A Bipolar Woman’s Lived Experience with Transitional Housing

A House with No Peace

I moved into my first transitional home in March 2023 after two months in a shelter clouded by fear and hopelessness. I thought a new space would bring peace, a break from the chaos. But what I found was a shared basement apartment—split by a laundry room—and on the other side lived a mother and her two teenagers, all struggling with untreated mental illness.

Above me lived three women navigating drug addiction. Their late-night parties brought loud guests who knocked on my back door, yelling words I couldn’t understand—but feared deeply.

For someone living with Bipolar Disorder, home must be a place of calm. I began wedging chairs under my doors at night, trying to simulate safety. But I never truly felt safe. The noise, the footsteps above, the emotional tension—I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t heal.

This post explores the emotional toll of shared transitional housing—especially when your neighbors’ mental health struggles mirror or magnify your own.

Living in Limbo: When Shelter Doesn’t Feel Like Safety

For many, home is healing. It's where stress lifts and rest begins. But when your home is unstable—loud, chaotic, unpredictable—it becomes the opposite. Even with a roof over my head, I struggled with emotional and mental instability.

When home doesn’t feel safe, recovery becomes fragile. For those of us with Bipolar I Disorder, the ability to maintain sleep is crucial. Poor sleep disrupts brain function and triggers symptoms like paranoia, racing thoughts, appetite changes, medication mismanagement, or physical exhaustion. I experienced all of these.

Living in that first transitional home, I endured four hospitalizations between March and August 2023. I felt stuck—trapped between choosing homelessness or risking my mental stability.

Eventually, I was moved into a new triplex with a private entrance. It was beautiful, with real potential—but the chaos followed. Neighbours with untreated mental illness and substance use created a space filled with tension, volatility, and fear.

Still, this is where healing finally began. After a ninth hospitalization in late 2023, I started to reclaim myself. Trauma counselling, new medication, and deep rest gave me tools I didn’t have before. I returned to my transitional home with boundaries, support systems, and the strength to maintain wellness—despite my surroundings.

I no longer felt like I was living in limbo. I was finally present—and hopeful for the future.

Coping Strategies When You Can’t Change Your Environment

If you or someone you love is in transitional housing, here are strategies that helped me manage my mental health in unsafe or unpredictable environments:

• Focus on the Familiar - Surround yourself with comforting people and objects. Stay connected to your support team—therapists, doctors, friends, and family. Familiar voices can ground you.

• Build Structure & Routine - Create small rituals: daily walks, bedtime routines, mindfulness practices, or journaling. Healthy habits anchor you when everything else feels unstable.

• Set Boundaries - Learn to recognize who feels safe to be around. Not everyone in these environments will have your best interest in mind. Protect your time, energy, finances, and emotions.

• Seek Support - Reach out to professionals or peer support networks. You are not alone. Shared stories can inspire strength and offer new tools for growth.

Even when the outside world is uncontrollable, inner routines can give you power.

Seeking Autonomy: Planning for a True Sense of Home

Housing insecurity is a chapter—not your whole story.

Finding independence while living with Bipolar Disorder is hard, but not impossible. Before I left my shelter bed each morning, I’d repeat this mantra:
“You are peaceful, protected, loved, blessed, and highly favored. This is only for now, not forever. So get up, Onika, and get to work.”

That mantra became my compass. I gathered housing lists, connected with counselors, and accepted my reality. I stopped longing for the life I once had—family homes, comfort, material stability—and started building what I truly valued: peace, safety, and space to grow.

Today, home means something new. It’s a place I can breathe. It doesn’t need to be perfect—just mine. And when the time comes to transition into permanent housing, I’ll do so with clarity and a stronger sense of who I am and what I need.

Final Thought: Sometimes the Hardest Place to Heal Is Where You Sleep

In 42 years, I’ve lived in many places:
In Guyana, where I felt safe in my family’s arms.
In Toronto, where I shared joy with my parents.
In Ottawa, where laughter and heartbreak coexisted with friends.
In Ajax, where holidays brought warmth and love.

And now—here. In a small transitional space with a rainbow-hued living room and a red armchair where I write this very blog. It’s not permanent. But it’s mine.

Even in discomfort, clarity can grow—clarity about what you deserve, what you need, and how to name your truth.

It’s not just the walls that protect you. It’s your mindset. Your rituals. Your community. Your journey to mental wellness.

To my readers:

Reflect on how the people we live with can shape our sense of safety—more than the walls around us ever could.

The first night I spent in a shelter came after a 72-hour hold in a psychiatric unit. I was still mid-mania—hearing voices, paranoid, and overstimulated. The flickering fluorescent lights, the shuffle of strangers outside my door, and the clanging pipes in the walls felt threatening. At 11:00 p.m., the lights went out. But sleep didn’t come easily. I curled into a ball on the top bunk, silent tears running down my face. I realized: I no longer had a home. This shelter bed was it.

That was episode eight out of thirteen manic-psychotic episodes I’ve experienced so far. Mania is an emotionally explosive ordeal that can last weeks or months, leaving behind confusion, guilt, and exhaustion for both the person and their loved ones. Recovery typically takes 6–8 weeks—and requires peace and stability. Neither of those is easy to find in the chaos of a homeless shelter.

This blog explores what it means to reclaim mental clarity, dignity, and self-worth while navigating bipolar disorder recovery in short-term transitional housing. It’s my lived experience—and it may reflect the reality of many others still trying to find their way back from the in-between.

Navigating the Noise: Recovering from Mania in a Homeless Shelter

The one thing I remember most about shelter life was the noise—constant and unrelenting. Even at night, the old building echoed with sounds: pipes banging, doors slamming, conversations at all hours. Privacy was nonexistent. Healing felt impossible.

Every morning at 5:00 a.m., I would quietly climb down from my bunk, my body still aching from restraints and trauma. I’d stretch on a small patch of floor—my first attempt at creating routine. It wasn’t much, but it was a start.

Recovering from mania in a homeless shelter was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I was surrounded by women hardened by survival—many also dealing with mental illness, addiction, and housing insecurity. Trust was rare, softness even rarer. These were women who had spent years on the streets and only came to shelters when the cold became unbearable.

I’m someone who wants to help others. But in that moment, I had to focus on protecting myself—emotionally, physically, mentally. There’s a certain shame and hopelessness that comes with being mentally ill and unhoused. Still, I had people in my corner—my tribe—cheering me on from a distance. That helped me survive the noise.

Small Rituals, Big Impact: Coping Strategies for Bipolar Disorder in Transitional Housing

After a few weeks, the fog began to lift. My mornings started with deep breathing, stretching, and journaling at the kitchen table before the noise of the day took over. These grounding rituals helped me feel safe in a place that often wasn’t.

Shelter life had its own rhythm. I’d make coffee while a staff member cooked breakfast. Lunch followed at noon. After dinner, each resident was assigned a cleaning task—kitchen, bathroom, or living room duties.

I began to make small choices to support my healing: eating better, wearing clothes that made me feel like myself, getting my hair and nails done with help from Grama Judie, and going to church on Sundays to remember that God still had a plan for me.

During the day, I worked from the business office searching for housing, making calls to mental health programs, and putting myself on waitlists for case management. With two weeks left at the shelter, I secured both a transitional housing unit and a dedicated mental health worker.

Coping with bipolar disorder in transitional housing required structure, routine, and flexibility. It meant showing up daily, choosing peace over chaos, and creating new habits in a temporary space. It also meant believing that things could, and would, get better.

Support Looks Different Here: Mental Health in Shelter Communities

In shelters, support looks different—and sharing too much can put you at risk. Vulnerability is necessary for healing, but it can also open doors to exploitation. Material envy, emotional manipulation, or trauma bonding are real dangers in this environment.

Setting boundaries is key. Be mindful of what you share and with whom. Choose connections rooted in mutual respect and emotional safety. These relationships may not be lifelong, but they can serve as powerful reminders that you're not alone in your fight for recovery.

Not every person in a shelter is safe to trust. But some will surprise you with their kindness, their grit, and their capacity to understand. Build wisely.

Final Thought: Recovery Isn’t Linear—Especially in a Shelter

Recovery doesn’t follow a straight path. It’s messy, unpredictable, and often nothing like you imagined. Mine was public, painful, humbling—and ultimately, transformative.

My time in the shelter system wasn’t what I wanted. But it gave me something I needed: a new perspective, self-awareness, and undeniable proof that I could survive instability and build stability anyway.

To the women I met there—the ones who challenged me, supported me, and reminded me of who I am—thank you. You’re a part of my story now.

My journey through homelessness began in the haze of a manic episode. When I walked out of my parents' home in November 2022, I had no idea I would never return. They had always been my safety net, the place I fell back to when mania subsided. But this time was different.

After two weeks on suicide watch, I found myself being discharged from a hospital with nowhere to go. That night, I used all my savings to book a six-week stay in an Airbnb. I told myself I had six weeks to recover from my mania, to find stability. But six weeks wasn’t enough.

Becoming unhoused is disorienting, especially when coupled with the emotional chaos of bipolar disorder. The path out is rarely straightforward—it begins with small, deliberate choices that can either lead to healing or deeper despair.

This is a story about what it means to seek shelter, support, and self while navigating the in-between spaces of homelessness and mental health recovery.

What Is Transitional Housing and Why Does It Matter?

Transitional housing offers temporary, supportive accommodations for individuals and families emerging from homelessness or unstable living situations. It acts as a bridge between crisis and stability.

Unlike emergency shelters—which are typically short-term and provide only basic needs—transitional housing programs offer structured support such as food assistance, case management, life skills training, and access to mental health and addiction services. These programs usually last from several months to a few years, with the ultimate goal being independent, sustainable living.

Transitional housing doesn’t just provide a roof. It offers stability, a space to rebuild routines, and an opportunity to restore one’s dignity.

Finding Transitional Housing While Facing Daily Survival

Six weeks of disillusionment ended on my 40th birthday—the day I officially became homeless. What followed was a blur of police wellness checks, hospital stays, and desperate efforts to find shelter. In January 2023, after a failed attempt by my cousin to house me in a hotel, she and my mental health mentor found a bed for me in a local shelter.

I arrived broken—sick, scared, and unsure of how to cope with this new reality. I feared I would drown in the chaos of managing my mental health while homeless. But I clung to one truth: the shelter was temporary.

For two weeks, I lived in a crowded dorm-style room, sleeping on a top bunk, storing my belongings in a small closet, and stretching on the floor each morning to recover from hospitalization. By the third week, with help from my mentor, Grama Judie, I began my housing search. My case manager was kind and diligent, but finding housing while displaced proved nearly impossible. I often fell short of qualifications by a margin too small to justify my disqualification—yet I persisted.

Then, ten days before I was scheduled to leave the shelter, a miracle happened: my case manager offered me a spot in their transitional housing program. It was a basement apartment in a quiet neighborhood on the city’s north side. I thought it was the blessing I had prayed for.

But not all that glitters is gold.

I lived there for six months—three spent in the hospital, the rest in fear due to dangerous upstairs neighbors. Eventually, I was moved to my current home. It’s a place I love, a place I feel proud to call home, though it’s not permanent. It’s a stepping stone—a space to find stability before finding permanency.

I live in the in-between. Better than where I was, but still far from where I hope to be.

Building a Bridge Back to Life: How Transitional Spaces Can Heal

Transitional housing has been a cornerstone in my healing. Though rebuilding life after homelessness hasn’t been easy, having a place to call mine for the past two years has restored my sense of time, purpose, and identity.

Today, I am in mental health remission. I’m nearly two years sober. I have the support of family, community, and a dedicated case management team. The very people I once saw as barriers have become allies. While they haven’t always disclosed their plans for my future, the decisions made—especially relocating me—have been in my best interest.

Healing in transitional housing is possible. I’m living proof. I’ve learned to trust myself again. I’ve cultivated self-compassion and rebuilt a vision for my life—all because I had access to a safe, supportive space. I now carry tools of resilience, strength, and clarity that guide me toward recovery and future housing stability.

Final Thought: Home Isn’t Just a Place—It’s a Possibility

I’ve known housing insecurity before, but nothing like this. In the past, someone was always there to rescue me. But this time, I had to rescue myself.

Homelessness has taught me that home isn’t merely a physical space—it’s a possibility. It’s the belief that I can live with a mental illness and still hope, still rebuild, still move forward. Living in a shelter stripped away my illusion of security and forced me to face the realities of my illness and its demands.

I once ignored the ongoing needs of my Bipolar disorder, fooled by the comforts of a stable job and a family home. But homelessness reminded me: severe mental illness can leave you living in the in-between, and you must fight to create a life that works with, not against, your reality.

Transitional housing gave me space to learn that. It hasn’t been perfect—I still have good days and bad—but it has been sacred. It’s been mine.

What does home mean to you when you’ve had to live without one? Can you name the people, spaces, or moments that helped you keep going?