For a nation teetering on the edge of recovery, the last thing Sri Lanka can afford is a president whose internal world is quietly unraveling. Yet, that’s exactly what many are beginning to fear.
Since taking office just seven months ago, President Anura Kumara Dissanayake’s tenure has been marked by symbolic intensity but now, also by concern. Two recent public moments have triggered a wave of speculation over his mental well-being. In one, at the May Day rally, he stands with his hand lifted to the sky, not in triumph, but in a gesture of what appears to be desperate supplication. In another, after returning from Vietnam and casting his vote, he stares into the camera with a hollow, haunted expression strained, distant, detached.
These images are not simply optics. They are signals emotional flares urging a deeper national reflection on leadership and mental health, themes long buried in silence.
Behind the rigid routine four hours of sleep, no drinking, no smoking there is a troubling absence. No one knows how the president replenishes his mental strength. What are his personal rituals? His sources of psychological renewal? Does he have a confidant, a therapist, a spiritual advisor? Or does he carry the crushing weight of the presidency in silence, without release?
This is not an abstract concern. Leadership in moments of economic and political stress becomes a battlefield of exhaustion. When unacknowledged, this pressure mutates into internal collapse. History is replete with such stories lessons the world often learns too late.
Take Marcus Aurelius, the Roman emperor who ruled through plague and invasion, and turned to writing as a coping mechanism. His reflections in Meditations were not imperial musings they were his survival guide. “At dawn, when you have trouble getting out of bed,” he wrote, “tell yourself: I have to go to work as a human being.”
America’s Abraham Lincoln, too, was a man ravaged by melancholy. His grief after the death of Ann Rutledge pushed him into depression so deep he wrote, “I am now the most miserable man living.” And yet, from that pain emerged moral fortitude and empathy that shaped a nation.
Winston Churchill, haunted by what he called his “black dog,” also found refuge in painting, solitude, and naps. He did not escape his struggles; he managed them. “If you’re going through hell, keep going,” he famously said not out of flippancy, but survival.
These leaders found strength through vulnerability. They accepted their wounds, and made those wounds the roots of wisdom.
But President Dissanayake seems to be choosing a different path. He appears withdrawn, increasingly isolated. The spectacle of him stepping off a private jet onto a red carpet a man once seen as the people’s voice now reeks of contradiction. His anti-elitist brand clashes with the image of a man silently retreating from the very people who raised him to power.
This disconnect is not just personal it’s systemic. The glorification of overwork in politics, the myth of invulnerability, and the dismissal of rest as weakness have created a culture that devours its own. Cognitive science warns us that chronic sleep deprivation impairs judgment and empathy, heightening the risk of emotional collapse.
We’ve seen this before. Robert F. Kennedy cried himself to sleep after his brother’s death. Theodore Roosevelt retreated to the Badlands following personal loss. Barack Obama, burdened by global crises and racial scrutiny, minimized decisions to conserve emotional energy. Jacinda Ardern, in a historic act of candor, resigned at her peak, declaring, “I am human.” She didn’t fail; she redefined leadership.
The cautionary tales are just as vivid. Richard Nixon’s paranoia during Watergate, Nicholas II’s paralysis during revolution, and King Saul’s mental disintegration in the Bible all point to one truth: suppressed breakdowns do not stay buried.
Sri Lanka’s president has not yet fallen, but the tremors are unmistakable. If emotional fracture is setting in, recognizing it won’t weaken him it will elevate him. Because true leadership is not about pretending to be indestructible. It’s about knowing when to pause and seek repair.
A nation has a right indeed, a duty to ensure its leader is not only physically sound but mentally fit. This isn’t voyeurism. It’s democratic hygiene. The health of the president reflects the health of the republic. As we demand transparency on corruption and law, so too must we demand it on emotional resilience.
Let him take time. Let him retreat. Let those around him guide him to healing, not hide him in illusions of strength. The nation cannot afford stoic decay. It demands renewal.
And renewal begins with honesty. This presidency, born of a promise to rebuild, must now rebuild itself. Dissanayake must face not only political challenges, but also internal ones: fear of failure, anxiety over his English fluency in diplomacy, and insecurity in elite spaces. These aren’t shameful they’re real. And if ignored, they will be weaponized.
In international arenas, strength isn’t shown through bluster. It’s shown through balance. If language is a barrier, find trusted translators. If optics are a concern, lean into authenticity. Pretending confidence doesn’t protect it isolates. Modern leadership must blend national dignity with personal truth. Otherwise, shame becomes the silent killer of revolutions.
There’s another danger: the people surrounding him. Reports of opportunists in his inner circle figures with checkered pasts and self-serving motives should alarm anyone who cares about this presidency. These individuals do not represent the JVP or its ideals. They exploit the president’s stress and cloak their deceit in loyalty.
The JVP, forged in sacrifice and struggle, must now act. Loyalty isn’t silence in the face of collapse. It’s intervention before the fall. Dissanayake doesn’t need perfection. He needs protection from enemies, yes, but most dangerously, from false friends.
This moment in Sri Lankan history demands clarity and compassion. The cracks are visible. But with courage, they need not spread. This presidency can still become what it promised a new path forward. But only if the man at its helm is allowed to heal before he breaks.
