Bipolar and Motherhood: How I Keep Showing Up
Intro
Motherhood is already a wild ride—filled with joy, exhaustion, chaos, and beauty. And it doesn’t come with a manual. But navigating it with bipolar disorder adds a layer of complexity that most parenting books don’t cover. With no manual for parenting and no manual for bipolar, it’s easy to feel doubly lost. There are days when I feel unstoppable, and others when simply getting out of bed feels like a victory. Yet somehow, I keep showing up. Not perfectly, not always gracefully, but with heart. This post is my honest look into what that means for me—how I manage the highs and lows of bipolar while raising children, and the tools, support, and inner strength that help me keep going.
1. The Dual Identity: Mother and Bipolar Warrior
When I became a mother, I was so excited. I wanted my son and was completely in love with him before he was even born. Even then, I had experienced bipolar depression—though I had no idea what it was. I wouldn’t be diagnosed with bipolar disorder until my first child was well into his teenage years. That meant I spent more than a decade trying to parent through unpredictable mood swings, emotional crashes, and overwhelming stress without any understanding of why it all felt so hard. I just thought I was failing—at motherhood, at self-control, at being the calm, consistent mom I desperately wanted to be.
My start to motherhood was rocky. I had no idea how much sleep deprivation would affect me, and my baby’s colic often triggered emotional episodes. I was a single mother, and while my friends and family helped when they could, I lived alone and carried most of the weight myself. In a hypomanic state, I “fell” in love quickly and entered into a very brief marriage that gave me a second child. At 21, I had two children under two. Then, after a one-night stand, I had twins. By the time I was 22, I was a single mother of four children under the age of three. Looking back, I’m honestly amazed we all survived.
I didn’t stop being someone who has bipolar disorder—I just didn’t know that’s what it was. I didn’t understand why I acted, reacted, and lived the way I did. I thought I had to handle it all, and sometimes I could. But often, the moods, the stress, and the pressure of parenting took over. I think those closest to me just saw anger issues or moodiness. I wish now I had been able to bring the balance and insight I have today into those earlier years.
Looking back, I can see the signs so clearly. The bursts of energy where I’d deep clean the house at midnight, start big projects, and take on too much. Then the crashes—days when getting dressed felt impossible and even answering a question from my kids was too much. I chalked it up to stress, to personality flaws, to just being “too emotional.”
When I was finally diagnosed with bipolar disorder, it was both a shock and a relief. It didn’t erase the guilt I’d been carrying, but it gave it a name. And more importantly, it gave me a path forward. I realized I hadn’t been a “bad mom.” I was an undiagnosed mom doing her best with an invisible illness.
Now, I parent—and grandparent—with a different kind of awareness. Sadly, my older children were already teenagers by the time I began to understand what was really happening. I lost years to inconsistency, exhaustion, and emotional chaos. But I also gained resilience. I still have hard days, but I now have tools, language, and a growing sense of compassion—for myself, and for the journey that brought me here.
2. The Hard Days
There are days when bipolar disorder doesn’t just sit in the background—it takes the wheel. On those days, motherhood feels like trying to parent through a storm with no visibility. Depression can feel like parenting underwater—everything is muffled, heavy, and slow. The energy to engage, to play, to even smile can disappear. And the guilt? It floods in fast.
Then come the hypomanic or manic phases. When I have too much energy, too many ideas, and not nearly enough patience. I could go from enthusiastically organizing the entire house to snapping over spilled juice in a matter of seconds. The overstimulation of everyday parenting—crying toddlers, endless questions, constant noise and mess—can turn up the volume on everything until I feel like I might explode.
The truth is, some days, I did. There were times my kids found me crying on the bathroom floor. Other times, they watched me throw things out of sheer frustration and overwhelm. Those moments are hard to admit, but they happened—and they mattered.
What makes it even harder is how invisible it all is. On the outside, I looked like a mom who was sometimes too strict, sometimes too scattered, and sometimes just “too much.” Inside, I was constantly battling to hold it all together, terrified of losing control, and unsure how to explain what I was feeling—especially when I didn’t even understand it myself. Add to that the challenge of managing a child’s emotions on top of my own, and it often became unclear who was feeling what—or how to even take a breath.
On the hardest days, I’d silently ask myself: Do other moms feel like this? Is everyone else coping better than me? Am I ruining my kids? The isolation was as heavy as the mood swings. But the worst kind of loneliness wasn’t physical—it was emotional and mental. No one truly understood what I was going through. I got plenty of well-meaning parenting advice, and even personal advice, but most of it felt completely unrealistic for someone living with bipolar disorder.
And yet, even in those moments—I still showed up. Sometimes that looked like cuddling on the couch instead of running around the park. Sometimes it meant eating cake for dinner because cooking felt impossible. Sometimes it meant crying in the shower, wiping my face, and reading a bedtime story like everything was fine. Those moments didn’t make me a failure—they made me human. A mom doing her best under the weight of something most people couldn’t see.
3. My Coping Toolkit
Over the years, I’ve built a mental health toolkit—not a perfect one, and not one that works every single time—but one that helps me show up more consistently and with more compassion, both for my kids and myself.
1. Medication and Therapy
Getting a diagnosis was the first step. Finding the right medication and a therapist who truly understood bipolar disorder changed everything. It didn’t “fix” me—and it didn’t need to—but it gave me a foundation.
2. Routine, But Flexible
I thrive on structure: sleep schedules, meals, quiet time. But I’ve learned not to be rigid. Some days fall apart, and that’s okay. The goal isn’t perfection—it’s predictability and peace.
3. Asking for Help (Even When It’s Hard)
I’ve always told my kids that asking for help isn’t weakness—but for a long time, I only asked for practical things. Now I’m learning to be emotionally honest, telling my husband when I need to vent, texting friends when I’m struggling, or asking for quiet presence when words are too much.
4. Safe Zones and Soft Landings
Whether it’s a peaceful room, a playlist, or a stash of fidget toys for my grandkids—these small comfort rituals help on overwhelming days.
5. Self-Forgiveness
I’m not perfect. I mess up. But now I apologize, I explain, and I show my kids that love and repair are always possible.
6. Knowing My Warning Signs
I can spot when I’m heading into depression or hypomania. Catching it early gives me space to pivot—whether that means resting more, canceling plans, or checking in with someone I trust.
4. Asking for Help Is Strength, Not Weakness
For most of my life, I thought strength meant doing it all alone. I carried the weight of motherhood, moods, and survival without letting anyone in. It wasn’t until I found a therapist who helped me understand my diagnosis that I finally began to breathe again.
Bit by bit, I learned to admit the truth: “I’m tired.” “I’m overwhelmed.” “I need help.” I started speaking up—asking my husband to just listen, texting a friend to say, “I’m not okay,” and learning how to sit in support without needing to be fixed.
Being honest with my kids was part of that growth too—especially when one of my children was diagnosed. I could say, “I’m not in a good place,” and help them name their own feelings. That honesty built trust and helped them see that it’s okay to not be okay.
It doesn’t undo the damage from my undiagnosed years, but it opens the door for connection now. And that’s enough.
5. The Wins, Big and Small
With bipolar disorder, the big wins sometimes feel rare. So I’ve learned to treasure the small ones: getting out of bed, taking my meds, pausing instead of yelling. These are quiet victories, but they count—and if you’re reading this, you’ve probably had several wins today, even if you haven’t noticed.
And there are big wins too. Like when my kids and grandkids hug me, say “I love you,” or come to me just needing their mom. My adult daughter—one of the children who saw the hardest parts of me—still lays her head on my shoulder and tells me she loves me. That is everything.
My legacy isn’t perfection—it’s persistence. My kids hug me in public and say “I love you” without shame. Somehow, even in the mess, I taught them love.
6. Words to Other Moms Like Me
If you’re a mom living with bipolar disorder—or even just sensing that something inside you feels off—I want you to know this: you’re not broken. You’re not a bad mom. You’re not alone.
There’s no manual for parenting, and there’s certainly no manual for parenting with a mental health condition. So if you’ve been stumbling, crying in the bathroom, yelling when you wish you hadn’t, racing ahead, taking on too much, or constantly feeling one step behind—you are not failing. You’re fighting battles most people can’t see, and you’re still showing up. That matters more than you know.
It’s okay to need help. It’s okay to rest. It’s okay to not become the version of “mom” you once thought you had to be. Your kids don’t need perfect. They need you—imperfect, honest, loving, and trying. Your openness might even help them navigate their own mental health one day.
There will be hard days. But there will also be belly laughs, quiet snuggles, spontaneous “I love you’s,” and the kind of moments that remind you why you keep going. And you can keep going. You’re allowed to grow, to change, to heal. Strength doesn’t always look like lifting the mountain. Sometimes, it’s just moving one shovel of dirt at a time.
I see you. I believe in your strength—even if it’s quiet, trembling, or barely holding on. And if no one’s told you lately: you’re doing better than you think.