Onika L. Dainty

Life Lesson #15

“Be in your skin and fall in love with the feeling.” — Onika L. Dainty

Learning to Live in My Skin

It took me nearly 42 years to embrace this lesson—and I’m still learning. Self-love and body acceptance don’t come easily when you’ve wrestled with body image issues most of your life. For over two decades, I’ve dealt with weight gain as a side effect of mood stabilizers and antipsychotic medication prescribed to manage Bipolar disorder. Even before my diagnosis, my self-esteem was fragile. I wore a mask of confidence—intelligent, funny, charismatic, and beautiful—but underneath, I was struggling.

From childhood, food became my battleground. At first, I starved myself, skipping meals for days at a time until my grade six teacher reported it to my mother. As a nurse, she adjusted her night shifts to watch me eat. But that surveillance pushed me into binging and purging, giving me a false sense of control while my mind unraveled.

Trauma, Diagnosis, and Body Image

By my teens, depression and anxiety consumed me. At 14, a brutal assault deepened my mental chaos and reinforced my eating disorder as a form of punishment. My body felt like both the scene of the crime and the enemy. Into my twenties and early thirties, those patterns stayed with me, compounded when I was diagnosed with Bipolar I disorder at 24. Medication stabilized my mind but made me feel trapped in a body I no longer recognized.

It wasn’t until homelessness, repeated hospitalizations, and addiction forced me into long-term care that I realized how deeply connected my body image and mental health had always been. My psychotherapist helped me see that sexual trauma often distorts one’s relationship with the body—leading to cycles of self-punishment that only break with forgiveness, compassion, and healing.

Writing an Apology to My Body

After a pivotal therapy session, I sat down and wrote an apology letter to my body. I apologized for starving it, for purging, for smoking marijuana until my lips and fingers bore the scars, for binging as a side effect of medication. I promised to let go of shame and guilt and instead honour my body with care, nourishment, and respect.

That was the turning point.

Redefining Self-Love and Acceptance

Nearly a decade later, I’ve kept that promise. I haven’t binged, purged, or starved myself. I’ve been sober for almost two years. I eat to nourish, not punish, and I’ve incorporated fitness into my life—not as penance, but as a way to feel strong and alive.

Yes, my weight still fluctuates. But instead of spiralling into self-loathing, I now meet those moments with grace, self-compassion, and resilience. I remind myself: I only get one body in this lifetime, and it deserves love in every season.

My body has survived trauma, illness, and recovery. It carries my creativity, my laughter, and my strength. And no matter its shape or size, it is mine. Today, I celebrate it—not as a project to be perfected, but as a partner in my healing journey.

Final Thought

Being in my skin and falling in love with the feeling isn’t about flawless self-confidence. It’s about daily forgiveness, compassion, and choosing to honour the body I once punished.

Self-love is not a destination—it’s a practice. And every day I continue this practice, I reclaim more of myself.

To my readers: How do you practice self-love when your body doesn’t look or feel the way you want it to?

Life Lesson #14

“The only validation I need is my parking.” – Onika L. Dainty

Learning the Weight of Validation

Validation is a complicated concept. By definition, it means “recognition or affirmation that a person or their feelings or opinions are valid or worthwhile.” For some, that recognition from others—family, friends, colleagues, or even strangers—is at the very core of their identity. Without external approval, many find it hard to move forward, change, or grow. I know this because, for much of my life, I was one of those people.

From an early age, I allowed trauma and low self-esteem to dictate my path. My sense of self-worth was tethered to someone else’s star of approval. Whenever I was the lead in my own story, fear crept in, whispering that without cheerleaders—or critics in disguise—I would fall flat. And yet, the rare times I did validate myself, I discovered something unexpected: empowerment.

Losing and Rebuilding Self-Acceptance

When I was diagnosed with Bipolar I disorder in 2006, the fragile spark of self-acceptance I had been nurturing disappeared. Once again, I turned outward, seeking guidance from others—many of whom, though well-intentioned, only confused and discouraged me. Their voices drowned out my own, and my self-esteem plummeted.

It took years to untangle myself from this cycle. Ironically, the breakthrough came when I asked the right person the wrong question.

The Conversation That Changed Everything

In 2017, while brainstorming a mental health podcast with my cousin, I asked him what I thought was a simple question:

“Am I doing this right? What do you think?”

His response:
“If you’re looking for validation, Onika, you’re not going to get it from me. This is your show. You’re the one with the lived experience. I’m just the sound guy. Stop looking for validation in other people. We’re grown—validate yourself.”

His words hit like a mirror held to my face. Brutally honest, yes, but spoken with love. My cousin had always pushed me to believe in my abilities, to trust the possibilities of my future. That night, his refusal to validate me became the greatest validation of all.

Choosing to Lead My Own Story

After reflecting on his words, I felt something shift. My confidence grew, my self-worth blossomed, and the desperate need for approval from others began to fade. I realized I needed to be the lead in my own love story—the one where I finally fell for myself and the strength that had always been within me.

Today, I still value the perspectives of those who care for me, but I no longer need their validation. I validate myself. My feelings, decisions, and opinions are valid simply because I exist. That belief has given me an unshakable confidence, allowing me to make bold and brave choices on my mental health and wellness journey—choices I never would have dared to make before that late-night conversation.

Gratitude for Brutal Honesty

For every moment of honesty that challenged me to grow, I am deeply grateful. To my cousin—my cheerleader, my truth-teller, my mirror—thank you for helping me realize that the only validation I truly need is, indeed, my parking.

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.

Three years ago I experienced the very real and painful process of changing the direction of my life’s journey. I had been dealing with mental illness for many years and feeling stuck in it. I believed to that point I was doing everything I could to manage my illness, I was taking my medication, I participated in higher education in order to re-invent myself, I started and ended several careers, I filled my timetable with therapy and support groups, I became a mental health advocate speaking publicly about my experiences with Bipolar disorder, I started a podcast and I worked in mental health as a Peer Support Specialist. But the hidden reality of my life was that I was also addicted to marijuana, I suffered from severe anxiety that kept me up most nights and even with all I had accomplished over the years I was not truly taking care of my mental or physical health.  

I was like a pressure cooker ready to explode until one day I finally did. In the winter of 2022, I attempted to end my life in what would have been a spectacularly painful way. I will not go into details about the attempt but I will say it was the catalyst to change in my life. By the following year I was homeless and living in a women’s shelter. During my stay there my body exploded into so much physical pain I had to stretch multiple times daily just to climb up and down the stairs of the shelter and to get up and down the ladder of the top bunk of the bed I was assigned. Walking was painful, sleeping was uncomfortable and my appetite was non-existent. I continued to use, convincing myself that marijuana was giving me the only release I received in a day.  

When I was housed in the spring of that year another vicious cycle began– the cycle of hospitalization. I was admitted to two psychiatric wards eight times within a year where I was kept isolated and heavily medicated due to extreme psychosis. I experienced delusions and visual and auditory hallucinations that were treated with various medications but nothing seemed to help my broken mind and my hopeless spirit. During my last hospitalization in the Psychiatric Intensive Care Unit (PICU), I was transferred to a mental health hospital to receive more acute and critical observation and care. It was in this medical facility that I realized the pain of remaining the same was greater than the pain of change. 

Though the beginning of my sobriety journey was forced by my confinement, once again the pain I experienced dealing with withdrawal symptoms was not as great as the self-medicating addiction I had struggled with for over 15 years. The pain and uncertainty of when the next manic episode would appear became less and less as four months of residency in hospital became the time I needed to learn to manage my illness. Change was occurring daily within the walls of that psychiatric hospital, teaching me that though it can be painful change was necessary for personal growth. Remaining trapped in an endless cycle of chaos and pretending that I was making movements towards being better, I realize now was far more painful than actually working proactively toward making real and lasting change.  

Today, I am almost a year and a half sober, I have a beautiful home, I have stability in my mental health, I practice daily self-care, I have family and friends that support me and are proud of the progress I’ve made and I have a better understanding of the meaning and importance of embracing change. Change began with the pain of knowing and understanding that my life would remain paused unless I acknowledged the truth of my situation, the truth that was buried inside my deteriorating mind, body and soul. My physical, mental and emotional pain derived from inaction, fear and self-loathing so in order to move forward, to embrace change I had to address the most ugly parts of myself or I would remain stuck and as painful as that process was, as painful as the transition from immobility to change was I am now in a better and more peaceful place.

Now  I feel change is necessary for me to continue the forward movement into a brighter and healthy future. I embrace the process knowing it may be uncomfortable but the discomfort of remaining the same is no longer an option for me. Thank you Mr. Robbins, you taught me that “I will remain the same until the pain of remaining the same is greater than the pain of change.”