Onika L. Dainty

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.

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.

When I was a little girl my mother and I would bake cakes together. She would put all the ingredients in a bowl–flour, butter, sugar, vanilla essence, eggs and a generous pinch of salt. She never forgot the salt even though it wasn’t a part of the recipe in the What’s Cooking in Guyana cook book that travelled with us from back home. One day curiosity got the better of me and I asked my mother why she put something salty in something that was made to taste sweet. The conversation went as follows:

“Mama why do you add salt to the cake? Won’t salt make the cake taste bad?” I inquired.

My mother smiled at me with a knowing smile she still gives me today and said, “You want to know a secret the recipe book won’t tell you? Salt will actually bring out the sweet flavour of the cake, it will make the cake taste better Nika.”

My little girl mind started to process what my mother was telling me and another question came to me, “So mama is salt in everything in the world? Does everyone know what salt is, what salt can do?”

She smiled again and gave me a surprising answer, “Yes Nika, salt is in most things it’s an essential part of life; it's in the Earth, in the animals, in us and the food we eat. Salt is a common thing but no, not everyone uses it in the right way, some people overuse it but everyone knows what it is.”

Because my mother was a registered nurse and a knowledgeable woman of science, I believed she was telling me the truth and from that truth came a surprising truth of my own. As I stirred the ingredients in the bowl, I considered each one carefully and realized that the one ingredient necessary for the world to be sweeter, better and nicer was a generous pinch of salt to bring forth its natural goodness. 

 I thought about the mean kids at school who bullied me relentlessly since my arrival to Canada the year before. I thought about the little boy that called me the N-word the first week of kindergarten and his father that encouraged him to do so. I thought about the challenges I had faced so far and were bound to face because I wasn’t like other kids. Then I thought about what it would be like to achieve the new desire growing in my heart and said with a steady and determined voice, 

“Well mama, one day my name will be as common as Salt.”

That was where my heart led me at 6-years old after a seemingly ordinary conversation with my mother about salt. I was a little girl with a big dream and though I had no idea how to make it happen it was born and grew in my heart over a bowl of cake mix and a generous pinch of salt and I was determined to see it through. 

The Long Painful Road to Losing My Way

When I was in high school I started scouting universities years before most students my age. At 15-years-old I went to a university fair and fell in love with Carleton University in Ottawa, ON. I took it as a done deal that I was destined to be there when I won a Carleton mug at one of the information sessions. I drank everything from that mug knowing that one day I would be sitting in a dorm room writing my New York Times bestseller in between lectures. 

When my senior year came and it was time to apply for schools, It was time to follow my heart to Carleton University. However, my parents were against me going away to school. They were worried about the 4 hour distance from Toronto to Ottawa, they were terrified something would happen to me and they couldn’t protect me. They loved me and wanted the best for me. They wanted me to take the safest route to higher education, a life with financial security and very little struggle or adversity. I told them on the final day to send in an acceptance letter that it was Carleton University or nothing. 

In September 2001, I sat on the front lawn of Carleton’s Glengarry residence–my new home–holding tight to my Carleton mug, watching hot air balloons float in the Ottawa skies like an oman of great things to come and waved goodbye to my family as they drove away. I had arrived, I had followed my heart and it was time to conquer the world. Go Where Your Heart Takes You. 

During the five years I spent in Ottawa I made friends that I still have today, I wrote articles, literary papers, historical essays, an honours thesis and thought provoking poetry that I performed on slam poetry stages across the city; I struggled with Major Depressive disorder and Generalized Anxiety disorder; I fell in love with a beautiful man who broke my heart and I graduated with an Honours degree in History.

I also developed a drug problem and experienced my first Manic-Psychotic episode and hospitalization in a psychiatric unit. When I moved back home with my parents I was unrecognizable. I continued to have rapid-cycle highs and lows for almost 17 years. I fell hard and fast and somewhere along the way I lost confidence in my internal compass, I stopped following my heart, allowing life to simply happen to me and allowing other people’s fear over my mental instability to dictate my actions.  

There were events that felt like wins along this long and painful road. I graduated from Humber College with a graduate certificate in Public Relations and Communications, I moved to Toronto to be an event planner after studying Event Management at Durham College and I became a Peer Support Specialist working for a major Toronto hospital which made me feel I had regained my sense of self and that my internal compass was back on track leading me in the direction of my heart’s desire. 

During this period of what I believed was wellness, I hosted a successful podcast, I became a mental health advocate and I had secured my dream job yet it all felt wrong, it all felt life the lies of an imposter. I knew in the deepest part of me that I was not listening to my heart anymore, rather I was leading with the fear in my head. I was living up to other’s expectations of me by pretending to be alright when inside I was not alright, I was dying and my heart was broken. 

When Your Heart is Broken It Still Speaks

In 2022, two years after COVID-19 turned the world upside down I had to take a hard look at my myself and my life choices: I was a woman with an unmanaged mental illness, I was non-compliant with my medication, I was self-medicating with cannabis and I was smoking a pack of cigarettes daily all while trying to balance work obligation and life obligations. I was stressed, depressed, depleted, avoiding my unaddressed trauma, Hypomanic–on my best days, Manic–on my worst. I was an overweight, people-pleasing burnout pretending to have it all together, pretending to be happy when in reality I was drowning. 

How did I get here? I truly believe it's because I did not go where my heart was trying to lead me. Instead of being the fearless little girl with a big dream I had turned into someone I did not recognize. I lost my way and had no idea how to find the right path, the one that would lead me down the road to fulfilling my big dream.

TRIGGER WARNING…

On November 7, 2022, I made a plan to end my life by driving into my parent’s poolhouse. My mind kept telling me I was an unloved, unwanted failure and I didn’t need to be here anymore. I remember the moment before I put my car into gear it was as if every broken piece of my heart went into gear as well and screamed at me, Onika! Stop! Don’t Do It! Remember Your Dreams! And at that moment, when it mattered the most my internal compass that lives in the centre of me came back to life and reminded me to lead with my heart and not my head. 

I remembered I had parents, nieces, a grandmother, aunts, uncles, cousins and friends that loved me. I remembered that I had been lost before and found my way back to myself with hard work and unwavering determination. I remembered that the only way out is through, that there was light at the end of the tunnel, sunshine after the rain and that this awful time would pass if I just fought for the happiness I deserved. Go Where Your Heart Takes You. 

Final Thoughts - Go Where Your Heart Takes You, It's Worth the Journey

Millions of words ago and hundreds of lived experience stories I started a blog and today I write #100. I’m a different person than I was at article #1. This blog has changed me but I had to make the necessary changes in my life to be able to be as real, raw and authentic as I’ve been with the readers that have supported me on my journey to wellness.

I’m still living with a severe mental illness but now with the support of my family, friends and healthcare team I’m not only managing my illness, I’m thriving in it. I’m over a year and a half sober as of this week and I have not touched a cigarette in the same length of time. I’ve lost 30 pounds by re-introducing structure, routine and healthy habits into my life. I practice self-care and mindfulness daily and I give myself grace and self-compassion when I fall short of achieving my goals. I’m kinder and more patient with myself accepting that I’m fabulous and flawed all at once.  

I focus on my passions and staying well so I can simply enjoy my life. I experience peace, love, joy and happiness and don’t allow the stresses that inevitably come overwhelm me. I haven't seen the inside of a psychiatric unit in almost 2 years. I live to please myself rather than others. Finally, because I put the pieces of my heart back together through resilience and grit my internal compass has never worked better.

Since that day in my childhood kitchen, I have made it a habit to follow my heart even when logic dictates I should go in a certain and usually safe direction. I have always looked inside of myself, to my internal compass that lies in the centre of me and gone my own way. Even when bad things happen and I want to give up I remember that if I hold onto my 6-year old self’s courage and determination, listen to my heart and embrace the journey regardless of where the road takes me I will not fail and I will find my dreams waiting for me to catch them. Today, I’m a writer, a blogger, a public speaker, a daughter, a granddaughter, a niece, an aunt, a cousin and a friend to a tribe that loves me and that is a dream come true. 

It is well past midnight and right outside the bolted window all I can see is darkness. The lights from buildings and the flicker of headlights visible only through the rod iron mesh meant to keep me in, keep me safe from myself. The mesh makes the outside world look as if it is caught in a fisherman’s net, trapped, unable to escape. The truth is that I am the one trapped and unable to move. Still, I think of escaping into the darkness beyond my barricaded window.

Even in the darkness I can sense new life forming. Trees pushing through the black earth, rising above the green grass until their branches bloom and breathe. Even the branches know there is nowhere to go but up toward the sky, toward freedom. At this moment I envy those trees. I envy their path to the heaven of the sky. I envy the seeds they sow, that bloom into beautiful buds that grow fearlessly. I envy their right to exist when all my rights have been taken away, when my feet are strapped to a metal bed frame making freedom impossible.

I look to my left to see soundproof, bullet proof, unbreakable glass. Still, I hear the cries for help and the violent rattle of chains, and I am reminded— Although the sun is starting to rise over my right shoulder, insanity waits for me over my left. As night turns to day and the sky goes from black to morning’s indigo I remember I am not outside these four walls where freedom lives and my right to exist is unquestioned. Instead, I am in a dimly lit, locked room, strapped to a bed, on a 72-hour hold in the Psychiatric Intensive Care Unit of the hospital’s tenth floor.

Final Thought

The loss of my freedom is my biggest fear. While hospitalized I spend a majority of my stay strapped to hospital beds, shackled by my arms, chest and legs, unable to move, panicking and unable to catch my breath. There is no pretty picture I can paint of this barbaric experience. Whether it occurs because my sharp tongue has offended the staff or as an arbitrary solution to a non-existent problem it's wrong and inhuman and I have the right to feel fear. This is a fear that is born of past trauma that has gone unexamined by the individuals that wield the power to restrain me. I can’t find neutral words, or hope in a system that uses these tactics to subdue patients. There is no kindness in this process, there is no empathy, just cruelty and It is one of my greatest objectives to abolish this practice in Ontario hospitals. I feel fear recalling and reflecting on my experiences with restraints but I also feel a sense of determination and obligation to my fellow men and women who still have to endure this savage practice. 

A Bipolar Woman’s Self-Reflection on Fear is a series of entries that will allow you a window into my past and insight on my present and the lessons I’ve learned over the years that have put fear in my rearview mirror. 

Coming Soon

But shortly after I turned 33-years-old I lost my voice. And I’m not talking about losing your voice because you have a sore throat. For three days this past January 2016, I lost the ability to speak and no one could explain why. I got up one morning and I felt physically weak, disoriented and dizzy. I lived alone so I had no opportunity to say a word until I left for work. I remember taking an Uber in because I felt so unbalanced I could barely stand. When the driver said ‘good morning’ I attempted to reply, and the words came out slow and slurred.

I immediately called my mother and when I couldn’t reach her, I called my Grama Judie. I told her my symptoms and she said I should head to the hospital. For many reasons I dislike hospitals and refused to go, instead choosing the nearest walk-in clinic. I was barely in the door before I lost consciousness and collapsed. I was taken into one of the exam rooms and the nurse had called an ambulance. She was trying to keep me alert by asking questions, questions that I tried to answer but I couldn’t. I was confused and terrified because when I opened my mouth the answers I formulated in my head just wouldn’t come out.

The ambulance arrived and transferred me to St Michael’s Hospital in Toronto. By the time I arrived at the emergency room I had managed to give them basic information about myself as well as my phone to contact my mother. The doctors ran every test they could think of, they feared I may have had a stress induced stroke. The MRI, EKG and blood work came back normal. Because I disclosed my history of mental illness, the next step was a psychiatric evaluation. This was what I had been dreading.

It has been my experience that when a person suffers with mental illness, doctors tend to overlook physical symptoms and label the problem a psychological one then pass you off to the ER’s Psychiatric Crisis Team for assessment. I was terrified of being admitted to the psychiatric unit. I knew that the likelihood was this was a reaction to a new antidepressant I was taking but to admit that would be to risk getting admitted. Though it was a struggle I managed to make my wishes clear: There’s something physically wrong, I am not crazy, I do not feel like harming myself or others and I want to go home.

After asking me a series of questions that I was all too used to answering, the ER psychiatrist advised that she feared this may be psychosomatic but not something to be admitted over. My mother finally arrived, and the doctors cleared me to go home and have her monitor me for the next few days. The relief I felt was overwhelming.

During those three days of silence, I really started to question how I had gotten to this point. Maybe there was another reason, hidden deep inside myself that I was failing to examine. Since the new year started, I have been taking on more, pushing myself harder mentally, physically and emotionally. I was beginning to feel pressure at work, I was lacking in sleep, my appetite was non-existent, and I was running from the depression that historically took over my mind every Winter since I was 17-years-old.

I was doing too much, and I was wrestling with the darkest parts of myself. I was overwhelmed and I knew it had everything to do with my mental health challenges. I was tired of running from it, I was tired of keeping the secret of my mental disability from my friends, colleagues and anyone I had any significant connection with. It was like a gaping sore that refused to heal, that was a constant source of pain as if trying to tell me: Until you deal with me, I am not going anywhere.

I had been thinking about telling my story, telling the truth for a while and during this experience my mind was in a constant state of remembering. Remembering the dark reality of my past, retracing my steps to see where I could have changed things, worrying that once the carefully constructed mask that I had relied on for so long was crumbling in the face of this truth. Even though my voice was lost, my thoughts were finding their way to the surface. All the lies I had told to protect myself, all the things that I could only remember pieces of from all the times I lost my mind to the overwhelming sense of failure I felt every day since I was a child. I knew it was time to face all that I had done, all that I had been through. My body’s betrayal at this critical juncture of my life was telling me that if I were truly going to move forward, I had to speak my truth.

I was ready and I was not ready. I was certain and I was not certain. I was terrified and calm because I knew it was time for the words to come out. I knew if my voice returned, I had to use it to tell the story of a woman who was abused in so many ways; a woman who lost her mind so many times only to find it again; a woman who has done things she was ashamed of; a woman who survived when the odds were stacked against her.

I knew my story could help people like me see that it is possible to go through things, terrible, life-changing, dark and destructive things and still come out on the other side fighting and hopeful and determined to achieve the impossible. To come through everything while still having faith that the next step, the next journey, the next dream will be the right one, the better one, the one that will finally make you whole.

It is possible to believe that you can survive your pain, only suffering as long as it takes you to learn your lessons. Then you take that newfound knowledge and change your life into something authentic. I want to be a force for this kind of change in people’s lives, giving them hope that happiness lies beyond the darkest waters.

I have always known this was my purpose, but I hid my light for reasons that seemed far away and inconsequential in the face of losing my voice. It was a new kind of pain to think that I had wasted so many years hiding from the world, hiding from myself that now, when I was on the precipice of taking my place and serving my purpose, there was this new obstacle that I was not sure I could overcome.

If all the world’s a stage like Shakespeare once wrote, then those three voiceless days were my version of stage fright. I learned that as much as I was afraid of the truth, if I continued to hold it in, I was in danger of losing the opportunity all together. The labour of having to force out every word, syllable by syllable, at a snail’s pace as if I had never spoken before was eye-opening.

I thought to myself, “What now Onika? You have all these words locked inside your mind, you have hoarded all your experiences, all that knowledge and wisdom never really sharing it with anyone and now you have finally found some courage to speak your truth, and you have lost your voice…you have lost your way.” When my voice did return slowly over the following days, the relief I felt was palpable. It was like being given a second chance to start my purpose-filled, passion-filled journey.

It’s time to embrace something that has always been difficult for me—change. I need to be fearless and learn to embrace change like a warm hug instead of running from the danger of the unknown. I have to embrace the journey I am on and pray to God that He will be there to catch me if I fall again and to keep me grounded when I finally rise.

Final Thought

In 2016 fear had a strangle hold on me. I was living a lie believing that if I told the truth about my Bipolar diagnosis to my new employer, colleagues and friends I feared rejection, I feared isolation and I feared I would lose my job. I believed my disability was a deficit and a detriment to the new life I was trying to build in a new city. After years of manic episodes, depressive episodes and hospitalizations I convinced myself running from the truth of my circumstances was the only way. I thought reinventing myself based on a lie would keep me safe and would lead to my ultimate success. 

But the opposite occurred, all the lying and deception and running away from my truth took a mental, spiritual and ultimately physical toll on my body. It was my mama that taught me the lesson “Speak the truth and speak it always cost it what it may.” and in 2016 not telling the truth about a significant part of my life cost me my voice. I became lost in a lie and I remember bargaining with God that if I got my voice back I would use it to share the truth about my lived experience with Bipolar disorder, the good, the bad and all the ugly bits in between. That experience taught me how dangerous fear can really be and I am so grateful my temporary paralysis lifted and I’m presently living in the light of my truth. 

A Bipolar Woman’s Self-Reflection on Fear is a series of entries that will allow you a window into my past and insight on my present and the lessons I’ve learned over the years that have put fear in my rearview mirror.