Heaven is a Feeling

Heaven is a Feeling

A Somatic Reflection on Mood, Memory, and Spiritual Connection

When you live with bipolar disorder, grief doesn’t move in straight lines.

It spirals. Expands. Contracts.

It rises like altitude and drops like undertow, the nervous system responding long before the mind can make sense of anything.

Loss becomes a landscape.

A terrain of thin air and deep water.

A place you travel through with your whole body.

I’ve lost people I love. And every time, grief reshapes the inner world in ways that are both unpredictable and strangely sacred. Bipolar disorder amplifies this: emotions crest higher, sink deeper, and linger in the tissues like memory stored under the ribs.

Some days I feel lifted into clarity—

a wide mountaintop where everything is painfully precious and painfully exposed.

Other days I’m pulled to the bottom of a cold, quiet sea, learning how to breathe again through heaviness,

how to stay in my body when everything inside feels dim.

Clinically, this is emotional lability—the way mood, attachment, and grief collide.

But inside the lived experience,

it feels like following a voice I can no longer touch

yet still hear in my chest.

I used to think of spirituality as something above me—

a heaven, an afterlife, a place you go when the world gets too hard.

But grief changed that.

Bipolar disorder changed that.

The body changed that.

Now, spirituality feels more like sensation:

a shoreline at dawn,

a memory made spacious,

a warmth returning after a long stretch of cold.

It’s the moment the breath finally comes back

after you thought it wouldn’t.

It’s presence.

It’s connection.

It’s the sense that love doesn’t vanish,

even when the person does.

Heaven, I’ve learned, is not a destination—

it’s a feeling.

A moment where your nervous system remembers safety,

connection,

something soft and continuous.

It doesn’t require belief in another world.

It asks only that you stay in this one long enough

to feel something small, warm, and real.

Even what sinks can crystallize into light.

I think about this often—how the lowest point on earth is made of minerals rising, hardening, shining.

How the bottom of grief, the bottom of depression,

can sometimes produce a strange clarity.

Not joy—

but truth.

Not escape—

but presence.

When someone you love dies, the body continues to carry them.

In scent-memory, in breath, in the somatic pull toward what once felt like home.

Sometimes I imagine I’m following them across oceans,

or flying beside them at sunrise,

or standing with them on a wind-swept summit where nothing has been built yet.

These aren’t delusions.

They are attachment.

They are grief.

They are the nervous system trying to orient toward what was once safe.

And healing—slow, imperfect, nonlinear healing—

happens when we stop fighting the movement of grief

and let it guide us.

Up or down.

Back or forward.

Toward breath.

Toward presence.

Toward meaning.

If you’re grieving, if you’re living with bipolar disorder,

if you’re somewhere between the ocean floor and the top of a mountain:

you are not alone.

This world can feel unsteady.

Your body can feel unfamiliar.

Your memories can feel like they’re pulling you in two directions at once.

But there is a place inside you where connection survives.

Where breath returns.

Where love keeps its shape.

Where heaven isn’t elsewhere—

but here,

in the feeling of continuing on.

We breathe together.

We stay.

We keep going.

Reclamation: Returning to the Body After Bipolar Disorder, Loss, and Trauma

Reclamation: Returning to the Body After Bipolar Disorder, Loss, and Trauma

Grounding in the Present

I’ve been thinking a lot about what it means to reclaim something—not as ownership, but as connection.

Now living in Mexico City, I’m learning how to root softly, to listen to the land beneath me, to arrive gently in each day. This act of listening, of returning to the body, is my way of reclaiming presence after years of feeling fractured by bipolar disorder, loss, and trauma.

The Fracture

There was a time when I lived mostly in my mind—caught between extremes of energy and exhaustion, hope and despair.

Bipolar disorder can make the world feel too bright, too loud, and then suddenly colorless. It’s not just emotional turbulence; it’s a full-body experience that pulls you away from yourself.

When I lost my father suddenly, and later my mother, grief layered itself onto that existing fragility. Trauma, loss, and mental illness each taught my nervous system a different language of survival—and it took years before I could begin to translate them back into safety.

The Return Through Movement

Movement became my bridge back to myself.

Dance, in particular, offered a kind of nonverbal prayer—a way to breathe, to feel, to remember I existed beneath the diagnosis and the pain.

As a somatic therapist, I often invite clients to reconnect with the body, but my own practice began out of necessity. Through dance, I learned to notice the subtleties: the way breath moves through ribs, the grounding weight of my feet, the simple act of reaching toward sunlight. These were my first steps back toward wholeness.

Reclaiming as Relationship

Reclamation, for me, is not about taking back what was mine—it’s about learning to belong again.

To my body.
To my breath.
To this moment.
And now, to this place—Mexico City—with humility, reverence, and care for the history that holds it.

I move carefully here, not to claim space, but to be in relationship with it—to listen to the rhythm of the city, to notice the warmth of people, to learn from the stories that came long before mine.

Each day is an act of reciprocity: the land offers its grounding, and I offer my attention.

Living with Bipolar, Living in Balance

Even now, bipolar disorder remains a quiet undercurrent in my life.

I manage it through medication, therapy, movement, and community—but more than anything, through awareness. The same sensitivity that once overwhelmed me now serves as a guide. It reminds me to slow down, to tend, to rest. It allows me to meet others in their pain with empathy and understanding.

There’s still grief. There are still hard days. But I’ve learned that healing isn’t the absence of struggle—it’s the ability to meet that struggle with compassion.

The Invitation

Reclamation is an ongoing process.

Some days, it looks like dancing.
Other days, it’s rest, stillness, or simply breathing.
It’s not about perfection—it’s about presence.

Wherever you are in your journey, know this:
Your body remembers the way back.
You can begin again, softly, in connection—with yourself, with others, and with the world that holds you.

About the Author

Nicholas Duran, LMHC, is a queer, Mexican American somatic therapist and expressive arts practitioner offering virtual EMDR and body-based therapy throughout Washington State. Through movement, mindfulness, and creative expression, Nick helps clients reconnect to their inner wisdom and capacity for healing.

Living, Healing, and Creating with PTSD, Grief, and Bipolar Disorder

Living, Healing, and Creating with PTSD, Grief, and Bipolar Disorder

I often return to the same question: How do I keep living when so much has been lost?

The answer, for me, has never been simple. It has been forged in the layers of trauma, the long corridors of grief, and the unpredictable tides of bipolar disorder. My healing is not a straight line—it’s more like a dance. Sometimes chaotic, sometimes still. Always in movement.

PTSD: A Body That Remembers

My PTSD came in the aftermath of sudden loss. When my father died in his sleep, the world shifted violently. Shock rooted itself in my nervous system. Later, when my mother became ill with two aggressive cancers and eventually passed, those same body memories resurfaced. Even when my mind tried to reason, my body held onto the panic—the racing heart, the feeling that something terrible was about to happen again.

Healing has meant learning to trust my body without being ruled by it. Somatic practices, EMDR, mindfulness, and even the expressive arts have helped me create new associations. A memory can still surface, but now I have anchors—breath, movement, touchstones of safety—to guide me back.

Grief: The Ocean That Never Fully Recedes

Grief has been the most constant companion in my life. It comes in waves that crash without warning. After my dad, after my mom, after relationships that ended in absence and distance, I’ve felt the ocean rise inside me.

There have been mornings when I couldn’t imagine moving forward. But grief, as much as it devastates, has also deepened my love. I feel my parents’ presence in small, daily ways—the warmth of sunlight, the rhythm of music they adored, the tenderness of remembering. Grief has taught me that love doesn’t end when a body is gone. It changes form, and if I let it, it can still guide me.

Bipolar Disorder: Living in Two Worlds

Bipolar disorder means my inner weather shifts dramatically. Depression feels like fog—a heavy barrier between me and the world. I show up for my clients, for my creative work, but inside there are days when I want to disappear. Mania, on the other hand, has swept me into exhilarating but unsustainable heights, where sleep vanishes and thoughts scatter like fireworks.

After my dad’s death, I had my first manic episode. It was frightening—an unraveling. Since then, I’ve had to learn how to live with the reality of bipolar: medication, therapy, daily practices, and—maybe most importantly—self-compassion. Healing for me means not just managing symptoms, but accepting all of my cycles as part of who I am.

Creativity as Survival

What keeps me here is creation. Dance, writing, therapy, music—each gives me a way to turn chaos into meaning. I have choreographed grief into movement, written trauma into stories, and guided others through their own processes of healing. Creativity doesn’t erase pain, but it transforms it. It gives it shape. It lets me share it so I’m not carrying it alone.

Choosing Love, Every Day

Now, after so much loss, I practice gratitude for what remains. For the small joys—my dog’s gentle presence, the first sip of coffee, sunlight through the window. For the bigger loves—my marriage, my community, the clients I walk alongside.

I don’t pretend that PTSD, grief, or bipolar disorder are “overcome.” They are part of my landscape. But I’ve learned that healing doesn’t mean erasing wounds; it means living fully with them, making beauty alongside the ache, and choosing—again and again—to stay.

What Does Peace Look Like? Reflections on Bipolar Depression and Grief

What Does Peace Look Like?
Reflections on Bipolar Depression and Grief

When I’m depressed, most people don’t notice.
I still work. I still show up. I’ve presented choreography on stage, supported my therapy clients, attended meetings. But beneath the surface, it’s fog. Thick and impenetrable. A barrier between me and the rest of the world. The people closest to me can sometimes tell—through my withdrawal, my silences, my absence in spaces I once filled.

Grief fuels my depression.
After my father died suddenly, it came like a tidal wave.
When my mother was diagnosed with two aggressive forms of cancer, it thickened into dread.
When the love of my life was deported from the United States, it hollowed out my future.
In winter. After a severe anxiety attack. When I feel truly alone.
It comes in waves.
It lasts for days, weeks, even months.
It takes me to the darkest corners of my psyche.

“What does peace look like?
An empty house,
sunlight and dust?
All alone,
without even my dog,
who will I find there?                                                                                                                           She’s gone,
she’s gone,
she’s gone, gone.”

These days, I’m flying home to an empty house filled with spirit and echoing history. My mother is gone. I won’t see her there again. Still, I go.

I go to be quiet.
To drink coffee.
To dance in the morning fog, cold sand beneath my feet.
To let the sea hold what I cannot.
To listen for her in the stillness.
To find myself.

“The sea, the sea, the sea, the sea—
swallow me,
swallow me,
swallow me,
swallow me.”

I know now that I live with bipolar disorder. I didn’t always have language for it. And I certainly didn’t want it. But I’ve come to feel gratitude for the shape it gives my life. It has carved out a vast well of empathy I can draw upon. It grounds me in the truth that I’m here to feel—fully, messily, beautifully.

“Will I find myself?
Is she in there somewhere—
blood pumping from my heart
only to flow back?”

Depression has taught me how to sit with pain, how to survive inside of it, and how to honor its passage. The work I do—creative, therapeutic, emotional—is not separate from my diagnosis. It’s deeply informed by it. And in the aftermath of loss, I surround myself with love. I practice gratitude every day—for the small things that make life worth living and the big things that bring joy and peace.

As a dear friend once said:
“It’s a club I didn’t want membership to, but wouldn’t trade for anything.”

I’ll end with this:
Peace isn’t a fixed state.
It’s a flicker, a fog, a quiet presence in the aftermath.
Sometimes, it’s letting the sea carry what’s too heavy.
Sometimes, it’s continuing to show up with a cracked-open heart.

You’ve Got Me Feeling Emotions: What Songs Reveal About Living with Bipolar Disorder

As a queer Mexican American therapist, former professional dancer, and researcher, I’ve always been fascinated by the ways art and mental health intertwine. Before becoming a counselor, I earned an MFA in dance, where I learned that movement, music, and creativity can express things words sometimes cannot. Later, while studying counseling psychology, I conducted a qualitative research project that asked: what can the songs of artists living with bipolar disorder teach us about their lived experiences?

When Mariah Carey belts out “You’ve got me feeling emotions higher than the heavens above,” she’s doing more than writing a catchy hook. She’s giving us insight into what it feels like to live with bipolar disorder.

Instead of focusing only on biographies and diagnoses, I turned to the art itself—the lyrics that carry the weight of lived experience.

Creativity and Bipolar Disorder: A Complex Relationship

“Creativity becomes both an outlet and a survival strategy.”

For decades, researchers have noticed that people with bipolar disorder are overrepresented in creative professions. Writers, painters, musicians, dancers—rates are consistently higher than average.

• Mania can fuel bursts of energy, confidence, productivity, and risk-taking.

• Depression can bring self-reflection, depth, and emotional honesty.

Most studies have focused on historical figures like Van Gogh, Sylvia Plath, and Ernest Hemingway. But I wanted to look at living artists shaping today’s music—artists who share their diagnosis publicly and weave their experiences directly into their songs.

The Study: Listening Closely

I analyzed songs by four artists who have spoken openly about their mental health and bipolar diagnoses:

• Mariah Carey

• Halsey

• Selena Gomez

• Chappell Roan

Two songs from each artist were selected, giving us an eight-song playlist. Using the DSM-5 as a guide, I looked for lyrics that reflected symptoms of mania and depression, as well as themes of substance use and empathy or connection.

What the Music Reveals

1. Mania in Lyrics

“Super graphic ultra modern girl / You can’t stop me, I’m invincible.” — Chappell Roan

Mania showed up most often in the songs, expressed through soaring confidence, late-night energy, and euphoric highs. Carey captures the rapture of elevated mood in “Emotions”: “I feel good, I feel nice, I’ve never felt so satisfied / I’m in love, I’m alive, intoxicated, flying high.”

Roan, in “Super Graphic Ultra Modern Girl,” channels the swagger of manic excess, while Halsey’s “3am” reveals the restless, sleepless urgency: “’Cause it’s 3am / And I’m calling everybody that I know.” Gomez offers a subtler version of mania’s uplift in “Rare”: “I don’t have it all, I’m not claiming to / But I know that I’m special.”

Taken together, these lyrics create a mosaic of mania: intoxicating highs, feelings of invincibility, bursts of connection, and moments of clarity—all powerful, but edged with risk.

2. Depression in Lyrics

“Know that my identity’s always gettin’ the best of me / I’m the worst of my enemies.” — Halsey
“Rose-colored glasses all distorted.” — Selena Gomez

Depression surfaced in lyrics as self-doubt, distorted perception, and emotional exhaustion. Halsey gives voice to the inner battle of identity in “Clementine,” while Gomez, in “Lose You to Love Me,” captures how heartbreak and depression can twist perception until even joy feels skewed. Carey leans into despair’s shadow in her ballads, describing the heaviness of loss and longing.

Roan, in “Casual,” reflects the weariness of repeated rejection: “I don’t wanna try if you don’t wanna stay / I’m tired of begging for somebody’s grace.”

Together, these lyrics show depression as both inward and outward—sometimes an internal battle with identity, sometimes a distortion of reality, and sometimes the sheer fatigue of surviving.

3. Substance Use

“I’m seeing colors when I close my eyes / Is it me or the chemicals inside?” — Chappell Roan

Substance use surfaced repeatedly as both metaphor and lived reality, often bound up with mania’s volatility. Halsey’s “3am” and “Clementine” depict blackout drinking and reckless abandon, the kind of choices that mirror mania’s impulsivity. Roan, in “Kaleidoscope,” blurs the boundary between chemical influence and emotional overwhelm, casting substance use as both escape and distortion.

Across these songs, substances appear as both escape and mirror—at times numbing pain, at others amplifying risk, but always echoing the instability of bipolar states.

4. Empathy and Connectedness

“We’re all in this together, you’re my only hope.” — Mariah Carey

Even amid chaos, the longing for connection remains a central thread. Carey’s “Save the Day” lifts this theme to a collective scale, calling for unity and shared responsibility. Roan, in “Casual,” pleads for something deeper than surface-level intimacy: “I don’t want it casual, I want it all.” Halsey’s “I don’t need anyone… I just need everyone and then some” captures the paradox of craving independence and closeness at once—a tension familiar to many navigating bipolar swings.

Together, these voices remind us that empathy and connection are not luxuries but lifelines. In their music, connection becomes both the salve for suffering and the anchor that keeps them tethered when emotions run to extremes.

Why This Matters

“These songs aren’t case studies—they’re emotional landscapes set to melody.”

Looking at the art itself—not just the artist’s biography—offers something immediate and raw. These songs aren’t clinical case studies; they’re emotional landscapes set to melody. They show us how symptoms feel from the inside, and how creativity becomes both an outlet and a survival strategy.

This perspective also matters for reducing stigma. Research shows that highlighting strengths—like resilience, empathy, and creativity—shifts public perception. Instead of seeing bipolar disorder only as disorder and dysfunction, we also see possibility, artistry, and humanity.

In therapy, acknowledging creative expression can be profoundly healing. Many clients report that creativity fosters identity, reduces stigma, and offers a lifeline during moments of despair.

Where We Go From Here

This project was a starting point. Future research could dive deeper into rhythm, beat, and performance—not just lyrics. It could look across art forms, from dance to theater to visual art. And it could include interviews with artists to explore how they themselves see creativity shaping their experience of bipolar disorder.

Art is more than expression—it’s data on lived experience, a tool for healing, and a bridge for empathy.

As Carey, Halsey, Roan, and Gomez remind us: the highs and lows of bipolar disorder are deeply human. And through their music, they invite us not just to listen—but to feel.

✨ Takeaway: Songs by artists with bipolar disorder don’t just entertain us—they educate us. They break down stigma, highlight strengths, and help us understand what it means to live at emotional extremes.