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.

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?

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.