The Tiny Hope Rituals That Keep Me Going
1. Why Tiny Rituals Matter
When you’re living with bipolar disorder—or any mental health condition that shifts your energy, moods, or motivation—consistency can feel nearly impossible. The days don’t always follow patterns. Some mornings I wake up with momentum; others, I can barely make it out of bed. Big goals or long-term plans often feel too far away to hold onto. That’s where tiny rituals come in.
For me, “tiny” can mean anything from taking a shower to putting on clean clothes. It might be brushing my teeth or simply saying “hi” to my husband. On really hard days, that is the ritual. These small acts are mine to define—and they count, even when they don’t look like much from the outside.
Tiny rituals give me structure when everything feels unpredictable. They create rhythm in the middle of emotional chaos. And maybe most importantly—they remind me that I have choices, even on days when it feels like everything is being decided for me. Or on the days when I can’t make decisions at all.
Over the years, I’ve learned what rituals work for me—and I’ve also learned they don’t always stay the same. What helps on one day might not help on another. That’s okay. The rhythm doesn’t have to be perfect—it just has to be mine. When something doesn’t work, it’s not failure. It’s just a sign to adjust.
These rituals aren’t about productivity or performance. They’re about presence. They help anchor me to the moment I’m in—not the one I wish I was in. Lighting a candle, brushing my hair, stepping outside for three minutes of fresh air… these things don’t fix everything, but they remind me I’m someone worth caring for. They help me choose joy or peace, even in small, quiet ways.
Most of the time, no one else notices these rituals. But I notice. I see when I show up for myself. I feel the difference when I do one kind thing for me, no matter how small. It reminds me that I still have power. I still have agency. It’s like managing a physical illness—just like someone might use food to help regulate their blood sugar, I use rituals to regulate my hope.
And over time, those small choices? They build something much bigger: they build hope.
2. My Hope Rituals (The Tiny List That Helps Me Stay Grounded)
These aren’t big, dramatic routines. They’re small, quiet actions that help me survive the tough days—and sometimes, even enjoy the good ones a little more. I don’t do them all every day. I don’t follow a checklist or a perfect order. But they’re always there, waiting like soft places to land.
1. Making My Bed (Even If I Get Back In It)
This doesn’t mean a hotel-perfect bedspread. Just pulling the sheet up to the pillow helps me feel like I’ve done something. It creates a visual “reset” for my day—even if I crawl back in later.
2. Talking to One Safe Person
Just one. Someone who knows me well and doesn’t need a full explanation. A simple, “I’m not in a good place,” is often enough to keep that lifeline open.
3. Drinking Water (or Something That Grounds Me)
A glass of water. A cup of tea. Orange juice with vitamins. Whatever I choose, it’s intentional. It’s care. It tells my body: you matter.
4. Brushing My Hair
Sometimes I do it. Sometimes I ask my husband to. Either way, it reminds me that I’m real. That I deserve care, even when I don’t feel lovable.
5. Lighting a Candle or Using a Wax Melter
Aromatherapy works for me. Certain smells lift my mood. A flicker of light is a reminder not to give up.
6. Doing One Gentle Thing for My Space
Wiping a counter. Moving a mug. It’s not about cleaning—it’s about giving myself dignity in my environment. Sometimes that one thing turns into more. Sometimes not. Both are okay.
7. Saying One Kind Thing to Myself
Even when I don’t believe it. Especially then. I keep affirmation cards nearby for when I need help finding a kind voice.
8. Music Without Pressure
No need to dance or sing. Just sound. I have playlists ready—songs that match my mood or lift it gently. Some days, one song on repeat is enough.
9. Choosing a “Next Thing”
Not a to-do list. Just one step. One gentle movement forward. A way to keep going when everything else feels stuck.
3. Hope Is Built in Small Moments
There were times in my life when I believed hope had to be something big—an epiphany, a breakthrough, a dramatic shift. I thought it had to arrive with clarity and light, like a switch being flipped. Hope was supposed to be a feeling—something positive and natural. But the longer I’ve lived with bipolar disorder, the more I’ve come to understand: hope is often something you build, not something you feel. And most of the time, it starts in the smallest, quietest ways.
It lives in a sip of water. A made bed. A flicker of candlelight. A text message you almost didn’t send. It lives in the decision to brush your hair or open a window. It lives in choosing to show up for yourself when your mind feels like your enemy and your energy is gone. Hope isn’t loud. It’s not flashy. It doesn’t come with a banner or a trumpet. But it stays—when you feed it, gently and consistently.
For some people, hope may come naturally. But for me, I have to create it. I have to build it, one intentional moment at a time.
You don’t need to do everything. You don’t need a perfect routine or a magical mindset. You just need one small thing. And then maybe, when you’re ready, another. What matters most is that it’s yours—your version of comfort, grounding, care.
And if today, your only ritual was reading this post and thinking, Maybe I’ll try one thing,—that’s enough.
You showed up. You reached for something steadier.
That matters.
You matter.