- So, I wanted my first blog post to be some polished intro — you know, like “Hi, I’m Michelle, and here’s my perfectly formatted trauma timeline.” But let’s be real. My life hasn’t exactly followed a clean outline with bullet points and subheadings. So instead of starting with “here’s who I am,” let’s rewind the mess and start with where I’ve been. Spoiler alert: it’s been a ride.
- (Also no, I was not born in West Philadelphia, despite the theme song in my head trying to hijack this post. Wrong sitcom. Sorry, Will.)
- I grew up in Massachusetts in a traditional-ish Puerto Rican household. You know the vibes: lots of family, lots of food, and a very firm belief that Vicks VapoRub can cure anything. My childhood was what you’d call “normal” if your definition of normal includes drinking out of the garden hose, racing your bike home before the streetlights came on, and solving emotional wounds with a cartoon Band-Aid and a Capri Sun. No smartphones, no tablets, no TikTok.
- But the thing about seemingly simple childhoods? Sometimes the hardest stuff doesn’t show up with fireworks. It just…sits there. Quiet. Patient. Waiting.
- I was around 15 the first time I thought, “Huh. My brain might be doing…too much?” I was close with my high school guidance counselor, one of the few adults I felt comfortable opening up to. One day I nervously told her about the weird thoughts in my head. Not scary voices. Just…thoughts that didn’t feel like mine. Like an unwanted group chat I couldn’t mute (before those were even a thing).
- She gently suggested maybe it wasn’t just teen angst™ and referred me to the school counselor. Then came the talk with my mom. And suddenly, there was a word floating in the air that I hadn’t heard before: “depression.”
- So my school counselor sat my mom down, gently explained that something might actually be going on with me mentally, and suggested we look into therapy or maybe even (gasp) medication. And my mom? God love her—she smiled, nodded, and absolutely did not hear a single word of it. In her mind, I was fine. Just a little dramatic. Possibly possessed by teenage hormones. Definitely not in need of mental health treatment. But honestly, I don’t blame her. It wasn’t cruelty—it was confusion. Mental illness wasn’t something we talked about in our culture, especially not back then. Therapy was for “other people,” and medication was basically code for “you’ve officially lost it.” So instead of getting help, I got handed a side-eye and a “get over it.” That delay? It cost me years. Years of confusion, self-blame, mood swings, breakdowns and a whole log of “am I just really bad at life?”
- Fast forward, a lifetime later.
- It wasn’t until my 30s that I finally got a name for the chaos: bipolar disorder. Honestly? Getting that diagnosis was like finally finding the instructions to a machine you’ve been aggressively smashing buttons on for years. It didn’t fix everything, but it explained something. And sometimes, something is enough to start.
- Now? I wear a lot of hats — daughter, sister, wife, homemaker, student, recovering perfectionist, and enthusiastic overthinker. I’m also raising a brilliant, hilarious, neurodivergent daughter who teaches me more about emotional regulation than any therapist ever has. (And yes, I have a therapist. Highly recommend.)
- Parenting with bipolar disorder is…a trip. There are days I feel I’m failing at everything. But there are also days…small, beautiful days where I see the proof that I’m doing okay. Like when my daughter smiles so big because I was front row and center at her play. Or when she introduces me to her friends at school with pride. Days where I know she feels seen and supported because I have learned how to see and support myself.
- This blog is born out of all of that: the pain, the healing, the hilarity, the chaos, and the quiet victories. The messy, raw, unfiltered, probably-too-honest truth of living with bipolar disorder. Through motherhood. Through marriage. Through Target runs and therapy appointments and the occasional full-on meltdown over unmatched socks.
- You’ll find stories about medication fails, mental health wins, days I felt invincible, and days I stayed in bed and called it “strategic resting.” You won’t find medical advice, Pinterest-level productivity hacks, or me pretending to be okay when I’m not.
- But you will find honesty. Humor. Heart. Probably some typos. Definitely too much caffeine.
- If you’re here, reading this, hi. I’m so glad you are. I’m glad we found each other. I hope my words make you feel a little less invisible, a little more hopeful, and a lot more understood.
- You’re not weird or broken or too much.
- You’re just a person doing your best — and so am I.
- So let’s figure this out together. One post, one meltdown, one coffee at a time.
- Welcome to Mood Swings and Coffee.
Buckle up, babe. It’s gonna be real.
- Let’s make it a little group chat in the comments, shall we?
- What was your turning point? Was there a moment when you realized something wasn’t “just stress” or “just a phase”? Did someone finally believe you—or were you stuck playing mental health charades with people who just didn’t get it? Drop your story below. I promise, no judgment—just the mutual understanding of people who’ve been gaslit by their own brains and their aunties.