Riding the High: When Everything Feels Too Possible
Intro
There’s a side of bipolar disorder that often gets misunderstood—even romanticized. It’s not the depression, the sadness, or the isolation. It’s the high. The burst of energy, the rush of confidence, the thrill of risk-taking, the surge of adrenaline. It’s the feeling that anything—everything—is possible. When I’m in that state, the world doesn’t just open up—it explodes with potential. I feel brilliant, magnetic, unstoppable. Until I’m not.
This post isn’t just for those of us who ride those highs. It’s for the people who walk beside us. The ones who watch with concern as we talk faster, sleep less, spend more, take bigger risks, or start projects that seem out of character. If you’ve ever looked into the eyes of someone you love and wondered, Is this excitement—or is something wrong?—this is for you.
Because mania and hypomania don’t always look like illness. Sometimes, they look like charisma. Like ambition. Like joy. But inside, they can be exhausting, disorienting, and even dangerous. I want to help you understand what we feel, so you can better recognize the signs, offer support with compassion, and walk with us—without judgment—even when the path feels like a tightrope.
1. What Mania Feels Like From the Inside
Imagine waking up one day and feeling like you’ve finally tapped into your full potential. You’re a rockstar. You’re unstoppable. No one else sees the world like you do. Ideas come faster than you can write them down. Your words feel like poetry. Your plans feel like genius. Everything makes sense—until it doesn’t.
That’s what mania (or hypomania) can feel like from the inside. It often starts quietly: a little more energy, a little less sleep, a brighter mood. But then it picks up speed. I talk faster—though I don’t realize I am. I get louder, bolder. I interrupt, bounce between topics. I say “yes” to everything—new hobbies, big spending, risky decisions. The world feels alive and urgent. Everything needs to happen now, and I truly believe I can do it all.
And it doesn’t always feel bad. In fact, it can feel euphoric. I feel capable, magnetic, full of purpose. I’m more social, more outgoing, more “on.” It’s easy to mistake it for healing—for finally feeling better. But underneath the sparkle is a kind of restlessness, a buzzing in my chest that won’t stop. I think I’m doing everything, but I don’t notice the trail of half-finished projects or the friends who quietly begin to pull away. I feel like I’m flying, and I don’t always see the ground rushing up beneath me.
It’s not joy. It’s pressure wearing the mask of brilliance. It’s the fuse glowing with intensity, leading straight to dynamite.
Sometimes I take on things I can’t finish. Sometimes I spend money I don’t have. Sometimes I say things I can’t take back. Even when the crash doesn’t come immediately, there’s always a cost. And even small consequences can feel huge once the high fades. That’s when shame creeps in. That’s when the depression often follows.
From the outside, I might look energized or ambitious. Maybe even impressive. But inside? I’m often running on borrowed time, borrowed energy—and yes, sometimes borrowed money. That’s why catching the signs early matters. Not just for me, but for the people who love me.
2. What Loved Ones Often See (and Misunderstand)
You might think, Wow, they’re finally getting things done, or They’re so inspired lately. Maybe even, They’re finally happy, or It’s so nice to see them joyful again. And at first, it can feel like a relief. But if you start to feel like you’re watching a fast-moving train picking up speed with no brakes—or like you’re running to catch up—you’re not wrong to worry.
You may notice them sleeping less but insisting they’re fine. Starting new projects while leaving others scattered in their wake. Spending impulsively. Talking in rapid-fire bursts. Jumping from one idea to the next with a kind of breathless momentum. There may be more arguments, more grand plans, more risk—and fewer quiet moments of connection.
You might try to point out what you’re seeing, only to be brushed off—or shut down. We can get defensive. Euphoric. Dismissive. Because from the inside, this feels amazing. Being told something might be wrong can feel like someone’s trying to take that feeling away. And we don’t always see the symptoms the way you do. If you ask me, I never “talk too fast”—I’m just trying to keep up with the speed of my thoughts. When I shift topics mid-sentence, I see the thread connecting them, even if it’s just in my head.
You might feel conflicted: Should I be worried or just happy they’re smiling again? That’s the hard part. Mania can be both dazzling and destructive. And the signs are often subtle—until they aren’t. If you’ve known me a long time, you might even dismiss some of these shifts as just part of my personality. But sometimes, the “subtle” signs aren’t subtle at all. You just haven’t been taught what to look for.
What we need in those moments isn’t panic or control—it’s gentle grounding. Not confrontation born from fear, but connection born from care. Mania isn’t just “being in a good mood.” And unfortunately, this is also one of the hardest times to talk to us about mental health. Any concern can sound like criticism. It can feel like jealousy. Like ridicule. And that’s the trap.
Mania is a shift in brain chemistry that can blur reality, distort judgment, and strain relationships. As someone living with bipolar disorder, I know where a manic episode can lead—into dissociation, into psychosis. That’s not a place I want to go. But I also don’t want to be dragged down when I finally feel good.
3. How to Offer Support Without Shaming
Supporting someone through mania or hypomania isn’t about control—it’s about compassion. And I know that’s not always easy. You might be scared. We might be scared. You might feel helpless. We often feel helpless, too. You might be frustrated or exhausted from past cycles—and truthfully, so are we. We don’t always express it, but this rollercoaster isn’t fun for us either. How you show up during a high can deeply shape how we experience it—and how willing we are to hear you.
Start gently. Lead with curiosity, not confrontation. Saying something like, “You’ve seemed really energized lately—how are you feeling?” opens a conversation. Saying, “You’re out of control,” slams the door. Also, try to avoid listing symptoms. We’re your loved one—not a diagnosis checklist. Even a comment like, “You’re talking fast,” can feel like a judgment. What you might see as rapid speech, I experience as trying to keep up with my racing thoughts.
Use observation with care. “I” statements are often recommended, but not always effective. For me, hearing “I’m worried about you” can sound like “I have a problem with you.” Instead, connect with me. My husband saying he missed me in bed at night, or asking to help with one of my projects—those are openings I can receive.
Avoid minimizing or mocking. Even casual jokes like “You’re so bipolar today” cut deep. We already feel vulnerable. Shame shuts us down faster than anything—and makes it harder to come down safely.
Help us slow down, not shut down. Invite us into calming routines. Make a sandwich and ask to share it. Suggest a walk. Say you need a quiet night. My husband says he needs to snuggle—it helps him, and gently grounds me. Support us without removing our agency.
Have the hard conversations when we’re stable. If we’ve made wellness agreements ahead of time, like my sleep threshold rule, stick to them. If not, try to wait until we’re calm to talk through what’s happening. Respect is everything.
Most importantly, don’t confuse love with control. You don’t have to fix us. You just have to love us through it—with steadiness, with softness, with grace.
4. Knowing When (and How) to Intervene
There’s a point when concern becomes urgency—when a manic or hypomanic episode crosses the line into danger. Knowing when to step in—and how—is one of the hardest things a loved one may ever have to do.
Trust your instincts—but don’t panic. If we’re not sleeping at all, becoming paranoid, showing signs of delusion, or putting ourselves or others at risk, it’s time to act. That might mean contacting our doctor, reaching out to a therapist, or calling a local crisis line.
This is not the time to rely on Google. If you’re unsure, speak to someone who knows us well. In my life, that’s my husband. My friends know he can read me better than anyone—and knows when it’s time to act.
If we have a wellness plan or crisis agreement, use it. If not, lead with compassion and concern. Ask yourself: How do I protect them without stripping away their dignity?
Avoid ultimatums or threats. Communicate openly, clearly, and gently—even if we can’t hear it right away. And take care of yourself, too. Your love is a gift—but you’re allowed to set boundaries and seek support. We don’t want to be the reason you burn out. We’d rather you take a break than walk away forever.
We might say things we don’t mean. We might not act like ourselves. But underneath the episode is someone who loves you—and needs you—even when we can’t say so.
5. Loving Us Through the Highs
Loving someone with bipolar disorder means loving them through the highs—not just the lows. And that can be incredibly hard. Mania doesn’t always feel like a crisis—but it can be. It can strain relationships, create confusion, and stir deep emotional exhaustion.
But your love—steady, kind, nonjudgmental—is a powerful anchor.
You don’t need to save us. Just stay close. Ask questions. Offer space, but not distance. Remind us, in quiet ways, that we are still tethered to reality—and to people who care.
Even when we seem “fine,” we may be fragile. Even when we push you away, we want connection. Even when we can’t ask for help, we still need it.
And when the high fades, your presence is often what helps us come back to ourselves.