There’s a silence that comes with pain, a kind of stillness that feels like the world has moved on and you’re just stuck watching it from behind a fogged window. For years, that was me. I wore smiles that didn’t reach my eyes, worked through exhaustion that felt endless and prayed for peace that never seemed to come. For the longest time, I thought silence was strength. I smiled when I was breaking, worked when I was empty and carried the kind of exhaustion that sleep couldn’t fix. I told myself to be grateful, to keep going, to “be positive.” But inside, I was sinking quietly, steadily until I hit a place I never thought I would: rock bottom. There’s something about reaching the lowest point that strips away all the pretending. You stop fighting to appear fine. You start facing what hurts.
Living with bipolar disorder is not something I ever planned for. It doesn’t announce itself gently, it shows up, rearranges everything and dares you to find balance in the chaos. Some days, my mind raced faster than my body could keep up; ideas, fears, and what-ifs piled up until I couldn’t breathe. Other days, I felt nothing at all. Just emptiness, swallowing every ounce of motivation and joy. I questioned everything I said or thought, fear of things that hadn’t even happened yet, a blurred line between energy and exhaustion so often that I lost track of who I really was. I had to learn how to survive but not how to live.
I didn’t know I was breaking until I couldn’t hold myself together anymore. There were mornings when getting out of bed felt impossible. Brushing my teeth, eating, even responding to messages felt like climbing a mountain. The world outside my room felt too loud, too demanding. I locked myself away not because I didn’t care, but because I didn’t know how to exist anymore.
And then came the night I thought I’d had enough. I reached for a pen intending to say goodbye but instead, I began to write everything I couldn’t say out loud: the fear, the loneliness, the shame, the desperate wish for peace. By the time I stopped, my chest felt a little lighter. It didn’t fix me, but it reminded me I was still here. Writing became a lifeline I didn’t know I needed.
For a long time, I couldn’t name what was happening to me. I thought I was just “too emotional,” “too sensitive,” or “lazy.” But the truth was, my brain needed care and getting a diagnosis helped me replace self-blame with understanding. I had an understanding of the unpredictable highs and lows, the intrusive thoughts that replayed endlessly, the tight chest, the racing heart, the constant feeling that something terrible was about to happen. However, recognizing this as mental health disorder didn’t make it disappear, but it made me gentler with myself. I stopped asking, “What’s wrong with me?” and started asking, “What do I need to feel safe?”
Healing began with small, almost invisible acts of grace. Writing became my daily ritual to understanding life. On paper, I didn’t have to be perfect. I could be honest, messy, angry, lost, grateful sometimes all at once. I began to track my emotions, triggers and little victories: “I got out of bed today.” “I ate something nourishing.” “I didn’t cry in the shower.” These small wins became threads of hope. Then faith found me again not the loud kind that demands performance, but the quiet kind that whispers, you are not alone.
I stopped praying for instant healing and started praying for the strength to keep going. There’s something profoundly healing about surrender not giving up, but finally letting go of the idea that you have to carry everything alone.
As a clinical nutritionist, I began to understand how deeply the mind and body are connected. I learned that poor sleep, skipped meals and low nutrient intake could worsen my mood swings and anxiety. Balancing my diet, adding foods rich in omega-3s, magnesium, and B-vitamins brought noticeable change. Food became more than fuel; it became medicine. Movement, too, played its part even a short walk reminded me that my body could still hold strength, even when my mind felt weak. Healing, I realized, was both emotional and biological. It required tending to both spirit and system; prayer for the soul, nutrition for the body, writing for the heart.
There were days I thought I was finally healed until another wave came crashing in.
And it always came. At first, I took relapse as failure. I’d spiral back into shame and exhaustion. But eventually, I understood that healing isn’t linear but a series of loops. You fall, rise, learn, unlearn and begin again. Each relapse taught me compassion. Each setback built patience. I stopped asking, “When will I be okay again?” and started asking, “How can I take care of myself today?” And, that became my mantra.
Through writing, I began building a bridge between pain and purpose. I didn’t want anyone to feel as alone as I once had. That’s how The Unburden Healing Journal and 100 Days of Intentional Healing were born not from research, but from lived experience. Every prompt was a reflection of a night I had to fight through. Every page was a reminder that you can turn pain into art and struggle into strength. Healing became less about erasing the past and more about transforming it into something meaningful. Each scar reminded me of survival. Each quiet day reminded me of peace.
What Healing Has Taught Me
- You don’t need to be okay to begin. Healing starts when you show up for yourself, even in your mess.
- Faith and therapy can coexist. Spiritual strength and professional help are not opposites, they complete each other.
- Your body and mind are connected. What you eat, think and feel are all threads of the same fabric.
- Healing is slow, but real. You notice it in laughter, in mornings without panic, in moments of stillness that once scared you.
- You are not your diagnosis. You are the person who keeps trying despite it.
Eventually, the darkness began to lift not because life became easier, but because I learned to move through it differently. I still live with bipolar disorder, but I no longer see it as the enemy but a part of my story not the ending, just a chapter. Rock bottom taught me that healing doesn’t mean returning to who you were before the pain. It means becoming someone new because of it. Today, I still have hard days. The difference is, I no longer fight them alone. I lean on faith, nourish my body and write through the noise until it softens. Maybe renewal isn’t about starting over maybe it’s about starting again, this time with gentleness.
If you’re standing at your own rock bottom, please know this: you are not weak for struggling. You are human. There is no shame in needing help, no failure in falling apart and no timeline for healing. Sometimes, the most sacred act of self-love is simply deciding to stay, to write one more page, to breathe one more breath, to try one more day. Because healing doesn’t begin with being whole. It begins with being honest.
