Living With Bipolar Disorder: Learning to Hold Both Light and Dark

The Feeling That Something Was “Wrong” With Me

For years, I thought something was wrong with me.

I couldn’t understand how I could wake up one week feeling unstoppable — energized, inspired, ready to take on the world — and the next, barely able to get out of bed. I used to think it was laziness, or a lack of discipline, or some kind of personal flaw that I just needed to “fix.”

But it wasn’t that. It was bipolar disorder — something I didn’t have words for at first, but something my parents quietly started to notice before I ever said it out loud.

They saw the shifts — how my eyes lit up when I was manic, full of plans, energy, and endless projects. How I’d talk faster, sleep less, clean everything, start five new routines in one night. And then, just as quickly, the silence would come — the heavy, slow sadness that left me quiet, withdrawn, and unable to move.

At the time, I didn’t know my brain was swinging between two extremes. I just knew I was tired of never feeling “normal.”

Naming It: Understanding My Mania and Depression

Mania feels like sunlight that’s too bright — like my brain is moving faster than my body can keep up. I talk more, think bigger, spend money impulsively, dream wildly. Everything feels possible. It’s intoxicating, but it’s not sustainable.

Depression, on the other hand, feels like moving underwater. The simplest things — brushing my hair, answering texts, showing up to class — feel impossible. I go quiet, disappear from people I love, and lose track of days.

It’s not just “feeling sad” or “feeling happy.” It’s a constant recalibration — learning how to stay grounded when my mind wants to sprint or shut down completely.

Understanding that both are part of my diagnosis gave me something I didn’t have before: language. And with language comes understanding — and healing.

The Day I Started Treatment

When I was first prescribed lithium, I was scared. The idea of taking another medication every day for something inside my brain felt like an admission — like saying out loud, “Something really is different about me.”

But over time, I learned that taking lithium isn’t weakness. It’s care. It’s a choice to stabilize the parts of me that once felt uncontrollable.

Medication, for me, doesn’t erase who I am — it helps me meet myself in the middle. It brings the light down to a glow and lifts the dark just enough to see. It gives me space to be, not just survive.

It’s not magic, and it doesn’t solve everything, but it helps me live in a rhythm I can trust. And that stability has changed everything.

What I’ve Learned About Myself

Living with bipolar disorder means constantly learning to extend grace to myself — on the days I’m overflowing with ideas, and on the days I barely make it through.

I’ve stopped chasing “normal.” I’ve started chasing peace.
I journal through the highs. I rest through the lows. I talk to my therapist. I take my meds. I build routines that hold me when my emotions can’t.

And most importantly, I’ve learned to stop apologizing for how my brain works.

A New Kind of Acceptance

My bipolar disorder doesn’t define me — but it’s part of me. It’s taught me empathy, depth, and creativity. It’s made me appreciate small moments of calm more than I ever thought possible.

I still have days that test me. But now, I have language, community, and tools that keep me grounded.
And that’s something I never thought I’d have — peace within the chaos.