Onika L. Dainty

I remember the exact moment my caseworker told me I had 30 days left in my first transitional home. My stomach dropped. Words failed me. I’d only been there six months—though four of those were spent recovering from multiple bipolar episodes, trying to claw my way back to stability.

Questions flooded in:
Was my instability the reason? Did my mental health mean I no longer qualified? Was I headed back to the shelter system?

She explained the whole house was being evicted due to the property’s sale. They were looking for a new space, but with limited options, nothing was guaranteed. I left that conversation with no plan, no income, and no idea where I would be in a month.

Transitional housing is meant to be a bridge—but sometimes that bridge ends before you’ve reached solid ground. For those living with bipolar disorder, the timing can feel especially cruel.

The Illusion of Time: When Transitional Becomes Temporary

Many unhoused individuals hear “you have a place” and think the chaos is over. Relief floods in: no more streets, no more shelter, just rest and recovery.

But transitional housing is always temporary—three months, six months, maybe a year. You trade one uncertainty for another. For me, stability—however fleeting—was still better than the nightmare of being unhoused. I convinced myself the time wouldn’t run out.

But mental health recovery doesn’t fit neatly into housing deadlines. Healing from trauma, bipolar episodes, and instability can take years. The countdown clock only adds pressure, forcing you to “be ready” before you truly are.

The Emotional Fallout of Another Ending

Housing loss has an emotional cost—panic, shame, insecurity, and grief, much like a breakup or death. You wonder if you’re “too slow” or “not good enough,” wishing recovery could happen faster.

I thought paying rent and healing was enough. It wasn’t. I had no control over the sale, no say in my eviction, and no certainty about my future.

Being forced to leave without a plan can reignite old trauma. For those with a recent history of homelessness, like me, the fear is sharper—you know too well what chaos lies beyond that deadline.

In the unknown, hope is replaced by anxiety and darkness. Your future feels hidden, unsettled, and unsafe.

The Search: Scrambling for Stability Before the Exit

After my eviction notice, I scrambled—adding my name to waitlists, contacting rentals I couldn’t afford, facing rejection after rejection. I wasn’t well enough to work, keep up with appointments, search for low-income housing, and manage my bipolar disorder all at once.

In desperation, I even messaged the landlord, pleading to stay. His refusal—steeped in stigma—left me crushed.

The last two weeks were spent in bed, consumed by depression and fear. Would I end up back in the shelter? Hospitalized? On the street?

Days before eviction, my caseworker found another transitional space. Relief came, but so did resentment—being placed last minute made me feel more like a file than a human being.

What Support Should Look Like—And Often Doesn’t

Housing support for mental health recovery should be holistic. Transitional housing should come with wraparound services—therapy, counseling, peer mentorship, and case management.

Too often, systems are disjointed. A shelter case manager may not connect with a transitional housing case manager. Without coordinated care, healing becomes temporary, not transformative.

Trauma from mental illness, addiction, or abuse needs more than a bed. Without the right support, reintegration into the community—the very goal of transitional housing—is rarely achieved.

My success now is due to self-advocacy. Once I realized my healing depended on me, I secured the services I needed during my stay.

Final Thought: Housing Is a Human Right—Not a Privilege

In my new transitional home, I learned that housing stability isn’t simply given—it’s fought for daily. The clock always runs out, and if you’re not prepared, you can fall back into uncertainty.

For months, I lived out of boxes, afraid to unpack. Eventually, I let go of fear, embraced my temporary space, and made it my own—painting walls pink, filling shelves with books, creating comfort where I could.

Housing is a human right. In our current system, it’s too often treated as a privilege, especially for those with mental health challenges. Without safe, stable housing, it’s nearly impossible to achieve emotional stability, financial security, or lasting wellness.

To my readers: Have you ever had to leave before you were ready? What would safety and support look like if it truly supported healing?