I was 28 years old when a psychiatrist diagnosed me with bipolar disorder. It happened in a single 45-minute appointment with someone I had never met before. He asked me questions about my drinking habits, my spending, my relationships. He tallied up some numbers on his computer. And by the time I walked out of his office, I had a prescription for a mood stabilizer and a new label attached to my name: borderline bipolar disorder.
At first, I didn’t tell anyone. Not even my husband.
For some reason, “bipolar” felt bigger, heavier than the anxiety and depression I had wrestled with for years. Those were struggles I could talk about. After all, it seemed like every other Millennial was dealing with anxiety and depression, too. But bipolar? That felt different. That felt like something I had to keep to myself.
A Long Road to Acceptance
My mental health struggles started when I was a senior in high school, but looking back, I know the panic attacks didn’t just come out of nowhere. They started after I was sexually assaulted by my high school boyfriend. I reported him, and while part of me knew it was the right thing to do, another part of me still wishes I hadn’t. The shame that followed, the whispers in the hallways, the unwanted attention—I felt like I had lost control over my own story. My body would go into fight-or-flight mode at random moments, my heart racing, my breathing out of control. I had no idea how to cope with what had happened to me, so I tried to push it down and pretend I was fine. But my body knew better.
In college, my struggles with anxiety and depression deepened. Some days, I couldn’t get out of bed. Other days, I felt so restless and on edge that I could barely sit still. I thought I was drinking like everyone else my age did—at parties, at bars, with friends. But I always overdid it. The nights blurred together, and blackouts became terrifyingly normal. I’d wake up with no memory of how I got home, sometimes with texts from friends asking if I was okay, sometimes with nothing but a pit in my stomach telling me I wasn’t.
By my early twenties, I had cycled through a dozen different medications. Each one came with the hope that maybe this time, I’d feel normal. Maybe this time, I’d get my brain to quiet down. But nothing seemed to stick. I kept searching for answers, convinced that if I just found the right pill, everything else would fall into place.
I graduated from college, got a big girl job, and got married, thinking that a grown-up life would help ground me. And in many ways, it did—I had someone who loved me unconditionally and would support me no matter what. But I was still struggling, still caught in a cycle of self-destruction that I couldn’t quite break.
Then I had my son.
Motherhood changed everything. Holding that perfect, tiny human in my arms, I knew something had to change. I didn’t want my son to grow up watching his momma barely hold herself together. I wanted to be someone he could rely on, someone who was steady, healthy, present. He became my catalyst—the reason I finally committed to taking control of my mental health.
When he was about 3 years old, I made the decision to quit drinking. I didn’t want to rely on alcohol to cope anymore. I wanted real coping mechanisms, ones that wouldn’t leave me feeling ashamed and out of control. I started seeing a therapist regularly. I built healthier habits—leaning into running, journaling, strength training, and eating foods that made me feel good instead of just numbing me. For the first time, I wasn’t just looking for a quick fix. I was building a life that actually supported my mental health instead of working against it.
What Really Matters
For a long time, I thought getting better meant finding the right diagnosis, the right medication, the right solution that would finally make everything click. But as I started making real, lasting changes in my life—cutting out alcohol, running regularly, going to therapy, focusing on my mental and physical health—I realized something important: healing isn’t about a label.
It’s about what you do every single day to take care of yourself.
In a recent therapy session, I brought up my bipolar diagnosis. After almost a decade, I still questioned whether it was accurate. I told my therapist I wondered if that doctor—who met me once, for just 45 minutes—had gotten it wrong. Maybe I wasn’t bipolar. Maybe it was just trauma, anxiety, depression, or something else entirely.
Her response stopped me in my tracks.
"Maybe you do have it. Maybe you don’t. But does it really matter what label you put on it? If you’re taking care of yourself and doing what you need to do to manage your mental health, who cares what you call it? You can call it whatever you want."
That conversation shifted something in me. For so many years, I had been fixated on the diagnosis, on whether it fit, on what it meant about me. But the truth is, it didn’t change anything. The work I was doing to take care of myself—the therapy, the movement, the journaling, the way I fueled my body—that was what really mattered. Not the label. Not the name on the prescription bottle. Just the fact that I was doing what I needed to do to be the healthiest, happiest version of myself.
Moving Forward
After nearly nine years, I was able to wean off the mood stabilizer with no issues. But when I tried to stop taking my anxiety medication? That didn’t go so well. And you know what? That’s okay.
There’s no one-size-fits-all answer to mental health. Some people need medication, some don’t. Some people heal through therapy, some through movement, some through a combination of things. What I’ve learned is that the only thing that really matters is finding what works for you.
For me, that means running. It means prioritizing sleep, spending time in nature, and moving my body in ways that feel good. It means leaning on my therapist, staying active in my mental health journey, and accepting that sometimes, I need extra help in the form of medication—and there’s nothing wrong with that.
Most importantly, it means letting go of the need to define myself by a diagnosis.
You Are More Than a Label
If you’ve ever felt trapped by a diagnosis—or the lack of one—I want you to know this: you are more than a label.
You are not defined by a term on a chart. You are not less than because of a prescription you take or a struggle you carry. What matters isn’t the name of your condition. What matters is that you’re doing what you need to do to take care of yourself.
For years, I thought my diagnosis was the most important part of my mental health journey. Now, I realize it was never about the label. It was always about the work I was doing—the choices I made every day to show up for myself, to be there for my family, to live a life that feels good.
That’s what matters. That’s what I’m holding onto.
