Onika L. Dainty

My journey through homelessness began in the haze of a manic episode. When I walked out of my parents' home in November 2022, I had no idea I would never return. They had always been my safety net, the place I fell back to when mania subsided. But this time was different.

After two weeks on suicide watch, I found myself being discharged from a hospital with nowhere to go. That night, I used all my savings to book a six-week stay in an Airbnb. I told myself I had six weeks to recover from my mania, to find stability. But six weeks wasn’t enough.

Becoming unhoused is disorienting, especially when coupled with the emotional chaos of bipolar disorder. The path out is rarely straightforward—it begins with small, deliberate choices that can either lead to healing or deeper despair.

This is a story about what it means to seek shelter, support, and self while navigating the in-between spaces of homelessness and mental health recovery.

What Is Transitional Housing and Why Does It Matter?

Transitional housing offers temporary, supportive accommodations for individuals and families emerging from homelessness or unstable living situations. It acts as a bridge between crisis and stability.

Unlike emergency shelters—which are typically short-term and provide only basic needs—transitional housing programs offer structured support such as food assistance, case management, life skills training, and access to mental health and addiction services. These programs usually last from several months to a few years, with the ultimate goal being independent, sustainable living.

Transitional housing doesn’t just provide a roof. It offers stability, a space to rebuild routines, and an opportunity to restore one’s dignity.

Finding Transitional Housing While Facing Daily Survival

Six weeks of disillusionment ended on my 40th birthday—the day I officially became homeless. What followed was a blur of police wellness checks, hospital stays, and desperate efforts to find shelter. In January 2023, after a failed attempt by my cousin to house me in a hotel, she and my mental health mentor found a bed for me in a local shelter.

I arrived broken—sick, scared, and unsure of how to cope with this new reality. I feared I would drown in the chaos of managing my mental health while homeless. But I clung to one truth: the shelter was temporary.

For two weeks, I lived in a crowded dorm-style room, sleeping on a top bunk, storing my belongings in a small closet, and stretching on the floor each morning to recover from hospitalization. By the third week, with help from my mentor, Grama Judie, I began my housing search. My case manager was kind and diligent, but finding housing while displaced proved nearly impossible. I often fell short of qualifications by a margin too small to justify my disqualification—yet I persisted.

Then, ten days before I was scheduled to leave the shelter, a miracle happened: my case manager offered me a spot in their transitional housing program. It was a basement apartment in a quiet neighborhood on the city’s north side. I thought it was the blessing I had prayed for.

But not all that glitters is gold.

I lived there for six months—three spent in the hospital, the rest in fear due to dangerous upstairs neighbors. Eventually, I was moved to my current home. It’s a place I love, a place I feel proud to call home, though it’s not permanent. It’s a stepping stone—a space to find stability before finding permanency.

I live in the in-between. Better than where I was, but still far from where I hope to be.

Building a Bridge Back to Life: How Transitional Spaces Can Heal

Transitional housing has been a cornerstone in my healing. Though rebuilding life after homelessness hasn’t been easy, having a place to call mine for the past two years has restored my sense of time, purpose, and identity.

Today, I am in mental health remission. I’m nearly two years sober. I have the support of family, community, and a dedicated case management team. The very people I once saw as barriers have become allies. While they haven’t always disclosed their plans for my future, the decisions made—especially relocating me—have been in my best interest.

Healing in transitional housing is possible. I’m living proof. I’ve learned to trust myself again. I’ve cultivated self-compassion and rebuilt a vision for my life—all because I had access to a safe, supportive space. I now carry tools of resilience, strength, and clarity that guide me toward recovery and future housing stability.

Final Thought: Home Isn’t Just a Place—It’s a Possibility

I’ve known housing insecurity before, but nothing like this. In the past, someone was always there to rescue me. But this time, I had to rescue myself.

Homelessness has taught me that home isn’t merely a physical space—it’s a possibility. It’s the belief that I can live with a mental illness and still hope, still rebuild, still move forward. Living in a shelter stripped away my illusion of security and forced me to face the realities of my illness and its demands.

I once ignored the ongoing needs of my Bipolar disorder, fooled by the comforts of a stable job and a family home. But homelessness reminded me: severe mental illness can leave you living in the in-between, and you must fight to create a life that works with, not against, your reality.

Transitional housing gave me space to learn that. It hasn’t been perfect—I still have good days and bad—but it has been sacred. It’s been mine.

What does home mean to you when you’ve had to live without one? Can you name the people, spaces, or moments that helped you keep going?

I can be stubborn, but I’m also curious. After hearing repeatedly how physical activity improves brain function, boosts mood, and supports overall health, I decided to take small steps to include movement in my self-care routine. Although I was 40 pounds overweight, I didn’t approach exercise for weight loss. I chose activities that supported my mood, mind, and mental health.

In this article, I’ll share how physical activity helps stabilize mood. I’ll tell my story—how I walked toward wellness with detours along the way. I’ll explore how self-compassion plays a key role in building a sustainable habit, highlight stories from women who live life in motion, and offer tips that helped me build structure, routine, and consistency in my physical activity journey.

How Movement Helps Stabilize Mood

Physical activity has a profound impact on emotional regulation. It releases endorphins that naturally boost mood. It also supports brain health by promoting the growth of new cells and reducing inflammation in areas linked to emotional balance. Physical activity can interrupt negative thought patterns, create a sense of accomplishment, and build self-esteem—all crucial for coping.

For women with Bipolar disorder, movement can regulate mood, improve sleep, ease anxiety and depression, and even help restore cognitive function. Whether it’s walking, stretching, or strength training, movement activates the mind-body connection, which is essential for emotional stability.

Walking Toward Wellness: A Lived Experience

Five years ago, I was living in the city, navigating a depressive episode, and teetering between overweight and obese. I used to walk for hours in my early 30s through my parents’ suburban neighbourhood. By 35, I lived 20 minutes from the lake and walked regularly. But when I moved to Toronto, surrounded by concrete and crime, walking no longer felt safe—or desirable.

I lost all structure and fell into unhealthy habits. I only left home for work, groceries, or cigarettes. It took years before I felt ready to take a walk toward wellness again.

It started with a simple hike. A colleague invited me out of the city. I hadn’t seen trees or breathed fresh air in years. She called it a “baby hike,” but I struggled. I returned home sweaty, dirty, covered in leaves—and more alive than I’d felt in a long time. That hike sparked something. Every weekend, I hiked. When I moved back home, I hiked with anyone I could convince to join. I eventually became a certified Ontario Hike Leader.

Now, I don’t hike as often, so six months ago I joined a gym. I committed to walking 3–5 miles daily on the treadmill and training twice a week with a personal trainer. Yes, I’ve lost weight—but the most powerful change is internal. I’ve gained emotional strength, clarity, and focus.

Emotional regulation has always been a challenge: tearful outbursts, deep sadness, hypersensitivity, and sudden anger. Since incorporating regular physical activity, I’ve gained better control over these emotions. It started with small steps, but over time, exercise changed my mindset, improved my mental health, and stabilized my mood.

Surprisingly, the gym has become one of my safe spaces—a place where I feel free, fearless, and focused.

You Will Fall Off Track—And That’s Okay: Remember Your Why

Everyone has “off days,” especially when living with bipolar disorder. Sleepless nights, mood shifts, and depressive episodes are part of the landscape. Some weeks, I didn’t move at all—let alone make it to the gym.

The key isn’t avoiding setbacks—it’s returning after them. Whether it’s stretching in bed, doing yoga in your living room, or walking around the block, each time you move, you reclaim your power. Self-compassion is essential. So is remembering your “why.” Reminding yourself why you began your movement journey can be enough to get you going again.

Movement Looks Different for Everyone

For some, high-intensity workouts bring a sense of achievement. For others, like me, daily gym visits feel like success. But physical activity doesn’t have to be intense or traditional. Movement is simply about moving—on your terms.

Walking your dog, dancing while you cook, stretching to music, or doing chair yoga are all valid. The goal isn’t performance—it’s participation. Find what fits your body, lifestyle, and current season of life.

Creating a Life in Motion: Lived Experiences of Women with Bipolar Disorder

Catherine, a young mother of two, used yoga to regulate her mood before motherhood. She attended classes multiple times a week and practiced at home when needed. After starting a family, she adapted her routine—now practicing 15 minutes a day to maintain inner calm.

Kim, a first-year college student and former dance major, felt homesick and emotionally overwhelmed. She missed dancing and realized it helped regulate her mood. She enrolled in Hip-Hop and Contemporary classes at her university and now takes 2–3 per week. Her stress is lower, and she feels more emotionally balanced.

Dani had just been discharged from a psychiatric unit after a two-month depressive episode. Tired from her new medication and 15 pounds heavier, she remembered how good walking made her feel. On the first day of spring, she started morning walks while listening to music. By summer, she walked daily—and her depressive episode had lifted.

These stories show that physical activity can transform mood, mindset, and mental health. There’s no one “right” way to move. The power lies in showing up—for yourself and your well-being.

Tips for Creating a Gentle, Consistent Routine

1. Start with what you have.
Your body is enough. Begin slowly. Don’t commit to intense programs until you know what you enjoy. Use the suggestions in this article to get started.

2. Set realistic goals.
Instead of “I’ll run a mile,” start with “I’ll walk for 10 minutes.” Small wins build momentum and confidence.

3. Pair movement with something uplifting.
Listen to your favourite playlist, audiobook, or exercise with a friend. It can make movement feel less like a chore and more like a joy.

4. Be flexible.
All-or-nothing thinking is a trap. If you don’t hit your full goal, that’s okay. Something is always better than nothing. If you’re consistently struggling to meet a goal, it may be time to adjust—without guilt.

Movement is an Act of Self-Love

Physical activity isn’t just about your body—it’s about your mind and emotions. Reframe movement as a practice of self-love. It’s about how it makes you feel, not how you look. Loving your body means moving when you can, resting when you need to, and always returning when you're ready.

Final Thoughts: Today Starts With Movement

As Lao Tzu said, “The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.” The journey toward mental wellness through physical activity begins the same way.

I’m grateful physical activity is now part of my life. It was the missing piece in my structure, routine, and habits. It started with a walk—and I hope it continues for years to come.

I feel no pressure to “do more” on my movement journey. When setbacks happen, I remind myself that falling off track means there’s always a way back. Consistency isn’t easy. There will be days when “movement” doesn’t exist in your vocabulary. But every day ends, and a new one begins. Every day is an opportunity to start again.

To my readers: What’s one way you can move your body today? Just one. Start there.

From my first manic-psychotic episode to my most recent, life often felt as though it had flipped upside-down—and I had no idea how to right myself. For nearly 20 years, I let life happen to me. My responses—both uplifting and self-destructive—set in motion a series of events I didn’t recognize then as tests of my strength and emotional stability. Looking back now, I understand: it's not what happens to you, but how you react that defines your healing and growth.

Diagnosis, Grief, and Emotional Extremes

When I was diagnosed with Bipolar I disorder in 2006, I was an Honours graduate from Carleton University mourning the death of my grandmother—my soulmate—who passed away on my 22nd birthday. My life became a complex mix of achievement and sorrow, dreams and heartbreak. Caught between extremes, I turned to substances to dull the weight of my emotions. It was a way to escape the reality of bipolar disorder—a way to exist in the numb void between joy and grief.

This emotional polarity became a recurring pattern. Yet even in moments of despair, I made positive choices and showed resilience. Still, adversity never strayed far.

Recovery, Remission, Relapse, and Resilience

After four years of remission, I was accepted into a graduate diploma program at Humber College. Life felt balanced again. I was proud and optimistic.

Then, just three months into the program, my six-year relationship ended—followed the next day by my nomination as Event Management Chair, overseeing one of the college’s most important events. Once again, I found myself in a bittersweet place: standing in success while mourning loss.

Instead of confronting the pain, I returned to self-medicating. I sought the numbing void between overwhelmed and empty. By the end of the term, I suffered my first manic-psychotic episode in four years and was hospitalized.

Recovery came slowly. Through structure, routine, and healthy habits, I found stability and space to reflect:
How did I fall so far, so fast? Why hadn’t I learned from the past? Why was my instinct to run from pain rather than grow through it?

I no longer trusted myself. My self-worth was low. Doing what was easy—what was wrong—was easier than doing what was right. That’s when I knew I needed to begin the hard work of self-awareness, self-love, and emotional healing.

It took three years, two internships, another hospitalization, summer school, night school, and a relentless inner fire—but I graduated from my PR and Communications program. One teacher described me as “a tenacious student who would find success in her future.” I’ve come to believe that when life happens to you, your reaction—your resilience—is what shapes your future.

Then There Was COVID-19

By 2020, I was in my longest remission since being diagnosed with bipolar disorder. I had spent seven years in Toronto, supported by an incredible social worker and a 23-member outpatient care team. I was thriving, training as a Peer Support Specialist at a hospital’s Recovery College, and immersed in psychoeducation, trauma therapy, and self-care practices. I created a Crisis Plan (WRAP) and medical directive, sharing it with friends, family, my medical team, and employer.

Then came March 2020. The world changed.

I remember walking to Recovery College that morning feeling healthy, happy, and whole. By evening, I was stockpiling supplies, preparing for an indefinite lockdown. The country was in crisis. Fear and uncertainty filled every space.

Soon after, I was redeployed by my hospital to support frontline efforts. I was assigned to the ER. While part of me was relieved to leave the isolation of my apartment, a larger part trembled with fear—of the virus, the unknown, and what the hospital would ask of me.

After two weeks, I was exhausted but useful. I was adjusting. Then an email invited the Recovery College team to a virtual meeting. There, we were all laid off. The entire program was being dissolved.

In that moment—unaware I was the one screaming until a colleague mentioned it—I unleashed years of fear, anxiety, betrayal, grief, and pain. My emotional response was immediate and overwhelming. Everything I had built began to unravel.

Peace turned to turmoil. Wellness to relapse. Stability to chaos. Hope to heartbreak.

It’s Not What Happens to You, But How You React

So, how do you face a mountain of disillusionment built from a global pandemic and a mood disorder triggered by stress, trauma, isolation, grief, instability, and loss?

How do you react when mental health, emotional wellness, and everything you’ve worked for feel like they’re slipping away?

I’ll continue this journey of reflection and healing in Part 2.

Join me Saturday, August 2, 2025, as I share what came next—how I chose to respond when tested in ways I never imagined.

In this piece, I share hard-earned lessons from both managing and mismanaging my finances, and offer strategies that have helped me stay afloat—even during the worst episodes. Success, for me, means accountability, self-reflection, and building a money relationship rooted in honesty and awareness of my patterns.

Surviving on Long-Term Disability

Despite my education and work history in communications, event planning, and healthcare, my illness has led to recurring hospitalizations and job loss. Over the past 15 years, I’ve relied on long-term disability to survive. The paperwork and emotional labour of proving my illness to access support is overwhelming, and this latest application process has left me feeling scrutinized and vulnerable.

I’m grateful for the safety net—but I’m also scared. Scared of becoming stuck. I still want to build something meaningful and live a life my younger self would be proud of. Living with an invisible disability means constantly reckoning with what I can do, and letting go of what I wish I could.

Reclaiming Purpose Outside the 9 to 5

Filing for financial security forced me to confront some truths: I can’t function in a traditional 9–5. I do well at first, but stress leads to anxiety, then insomnia, hypomania, and ultimately, hospitalization. It’s a cycle I’ve repeated for over a decade.

But I also know this—I don’t want to live dependent on someone else’s signature on a monthly cheque. I want freedom. I want to earn in ways that honour my limits and ignite my passion. Lately, I’ve found hope in honorarium-based work: peer support, advocacy, storytelling. It’s not about big money—it’s about meaning, and reclaiming my path on my terms.

Real Financial Strategies That Work

I’ve had to rethink everything about money. I used to say, “You have to spend money so you don’t spend money,” which justified all sorts of reckless habits. But when I realized no one was coming to rescue me, I knew I had to change. Here are strategies that have helped:

• Budget with Mood in Mind: Plan for highs and lows. A budget rooted in your real habits—not just your best ones—can help manage hyper-spending and avoid rock bottom.
  
  

• Automate Bill Payments: Set up auto-pay for essentials like rent, insurance, and subscriptions. It’s a lifeline during episodes.
  
  

• Two Budgets Are Better Than One: Create a high-functioning and low-functioning budget. Pre-pay essentials like meds and food when you’re well.
  
  

Rebuilding Identity Through Money Management

Financial independence isn’t just about numbers—it’s about rebuilding who you are. I used to rely on my parents when I didn’t have to. But being unhoused, living in a shelter, forced me to grow. I stopped fearing risk and started taking control.

Now, I earn by sharing my story. I’m not chasing titles. I’m building a life I can actually live. I don’t define success by how much I earn—but by how my experiences help others.

Final Thoughts

Managing money with Bipolar Disorder is a journey. Whether you’re on disability, returning to work, or saving $20 a week for the first time in years—you’re still moving forward. Here are some mantras I say to myself. Maybe they’ll help you too:

• “You’re not lazy—you’re strong.”
  
  

• “It’s okay to receive support and still want more.”
  
  

• “Your financial past doesn’t define your future.”
  
  

Money isn’t your purpose—but it can support your purpose. Build routines. Make mindful choices. Forgive your slip-ups. Learn your patterns. And most importantly, ask yourself:

What small step can I take today to feel more empowered about money?