Being a mom is already a full-time, no-days-off, ride-or-die commitment. But being a mom with bipolar disorder—who’s clawed her way out of addiction and still wrestles with manic episodes? That’s another level. That’s a battlefield most people never see. And if I’m being honest, most people don’t want to.
There are so many misconceptions floating around—about addiction, mental illness, and motherhood. People want to box me in: either I’m an “inspiration” or a “hot mess.” Nobody talks about what it really feels like to live in this body, raise kids with this brain, carry this past, and still get up every damn day and show the hell up.
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This Isn’t a Diagnosis. This Is My Life.
Let me be clear: bipolar disorder is not just mood swings or a bad day. It’s not “Oh, she’s just being dramatic.” Nah. It’s racing thoughts that won’t shut up. It’s impulsivity that makes your heart race. It’s full-blown mania that convinces you that you don’t need sleep, food, or anyone’s advice—including your own damn intuition.
And when you’re a mom in the middle of that storm? You don’t get to opt out. You still pack lunches. You still read bedtime stories with a voice that shakes. You still smile while your brain’s on fire.
Now layer that with addiction. Years of it. The kind that costs everything—relationships, dignity, custody, self-worth. I didn’t start using to be reckless. I used because I was trying to survive a life that already felt impossible. I was trying to quiet what I didn’t have the language to explain.
But I got clean. Not once. Not easily. But for real. And I’ve stayed clean. Through temptation. Through trauma. Through the kind of stress that makes relapse feel like a warm, familiar hug. Still, I don’t pick up. Not because I’m superhuman, but because I’ve got kids who look at me like I’m their whole damn world—and I refuse to disappear on them.
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What People Don’t See (But Should)
There are moments of joy in this chaos—real, steady joy. When my daughter climbs into my lap, safe. When my son belly laughs in the other room. When I realize I’m building a life I used to dream of, sober.
But those aren’t the only moments. There are also moments of complete exhaustion. Of overwhelm. Of shame. Of silence so loud it roars.
I wish people understood that living with bipolar disorder while parenting through trauma and addiction recovery isn’t a story of failure or strength—it’s both. It’s not a clean-cut success story. It’s a jagged, bloodstained, still-writing-the-ending kind of truth.
You don’t get to call me “strong” unless you understand what that strength cost. Unless you’ve seen me cry behind a closed bathroom door just to make it through the day.
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What I’ve Learned the Hard Way
✦ Self-care isn’t a luxury. It’s how I stay alive.
Not the cute, influencer kind of self-care either. I’m talking real-deal survival: sleep, therapy, boundaries, saying no even when it pisses people off, canceling plans when I feel like I might unravel.
✦ Vulnerability is my superpower.
I used to pretend I was okay, even when I was falling apart. Now? I’m done with that. I speak my truth—even the messy parts. Especially the messy parts. Because pretending doesn’t help anyone. Honesty connects us. It reminds people they’re not the only ones drowning.
✦ Healing isn’t linear.
There are days I win. Days I just make it through. And days I barely survive. All of those are valid. All of those count. Progress is messy. So is motherhood. So is recovery.
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To Anyone Walking a Similar Road:
Be kind to yourself. Stop comparing your pain to someone else’s highlight reel. Stop pretending you’re fine when you’re not.
You don’t have to be “strong” every day. You just have to keep going.
There will be backslides. There will be dark days. But there will also be light—real, warm light that breaks through when you least expect it. And when that light shows up? You’ll realize you are the one who created it.
You are not alone. You are not broken. You are becoming.
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The Realest Truth I Know
Being a bipolar mom in recovery isn’t some motivational tagline. It’s a complicated, exhausting, beautiful, infuriating, joyful, terrifying journey. But it’s mine. And I’ve earned every scar.
So next time someone says, “Wow, I don’t know how you do it…”
I’ll smile, and think:
“Neither do I. But I do. And that’s enough.”
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Want to support someone like me?
Educate yourself. Ask real questions. Show up. Offer help without judgment. Don’t assume the worst—or the best. Just be there. And if you’ve lived this life too? I see you. You are not invisible. You are not alone.
We’re still here. Still fighting. Still mothering. And that? That’s power.
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🖤 Kavi
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