Two raw, relatable statements arrived in my text messages this weekend that slowed me to a halt:
1) “I need to be reminded that my grief is valid.” 2) “I need to know I can have a future beyond this season.”
A relative I’d been close to as a child—but who’d drifted into different life paths over the years—had been following my recent Instagram posts. My “Stillness Toolkit” series, my vulnerable shares about living with bipolar disorder. She’d finally worked up the courage to reach out about her own struggle with major depressive disorder, the weight of betrayal and single motherhood crushing her spirit.
As I typed my response, sitting in my car after a perfect beach day with Tony and Cali, I realized something profound was happening. The thing I’d been most afraid of—being seen as the woman with bipolar disorder—was becoming the very thing people needed most.
When Fear Meets Purpose at Sunrise
Just days earlier, I’d been questioning this whole “coming out” journey. There I was at Yorktown Fishing Pier for my daily sunrise ritual, feeling a bit exposed. My Instagram had been rebranded from careful educator posts to raw mental health advocacy. I’d been sharing my “Stillness Toolkit” series—teaching how the same grounding practices that calm my manic mind can also lift me from depressive depths. Walking meditation, ukulele playing, baking—stillness for mania, movement for depression. But revealing these intimate coping strategies felt vulnerable in ways I hadn’t expected.
That’s when Special approached.
She’d come to watch the sunrise on her 60th birthday, feeling like she was entering the sunset of her life. When she asked me to sing “Happy Birthday” on my ukulele, I obliged reluctantly—no makeup, no vocal warmup, definitely not ready for someone’s social media story.
But then we started talking. She mentioned writing a children’s book about managing emotions. Sensing a kindred spirit, I shared about my upcoming book. The title says it all: Coming Out: Fearfully, Wonderfully, and Bipolar-ly Made.
What I thought would be casual curiosity turned into an hour-long conversation as the sun climbed higher. Special peppered me with questions—not because I was some fascinating freak show, but because she was desperately trying to understand the behavioral patterns she’d been seeing in her adult son and granddaughter for years.
“I think my son has bipolar disorder, and maybe his daughter too,” she said finally. “This explains so much of their behaviors.”
We parted ways with Special carrying new hope that understanding might repair broken family relationships. I walked to my car realizing that my vulnerability hadn’t made me a spectacle—it had made me a resource.
The Healing Power of Broken Music
By Saturday, Tony, Cali and I were at Virginia Beach, waves rolling in as I played my ukulele in the sand. I found myself singing one of my original songs, written during a particularly dark season:
“Take the pieces of this shattered soul
Polish me like sand and waves that roll
You are doing good, I know”
A woman nearby moved her chair closer. “Your voice is so soothing,” she said. “Those ukulele strings are healing. Could you keep playing?”
I sat there, stunned. Music born from my brokenness was bringing peace to a stranger. The songs I’d written to survive were now helping someone else breathe easier.
The Questions We’re All Asking
The drive home from the beach brought my relative’s text, those two statements that cut straight to the heart of anyone walking through mental health struggles. Whether it’s bipolar depression, major depressive disorder, situational depression, or just the garden-variety darkness that visits us all—we’re all needing the same fundamental reassurances:
Is my pain real and valid? Will there be light after this darkness?
What struck me wasn’t just that she was reaching out, but the clarity with which she named exactly what she needed. Not because I’m some expert, but because after writing my book, a year and a half in therapy, and nearly a year in DBSA support groups, I’ve learned to carry hope alongside my diagnosis.
I told her about the “holy trinity” of lifestyle management—sleep, diet, and exercise—and the importance of connecting with others who truly understand. I shared Isaiah 43:19 about God making ways in the wilderness. Most importantly, I reminded her that her grief over her broken marriage was completely valid, and that her wilderness season isn’t her final destination.
The Unexpected Gift of Sunrise Discipline
Here’s something I didn’t expect when I started chasing sunrises at Yorktown Pier: I haven’t been able to sink into a depression since. Getting up early to meet the light, journaling and praying in those quiet moments—it’s forced me into a consistent sleep routine that’s proven to be one of the most effective mood episode prevention strategies I’ve ever used.
This isn’t just wishful thinking. It’s evidence-based practice wrapped in ritual. My sunrise routine has become living proof that alongside medication and therapy, consistent sleep patterns and meaningful morning practices can genuinely prevent relapses.
From Hiding to Lighthouse
Driving home from the beach, responding to my cousin’s vulnerable questions, I felt something shift. The thing I’d been most afraid of—people knowing about my mental illness—had become the very qualification that allowed me to offer hope to others.
Special left our sunrise conversation with new understanding about her family. The woman at the beach found healing in music born from my pain. My relative left our text exchange knowing someone understood and felt her grief. None of this would have happened if I’d stayed safely hidden behind the mask of “everything’s fine.”
I think about the years I spent desperately searching for someone who could give me answers about what I was experiencing. Someone who combined clinical knowledge with lived experience, practical wisdom with spiritual hope. Someone who’d walked the path I was stumbling down in the dark.
I’ve become that person—not because I’m special, but because I was willing to let my story become a lighthouse instead of keeping it locked in a closet marked “shame.”
The Ripple Effect Continues
As I prepare to publish my book and launch the Wellness Spectrum podcast, I’m no longer questioning whether the world needs another voice talking about mental health. This week showed me that vulnerability creates safe spaces for others to step out of hiding.
Every person who’s reached out since I started being honest about my bipolar diagnosis has expressed some version of those same two needs my relative voiced. They need to know their pain matters, and they need hope that better days are ahead.
The sunrise routine that grounds my days has taught me something profound: light always returns. Even on the cloudiest mornings, even when you can’t see it coming, dawn breaks. The horizon transforms from darkness to brilliant gold, reliable as gravity, faithful as breathing.
By God’s grace, our stories can do the same thing for others—cut through their darkness and remind them that morning is coming.
What questions are you carrying that need answers? What stories are you keeping hidden that might be exactly what someone else needs to hear? Sometimes the thing we’re most afraid to reveal becomes the very gift the world is waiting for.
If you’re walking through your own mental health journey, remember: your grief is valid, and you absolutely can have a future beyond this season. You’re not alone in this fight.
Find me on Instagram @laurajoyramos for more real talk about mental health, faith, and finding beauty in broken things. And if this resonated with you, I’d love to hear your story.
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