that they left the royal family—that’s their right. But how they did it felt, at times, reactionary and unmeasured. I wish someone had offered them better counsel—not PR advice, but real, grounded, wise counsel. A mentor who could hold space and help them navigate this rupture with more foresight. Perhaps they did have such voices around them. Perhaps they didn’t listen. Either way, the results have been painful to witness.

Estrangement is one of the most brutal experiences a human can go through. It doesn’t only affect the immediate family—it reverberates. In this case, the fracture was global. Televised. Capitalised. And while I know none of us can fully judge without walking in their shoes, I also know this: time doesn’t heal all wounds. Clarity does. Accountability does. Compassion does.

We are now living in a time of global cost-of-living struggles. People are working multiple jobs, choosing between rent and groceries. In this climate, the optics of royalty living in exile while still requiring government-funded security can come across as tone-deaf—no matter how legitimate the security concerns are.

Still, this isn’t about shaming. I don’t think Harry has become a bad person. I just think he’s become lost in a storm of voices and expectations—and maybe he hasn’t had time to really sit in silence with himself. Maybe the world hasn’t allowed him to.

If, by chance, this ever reaches him—Harry, I don’t expect you to remember the letters you once wrote to a teenager in the 1990s. But I remember. I remember your tone. I remember your kindness. And I believe that man still exists inside you. Maybe a little bruised, a little weary—but still there.

You can protect your family and rebuild relationships. You can call out injustice and remain gracious. You can choose peace, try to accept your end of the responsibility, and let the others decide whether they can meet you halfway.

Because success isn’t measured by public sympathy or media coverage. It’s found in the quiet integrity of our personal relationships, especially the ones that know our story from the beginning.

“Time tests us, but truth restores us. In the end, it is not perfection that heals relationships—but patience, honesty, and the quiet courage to forgive, face ourselves, and see one another as we truly are.”

— Dr Jessica Sneha Gray