I didn’t plan for any of this. Not the diagnosis, not the chaos that came before it, and certainly not the strange kind of peace I’ve been clawing toward ever since.
When I first heard the words bipolar II disorder, I laughed. Not because it was funny—God, it wasn’t—but because it felt like someone had finally handed me the name tag for the person I’d unknowingly been all along. Everything clicked in that moment: the sleepless nights of frantic energy, the bottomless sadness that would hit out of nowhere and sit on my chest for weeks. The people I’d pushed away. The tasks I’d started and abandoned. The goals that burned bright then died out just as fast. It wasn’t just me being “moody” or “unpredictable.” It had a name. And naming it meant I could finally fight it.
The Trail Inside My Mind
Bipolar cycling is a beast with a quiet growl. It doesn’t always look dramatic from the outside. I wasn’t flying to Paris at 2 a.m. or gambling my savings away. My mania was more subtle—a racing brain that couldn’t shut off, a need to create, move, fix, connect, do. Then the crash would come, often so quietly I didn’t notice until I couldn’t get out of bed or hold a conversation without crying.
It’s like hiking a brutal trail with no map. One moment, you’re at the summit, breathless and alive, convinced you’re invincible. The next, you’re sliding down loose gravel into a foggy ravine, completely alone, unsure if you’ll ever make it out. The cycle doesn’t ask for your permission. It just happens—over and over.
I used to think the highs were the real me and the lows were the illness. Then I flipped, thinking maybe the highs were the illness and the lows were the truth. But the truth is, I’m all of it. The trail isn’t just the peaks or just the valleys. It’s the whole thing—mud, rocks, switchbacks and all.
Finding Ground
I stumbled into hiking almost instinctively. After decades of depressive episodes left me gutted and feeling overwhelmed, I found myself lacing up a pair of boots and driving to a trailhead in search of solace.
My first big hikes were brutal. I was out of shape, mentally fried, and completely unprepared. But something happened on that trail, the Appalachian Trail, for the first time in months, my mind quieted. I was just a person moving through the woods, step after step. There was no pressure to be okay or functional—just to keep walking.
That’s when I realized that hiking mirrored everything I was trying to navigate internally. The unpredictable terrain. The mental battles. The need for endurance. Hiking wasn’t a hobby—it was therapy.
Pacing with the Cycles
I’ve started treating my bipolar cycling like a long-distance trek. You don’t rush the miles. You learn to pace yourself, to listen to your body, to stop and rest even when your mind is screaming to go faster. You start carrying tools in your mental backpack: medication, therapy, support systems, hard-won self-awareness.
And you learn not to fight the cycles, but to move with them. On the high days, I create, connect, build. But I also keep a watchful eye for when the buzz turns reckless. On the low days, I let myself slow down. I cancel plans. I take long showers. I write. I cry. I let the sadness come and go without judging it.
Most of all, I keep walking.
Trail Markers and Small Victories
There’s no finish line with bipolar disorder. No epic summit where everything is cured and clean. But there are trail markers—moments where I can look back and say, I survived that stretch. I kept going.
For me, victories look like staying present during a low instead of disappearing. Reaching out to a friend even when I feel like a burden. Not acting on impulsive thoughts. Getting out of bed when my bones feel too heavy. These things might not look heroic from the outside, but for someone with a cycling mind, they’re mountains.
And I’ve climbed a lot of mountains.
You’re Not Alone on the Trail
I used to think no one could possibly understand what this felt like. That my mind was too messy, my moods too much, my presence too unstable. But I’ve learned—through conversations, books, therapy, and long hikes—that there are so many of us walking this trail. Some ahead of me. Some behind. Some trekking right beside me without ever knowing it.
Bipolar disorder doesn’t define me, but it does shape the way I move through the world. And now that I understand it, I can move with intention. I can carry the right gear. I can prepare for the storms and celebrate the clear days.
So if you’re reading this and your mind feels like a stormy trail—keep going. Take the next step. Rest when you need to. Find your tools. Trust your rhythm. You don’t have to summit every mountain in a day. Just walk your pace.
You’re not broken. You’re just hiking something steeper than most people will ever understand. But you’re still hiking. And that’s everything.