Onika L. Dainty

The first night I spent in a shelter came after a 72-hour hold in a psychiatric unit. I was still mid-mania—hearing voices, paranoid, and overstimulated. The flickering fluorescent lights, the shuffle of strangers outside my door, and the clanging pipes in the walls felt threatening. At 11:00 p.m., the lights went out. But sleep didn’t come easily. I curled into a ball on the top bunk, silent tears running down my face. I realized: I no longer had a home. This shelter bed was it.

That was episode eight out of thirteen manic-psychotic episodes I’ve experienced so far. Mania is an emotionally explosive ordeal that can last weeks or months, leaving behind confusion, guilt, and exhaustion for both the person and their loved ones. Recovery typically takes 6–8 weeks—and requires peace and stability. Neither of those is easy to find in the chaos of a homeless shelter.

This blog explores what it means to reclaim mental clarity, dignity, and self-worth while navigating bipolar disorder recovery in short-term transitional housing. It’s my lived experience—and it may reflect the reality of many others still trying to find their way back from the in-between.

Navigating the Noise: Recovering from Mania in a Homeless Shelter

The one thing I remember most about shelter life was the noise—constant and unrelenting. Even at night, the old building echoed with sounds: pipes banging, doors slamming, conversations at all hours. Privacy was nonexistent. Healing felt impossible.

Every morning at 5:00 a.m., I would quietly climb down from my bunk, my body still aching from restraints and trauma. I’d stretch on a small patch of floor—my first attempt at creating routine. It wasn’t much, but it was a start.

Recovering from mania in a homeless shelter was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I was surrounded by women hardened by survival—many also dealing with mental illness, addiction, and housing insecurity. Trust was rare, softness even rarer. These were women who had spent years on the streets and only came to shelters when the cold became unbearable.

I’m someone who wants to help others. But in that moment, I had to focus on protecting myself—emotionally, physically, mentally. There’s a certain shame and hopelessness that comes with being mentally ill and unhoused. Still, I had people in my corner—my tribe—cheering me on from a distance. That helped me survive the noise.

Small Rituals, Big Impact: Coping Strategies for Bipolar Disorder in Transitional Housing

After a few weeks, the fog began to lift. My mornings started with deep breathing, stretching, and journaling at the kitchen table before the noise of the day took over. These grounding rituals helped me feel safe in a place that often wasn’t.

Shelter life had its own rhythm. I’d make coffee while a staff member cooked breakfast. Lunch followed at noon. After dinner, each resident was assigned a cleaning task—kitchen, bathroom, or living room duties.

I began to make small choices to support my healing: eating better, wearing clothes that made me feel like myself, getting my hair and nails done with help from Grama Judie, and going to church on Sundays to remember that God still had a plan for me.

During the day, I worked from the business office searching for housing, making calls to mental health programs, and putting myself on waitlists for case management. With two weeks left at the shelter, I secured both a transitional housing unit and a dedicated mental health worker.

Coping with bipolar disorder in transitional housing required structure, routine, and flexibility. It meant showing up daily, choosing peace over chaos, and creating new habits in a temporary space. It also meant believing that things could, and would, get better.

Support Looks Different Here: Mental Health in Shelter Communities

In shelters, support looks different—and sharing too much can put you at risk. Vulnerability is necessary for healing, but it can also open doors to exploitation. Material envy, emotional manipulation, or trauma bonding are real dangers in this environment.

Setting boundaries is key. Be mindful of what you share and with whom. Choose connections rooted in mutual respect and emotional safety. These relationships may not be lifelong, but they can serve as powerful reminders that you're not alone in your fight for recovery.

Not every person in a shelter is safe to trust. But some will surprise you with their kindness, their grit, and their capacity to understand. Build wisely.

Final Thought: Recovery Isn’t Linear—Especially in a Shelter

Recovery doesn’t follow a straight path. It’s messy, unpredictable, and often nothing like you imagined. Mine was public, painful, humbling—and ultimately, transformative.

My time in the shelter system wasn’t what I wanted. But it gave me something I needed: a new perspective, self-awareness, and undeniable proof that I could survive instability and build stability anyway.

To the women I met there—the ones who challenged me, supported me, and reminded me of who I am—thank you. You’re a part of my story now.