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.
