One of the most surprising things about getting older is watching your tastes evolve. What once repelled you can later become a source of fascination. For me, that shift came in the form of horror films — a genre I spent most of my life avoiding. But something changed. And in that shift, I discovered more than just a taste for horror. I discovered something about fear, aesthetics, and myself.
When I was younger, I couldn't stand horror films. Not because I thought they were silly or shallow — quite the opposite. They affected me too much. I found them genuinely scary, in a way that was far from enjoyable. The suspense, the jump scares, the vulnerability of the characters — it was all too much.
I didn't mind suspense thrillers. Films like The Fugitive held my attention with tight pacing and tension. But horror? That felt gratuitously violent. The rise of franchises like Saw and Hostel — labelled by many as "torture porn" — only deepened my aversion.
The violence wasn't just graphic; it felt sadistic. What disturbed me most wasn't the gore, but the powerlessness of the victims. Watching someone defenceless face a merciless aggressor wasn't entertainment. It was distressing. It tapped into something personal, emotional, and unresolved. I didn't just dislike horror — I avoided it.
As a younger adult, I masked this aversion with a kind of cultural snobbery. "Why waste time on a horror flick when you could watch something worthy of a Palme d'Or?" I'd say, dismissing the genre entirely. But looking back, I can see that it wasn't just about taste. It was about discomfort, fear, and feeling out of control.
Eventually, my stance softened. By my early twenties, I reframed my distaste into something gentler: "They're just not for me." A live-and-let-live attitude. Different strokes for different folks.
And then, one summer afternoon, everything changed.
On the recommendation of a film buff friend, I decided — cautiously — to watch The Texas Chain Saw Massacre (1974). They had described it in paradoxical terms: "the ugliest film I've ever seen, and an aesthetic masterpiece."
I was expecting to turn it off after the first 15 minutes. Surely the tension or the violence would be too much. But to my surprise, I was hooked.
The film is ugly — shot on 16mm with mostly natural light, it has a grimy, blown-out, washed-over quality. It radiates discomfort. The sound design — a jarring electronic score — only adds to the queasy atmosphere. It's like being trapped in a malfunctioning refrigerator filled with bees.
But that's the genius of it. Even in stillness, the film exudes dread. Director Tobe Hooper builds a world where you can practically feel the heat, smell the sweat, and sense the impending doom. It was immersive, uncanny — almost like an art installation disguised as a horror film.
And when the violence arrived, I was — predictably — shocked and scared. But this time, I enjoyed it. Not in a sadistic way, but in the same way one might enjoy a rollercoaster: safe, thrilling, controlled chaos. My fear didn't overwhelm me. It excited me.
(For the curious, in the video essay below, cinematographer Sareesh Sudhakaran does a fascinating technical breakdown of the film's aesthetic.)
Since then, I've been making up for lost time — catching up on the genre I had dismissed for so long. And I've come to a surprising realisation: horror is a psychologically rich genre of cinema and might also be one of the most artistically rich ones too.
Take The Blair Witch Project — another low-budget marvel that uses realism to blur the line between fiction and documentary. Or Incantation, a 2022 Taiwanese film which draws on cultural mythology and family trauma to build a slow, creeping sense of existential dread that serves also as a cross-cultural experience. Or Exhibit A, a devastating portrayal of domestic violence filmed in faux-home-video style that forces viewers to look at what they might otherwise avoid.
Horror has a unique freedom. It doesn't need big budgets, tidy plots, or likable characters. All it needs to do is provoke fear — and in doing so, it can explore themes that other genres can't or won't touch.
Hellraiser (1987) was another unexpected gem. Beneath the gore and supernatural premise is a film that explores erotic longing and dangerous power dynamics. The puzzle box doesn't just summon monsters — it opens the door to a world where pain and pleasure blur. Julia's obsession with her dead lover drives her to murder, not out of survival, but out of lust. The horror here isn't just in the Cenobites — it's in the way desire twists people, how far someone will go to feel something beyond the ordinary.
As I began exploring the genre more deeply, I also had to reckon with its complicated history—especially when it comes to gender. For decades, horror films often relied on tired and troubling tropes: women as helpless victims, punished for their sexuality or curiosity, while male violence went largely unchecked. Classics like Friday the 13th and Halloween popularised the "final girl" archetype — a lone female survivor who endures the carnage, often by embodying restraint, innocence, or moral purity.
But things are shifting. A new wave of female directors and writers are using horror to tell stories that feel raw, subversive, and deeply personal. Coralie Fargeat's The Substance is a powerful example—turning the lens onto the impossible pressures placed on women's bodies, and using body horror to hold a mirror to society's obsessions.
Other standout works include Raw by Julia Ducournau, which blends coming-of-age with cannibalism in a visceral metaphor for appetite, identity, and repressed desire. Saint Maud, directed by Rose Glass, offers a haunting portrait of spiritual obsession and mental illness from a uniquely female perspective. And A Girl Walks Home Alone at Night by Ana Lily Amirpour flips gendered expectations by turning the vampire into a quietly powerful avenger who stalks predatory men in a desolate, noir-inflected dreamscape.
It's reassuring to see the genre not only evolve but challenge itself — making room for horror that isn't just about survival, but expression, critique, and transformation.
We all have things we avoid. Whole genres of experience, emotion, or memory we sidestep because they're too much. But what if these avoided spaces hold something valuable for us?
Try this:
Think of something you've always avoided — a genre, an activity, a person, a place.
Ask yourself:
What's the real reason I avoid this?
What do I fear it will bring up in me?
Is there any curiosity there? Any part of me that wants to understand?
If you feel safe, experiment gently. Watch a trailer. Read an article. Dip a toe into the waters you've always stayed away from. Take notes on what you feel.
Sometimes, what scares us most is the thing that offers the deepest insight.
Horror films aren't for everyone. But for me, they've become a surprising mirror — reflecting both my fears and my resilience. I used to think horror was about suffering for the sake of shock. Now, I see it as a deeply creative space to explore vulnerability, danger, survival, and even beauty in ugliness.
Sometimes, growth looks like loving something you once couldn't tolerate. Sometimes, it looks like watching The Texas Chain Saw Massacre on a sunny afternoon — and enjoying every terrifying minute of it.
Can ChatGPT be a support for your mental health? This question is a sticky one, dividing therapists and technologists alike. If you want my quick answer, it's this: yes, it can be a surprisingly powerful tool for reflection, but you must be incredibly careful. It is not, and never can be, a replacement for therapy.
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One of the most surprising things about getting older is watching your tastes evolve. What once repelled you can later become a source of fascination. For me, that shift came in the form of horror films — a genre I spent most of my life avoiding. But something changed. And in that shift, I discovered more than just a taste...