I once signed up for three credit cards in a single day. When they arrived, I rushed to the mall and spent each balance in under three hours. At the time, every purchase felt like a need with purpose but it was hypomania.

Hypomania can feel seductive. It creates the illusion of power, freedom, and the “best version” of yourself. But if left unchecked, it can escalate into mania or even psychosis.

For me, hypomania often ends in manic-psychosis and hospitalization, with my care team working to bring me back to baseline. The truth is, during hypomania, I feel incredible, too incredible. My inhibitions vanish, boundaries dissolve, and everything moves at warp speed. Yet over time, I’ve learned to spot hypomanic episodes, manage symptoms, and stop them before real damage occurs.

This post shares grounded, compassionate strategies for managing hypomania with bipolar disorder and practical tools drawn from lived experience.

First Comes Awareness: Catching Hypomania Early

One of the most important skills in bipolar disorder management is recognizing hypomania symptoms early. This awareness comes from tracking your mood cycles with journals, sleep logs, or apps. Common cues include racing thoughts, decreased sleep, irritability, impulsivity, and excessive optimism.

For me, hypomania sometimes shows up as extreme fatigue rather than excess energy. My baseline is naturally high-energy, which makes early signs harder to detect. After back-to-back trips to the Caribbean and New York City, I unexpectedly crashed, sleeping for days. What looked like exhaustion was actually hypomania.

Even when you know your bipolar cycle, stress, travel, or disrupted sleep can shift how symptoms appear. That’s why reflection before, during, and after episodes is so valuable. Creating a personal “Red Zone Hypomania List”, a set of your own early warning signs that can help you and your support team recognize patterns and intervene sooner.

Grounding Practices That Gently Slow You Down

When hypomania enters your cycle, you can either ride the wave or learn to calm the waters. I used to let it sweep me away, but I’ve since discovered that grounding can slow the spiral.

Some practices that help me include:

• Sensory grounding: submerging my face in cold water, using weighted blankets, or aromatherapy.
  

• Movement and breath: gentle yoga, box breathing, belly breathing, or guided body scans.
  

• Stillness rituals: light therapy, meditation music, or intentional solitude that often leads to restorative sleep.
  

These tools may not erase hypomania, but they create space for rest and regulation.

Structuring Your Day to Reduce Overstimulation

Hypomania often thrives on overstimulation. Building predictable structure and routines can make a significant difference.

• Keep a consistent sleep schedule, even when you feel energized.

• Schedule downtime during busy events like weddings or conferences.
  

• Limit caffeine, reduce screen time, and avoid noisy environments before bed.
  

Structure, routine, and healthy habits are essential to maintaining emotional stability when managing bipolar disorder.

Knowing When and How to Reach Out

Even with the best coping strategies, there are times you need support. Having a trusted network including family, friends, peers, or professionals can be life-saving.

My father often spots pressured speech before I do. My Grama Judie, who helps manage my finances, notices when I hyper-spend. They give me space to self-correct, but step in if needed, following my crisis plan and communicating with my psychiatrist.

Over the years, I’ve built a bipolar crisis plan with questions my support team feels comfortable asking me, such as:

• “When was the last time you slept?”

• “Have you been taking your medication?”
  

These may sound invasive, but with trust, they become vital tools for early intervention.

Protecting Yourself from Hypomanic Impulses

Impulsivity is one of the most challenging parts of bipolar disorder. Protecting yourself means creating safeguards before hypomania hits.

Some strategies I use:

• Safe spending rules: delay big purchases, freeze access to credit, or hand over cards to someone I trust.

• Pause big decisions: whether about relationships, travel, or quitting a job, I place them on a 72-hour hold.
  

• Create a “pause kit”: grounding tools and notes from my baseline self.
  

• The buddy system: an accountability partner who isn’t afraid to tell me the truth.
  

These systems reduce the damage impulsivity can cause and keep me aligned with my long-term healing.

Final Thoughts: You Are Not the Choices You Make in Hypomania

Hypomanic impulses will come, but they don’t define you. Some are minor, others life-altering, yet none erase your worth. Hypomania is a symptom of bipolar disorder, not your identity.

During episodes, energy, creativity, and passion accelerate. It can feel thrilling, but also unstable. Rather than fearing hypomania, I’ve learned to treat it as a signal, an invitation to slow down, set boundaries, and lean on the practices that protect my wellness.

Guilt and shame have no place here. What matters is building awareness, showing yourself compassion, and learning to navigate the highs with wisdom and care.

To my readers: What helps you recognize when hypomania is approaching? What boundaries keep you grounded when the wave begins to rise?

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?

Choosing Between Recovery and Rent

I lay strapped to a hospital bed in the Psychiatric Intensive Care Unit (PICU), cut off from the outside world. I didn’t know the day or time until meals arrived, each tray accompanied by a slip of paper telling me my name, location, and menu. Only then did I have any clue what might be happening beyond the cinder-block walls. When psychosis had me in its grip, nothing mattered beyond my next manic thought.

As my mind slowly cleared, I realized life outside had kept moving. Bills still needed paying. Rent was still due. Bipolar disorder demands consistency—structure, routine, and healthy habits can mean the difference between stability and relapse. But when a severe episode leads to long-term hospitalization, maintaining financial consistency becomes nearly impossible.

This is the reality for many living with chronic mental health conditions: the rising cost of housing compounds the struggle to recover. Financial stress and mental health are deeply intertwined.

The Unseen Price Tag of Stability

There’s an invisible cost to stability that many in mental health crises can’t afford. I’ve been fortunate to have the support of family, friends, my mental health mentor Grama Judie, and the income from work during periods of wellness. Others aren’t so lucky.

For many, the choice comes down to paying rent or buying medication. The cost of living—and managing bipolar disorder—rises each year. Private therapy, even on a sliding scale, can be out of reach. Virtual sessions still carry a fee. Add in the cost of transit, gas, and basic necessities, and the expenses pile up.

Living with bipolar disorder often means an inconsistent work history, making income unpredictable. Missed bills, partial payments, or skipped rent become common. The emotional toll—shame, guilt, anxiety—feeds a survivalist mindset where thriving feels impossible. Even when stability returns, another episode may be waiting to unravel it all.

Budgeting While Battling Bipolar

Budgeting with bipolar disorder isn’t just about money—it’s a mental health tool. Cognitive fog during depression can make bill-paying overwhelming. If possible, set up automated payments for essentials like rent, insurance, and utilities before a crisis hits.

For me, mania has led to impulsive spending followed by guilt and anxiety. To counter this, I automate bill payments at the start of the month and move a small “mania spending” budget into a separate account. My mentor acts as my financial accountability partner.

Living on a low income with bipolar disorder is challenging, but not impossible. Create a budget based on guaranteed income, manage supplemental income cautiously, and consider strategies like:

• Separate savings accounts not tied to debit cards
  
  

• “Cash life” budgeting for groceries, gas, and personal spending
  
  

• Early payment of recurring bills
  
  

Survival mode won’t last forever. Structure, routine, and healthy habits around money can lead to both personal and financial growth.

Traditional Homes, Unreachable Dreams

Transitional housing has become a lifeline for many with severe mental illness, especially when hospital discharge is delayed due to homelessness, lack of family support, or loss of income. But the dream of stable, traditional housing often fades in the face of gentrification, rising rents, and strict lease requirements.

Since age 24, I’ve relied briefly on family for housing stability, but have mostly lived in basement apartments, community housing, rent-geared-to-income units, Airbnbs, shelters, and now a transitional home. These weren’t the homes I imagined while working toward my degree in the early 2000s. After my diagnosis, I found myself chasing stability in places where mental health stigma made renting difficult, often trading safety for affordability.

Eventually, transitional housing became the goal—traditional housing, the dream. Even now, in a stable program with potential for permanency, I know the decision to keep me here isn’t mine. By definition, transitional programs are temporary. I could be moved at any time, forced to rebuild the stability I’ve worked years to create.

For many living with bipolar disorder, housing instability is not a temporary setback—it’s a recurring reality.

Final Thoughts — Health vs. Housing: Why Should We Have to Choose?

How do you choose between mental health stability and housing security? There’s no justice in that choice. As the World Health Organization reminds us, “mental health is health.” Without mental stability, even securing a roof over your head becomes nearly impossible.

Safe, stable housing is essential to recovery. It provides space for rest, healing, self-reflection, and planning. Without it, recovery from bipolar disorder, trauma, or addiction becomes far harder—and communities feel the ripple effects. It’s a domino effect of impossible choices and unnecessary sacrifices.

Recovery requires rest. Rest requires security. I’ve lived both realities—housing stability and housing insecurity. Remission isn’t a choice; it’s a necessity. Stability makes it possible, and for too many, it remains out of reach.

A Bipolar Woman’s Lived Experience with Transitional Housing

A House with No Peace

I moved into my first transitional home in March 2023 after two months in a shelter clouded by fear and hopelessness. I thought a new space would bring peace, a break from the chaos. But what I found was a shared basement apartment—split by a laundry room—and on the other side lived a mother and her two teenagers, all struggling with untreated mental illness.

Above me lived three women navigating drug addiction. Their late-night parties brought loud guests who knocked on my back door, yelling words I couldn’t understand—but feared deeply.

For someone living with Bipolar Disorder, home must be a place of calm. I began wedging chairs under my doors at night, trying to simulate safety. But I never truly felt safe. The noise, the footsteps above, the emotional tension—I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t heal.

This post explores the emotional toll of shared transitional housing—especially when your neighbors’ mental health struggles mirror or magnify your own.

Living in Limbo: When Shelter Doesn’t Feel Like Safety

For many, home is healing. It's where stress lifts and rest begins. But when your home is unstable—loud, chaotic, unpredictable—it becomes the opposite. Even with a roof over my head, I struggled with emotional and mental instability.

When home doesn’t feel safe, recovery becomes fragile. For those of us with Bipolar I Disorder, the ability to maintain sleep is crucial. Poor sleep disrupts brain function and triggers symptoms like paranoia, racing thoughts, appetite changes, medication mismanagement, or physical exhaustion. I experienced all of these.

Living in that first transitional home, I endured four hospitalizations between March and August 2023. I felt stuck—trapped between choosing homelessness or risking my mental stability.

Eventually, I was moved into a new triplex with a private entrance. It was beautiful, with real potential—but the chaos followed. Neighbours with untreated mental illness and substance use created a space filled with tension, volatility, and fear.

Still, this is where healing finally began. After a ninth hospitalization in late 2023, I started to reclaim myself. Trauma counselling, new medication, and deep rest gave me tools I didn’t have before. I returned to my transitional home with boundaries, support systems, and the strength to maintain wellness—despite my surroundings.

I no longer felt like I was living in limbo. I was finally present—and hopeful for the future.

Coping Strategies When You Can’t Change Your Environment

If you or someone you love is in transitional housing, here are strategies that helped me manage my mental health in unsafe or unpredictable environments:

• Focus on the Familiar - Surround yourself with comforting people and objects. Stay connected to your support team—therapists, doctors, friends, and family. Familiar voices can ground you.

• Build Structure & Routine - Create small rituals: daily walks, bedtime routines, mindfulness practices, or journaling. Healthy habits anchor you when everything else feels unstable.

• Set Boundaries - Learn to recognize who feels safe to be around. Not everyone in these environments will have your best interest in mind. Protect your time, energy, finances, and emotions.

• Seek Support - Reach out to professionals or peer support networks. You are not alone. Shared stories can inspire strength and offer new tools for growth.

Even when the outside world is uncontrollable, inner routines can give you power.

Seeking Autonomy: Planning for a True Sense of Home

Housing insecurity is a chapter—not your whole story.

Finding independence while living with Bipolar Disorder is hard, but not impossible. Before I left my shelter bed each morning, I’d repeat this mantra:
“You are peaceful, protected, loved, blessed, and highly favored. This is only for now, not forever. So get up, Onika, and get to work.”

That mantra became my compass. I gathered housing lists, connected with counselors, and accepted my reality. I stopped longing for the life I once had—family homes, comfort, material stability—and started building what I truly valued: peace, safety, and space to grow.

Today, home means something new. It’s a place I can breathe. It doesn’t need to be perfect—just mine. And when the time comes to transition into permanent housing, I’ll do so with clarity and a stronger sense of who I am and what I need.

Final Thought: Sometimes the Hardest Place to Heal Is Where You Sleep

In 42 years, I’ve lived in many places:
In Guyana, where I felt safe in my family’s arms.
In Toronto, where I shared joy with my parents.
In Ottawa, where laughter and heartbreak coexisted with friends.
In Ajax, where holidays brought warmth and love.

And now—here. In a small transitional space with a rainbow-hued living room and a red armchair where I write this very blog. It’s not permanent. But it’s mine.

Even in discomfort, clarity can grow—clarity about what you deserve, what you need, and how to name your truth.

It’s not just the walls that protect you. It’s your mindset. Your rituals. Your community. Your journey to mental wellness.

To my readers:

Reflect on how the people we live with can shape our sense of safety—more than the walls around us ever could.

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?