TIDAL MIND

Some days, I wake up feeling like the sun cracked open just for me. My mind races with brilliant thoughts, too fast to pin down. My body is a fire that doesn’t burn—just glows. I talk fast. I clean everything. I text friends I haven’t spoken to in months. I believe in every idea I’ve ever had, all at once.

On those days, I’m powerful. Unstoppable. People say, “You look so happy today!” and I smile because they’re right. But also because I know it won’t last, and I want to enjoy it before the shift begins.

Because it always does.

The mood pendulum swings. That’s what I call it now—"the mood pendulum." Back and forth. High and hollow. Light and heavy. Fast and still.

Sometimes it moves so subtly, I don't even notice until I’m already buried beneath the weight of it.

There’s no obvious trigger, no storm cloud warning. Just a slowing down. An ache in my limbs. A dullness in the color of the day. I wake up and everything is the same, but nothing feels right. My skin feels too tight. My thoughts too loud. I cancel plans I made two days ago. I watch my phone buzz and can’t bring myself to care.

When people text, I leave them on read—not because I don’t love them, but because I don’t know how to be a person that day.

The worst part is the guilt. Not just the sadness but the shame that I can’t control it. I look back at the version of me from last week—the one who laughed at dumb memes and believed in dreams and made smoothie bowls at 2 AM—and I don’t recognize her. I resent her, honestly. She set the bar too high. She didn’t know how fragile I was underneath all that brightness.

I write through the fog when I can. Sometimes I journal just to say, “Hey, I’m still here.” Sometimes it’s just scribbles. Sometimes it’s dark poetry I’ll never show anyone.

There are days the pendulum hangs still, in the middle. Those are rare. On those days, I feel like I’m watching my life from a window—aware, but distant. I answer emails. I take a walk. I don’t cry or scream or dance. I just exist.

It sounds boring, but honestly? Those days are gold. They mean I’m not drowning or flying. They mean peace, even if it’s quiet and gray.

It took me years to realize that I’m not broken. That this pattern—this swing—is part of my rhythm. That bipolar isn’t just a condition I carry, it’s a language my body speaks. One, I’m still learning to understand.

It took even longer to forgive myself for the swings.

People think healing is linear. But this? This is a circle. A spiral. A pendulum. And I’ve learned to honor it instead of fighting it. I’ve stopped promising people I’ll be the same version of myself every day.

Because I won’t.

Because I can’t.

And I’m done apologizing for that.

There’s a strange beauty in it all—this chaotic rhythm. I’ve met parts of myself most people never get to know. I’ve seen what it means to break and build again. I’ve learned softness through survival. I’ve become a better listener. A better artist. A better noticer of little things—like the way sunlight hits the window, or the way someone’s voice changes when they talk about something they love.

The pendulum still swings. Some mornings, I wake up in the high. Some in the hollow. But I no longer fear it like I used to. I’ve learned that both sides are mine. That I can hold joy and sadness in the same hand. That even in the swing, I am still whole.

So when the next shift comes—and it will—I’ll be ready. Not with control, but with compassion. Not with solutions, but with space.

Because healing isn’t resisting the swing. It’s learning how to move with it.

And I am still moving.