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Letting Go of Labels: My Journey with a Bipolar Diagnosis

Updated: May 30

I was 28 years old when a psychiatrist diagnosed me with bipolar disorder. It happened in a single 45-minute appointment with someone I had never met before. He asked me questions about my drinking habits, my spending, and my relationships. He tallied up some numbers on his computer. By the time I walked out of his office, I had a prescription for a mood stabilizer. I also had a new label attached to my name: borderline bipolar disorder.


At first, I didn’t tell anyone. Not even my husband.


For some reason, “bipolar” felt bigger and heavier than the anxiety and depression I had wrestled with for years. Those were struggles I could talk about. After all, it seemed like every other Millennial was dealing with anxiety and depression too. But bipolar? That felt different. That felt like something I had to keep to myself.


A Long Road to Acceptance


My mental health struggles started when I was a senior in high school. Looking back, I know the panic attacks didn’t just appear out of nowhere. They began after I was sexually assaulted by my high school boyfriend. I reported him. While part of me knew it was the right thing to do, another part of me wished I hadn’t. The shame that followed was unbearable. Whispers in the hallways and unwanted attention made me feel like I had lost control over my own story.


My body would go into fight-or-flight mode at random moments. I’d feel my heart racing and my breathing turn shallow. I had no idea how to cope with what had happened. So, I tried to push it down and pretend I was fine. But my body knew better.


In college, my struggles with anxiety and depression deepened. Some days, I couldn’t get out of bed. Other days, I felt so restless and on edge that I could barely sit still. I thought I was drinking like everyone else my age did—at parties, at bars, and with friends. But I always overdid it. The nights blurred together, and blackouts became terrifyingly normal. I'd wake up with no memory of how I got home. Sometimes I had messages from friends asking if I was okay. Other times, I just felt a pit in my stomach telling me I wasn’t okay.


By my early twenties, I had cycled through a dozen different medications. Each one came with the hope that maybe this time, I’d feel normal. Maybe this time, I’d quiet my racing thoughts. But nothing ever seemed to stick. I kept searching for answers, convinced that if I found the right pill, everything else would fall into place.


I graduated from college, got a big girl job, and got married, thinking that a grown-up life would help ground me. And in many ways, it did—I had someone who loved me unconditionally. He would support me no matter what. But I was still struggling, still caught in a cycle of self-destruction I couldn’t quite break.


Then I had my son.


a mother and son in matching shirts

Motherhood changed everything. Holding that perfect, tiny human in my arms, I knew something had to change. I didn’t want my son to grow up watching his momma barely hold it together. I wanted to be someone he could rely on, someone who was steady, healthy, and present. He became my catalyst—the reason I finally committed to taking control of my mental health.


Making the Decision to Quit Drinking


When he was about three years old, I made the decision to quit drinking. I didn’t want to rely on alcohol to cope anymore. I wanted real coping mechanisms—ones that wouldn’t leave me feeling ashamed and out of control. I started seeing a therapist regularly. I built healthier habits by leaning into running, journaling, strength training, and eating foods that made me feel good. For the first time, I wasn’t just looking for a quick fix. I was building a life that actually supported my mental health instead of working against it.


What Really Matters


For a long time, I thought getting better meant finding the right diagnosis, the right medication, or the right solution that would finally make everything click. But as I made real changes in my life—cutting out alcohol, running regularly, going to therapy, and focusing on my mental and physical health—I realized something important: healing isn’t about a label.


In a recent therapy session, I brought up my bipolar diagnosis. After almost a decade, I still questioned whether it was accurate. I told my therapist that I wondered if that doctor—who met me once for just 45 minutes—had gotten it wrong. Maybe I wasn’t bipolar. Maybe it was just trauma, anxiety, depression, or something else entirely.


Her response stopped me in my tracks.


"Maybe you do have it. Maybe you don’t. But does it really matter what label you put on it? If you’re taking care of yourself and doing what you need to do to manage your mental health, who cares what you call it? You can call it whatever you want."


That conversation shifted something in me. For years, I had been fixated on the diagnosis, whether it fit, and what it meant about me. The truth is, it didn’t change anything. The work I was doing—the therapy, movement, journaling, and how I fueled my body—was what really mattered. Not the label, not the name on the prescription bottle. Just the fact that I was doing what I needed to be the healthiest, happiest version of myself.


Moving Forward in Your Journey


After nearly nine years, I was able to wean off the mood stabilizer with no issues. But when I tried to stop taking my anxiety medication? That didn’t go so well. And you know what? That’s okay.


a mother and son at a 5K race

There’s no one-size-fits-all answer to mental health. Some people need medication, while others don’t. Some heal through therapy, some through movement, and some through a combination of methods. What I’ve learned is that the only thing that truly matters is finding what works for you.


For me, that means running. It means prioritizing sleep, spending time in nature, and moving my body in ways that feel good. It means leaning on my therapist, staying active in my mental health journey, and accepting that sometimes I need extra help in the form of medication—and there’s nothing wrong with that.


Most importantly, it means letting go of the need to define myself by a diagnosis.


You Are More Than a Label


a person in a Team Still I Run running singlet during the Chicago Marathon

If you’ve ever felt trapped by a diagnosis—or the lack of one—I want you to know this: you are more than a label.


You are not defined by a term on a chart. You are not less than because of a prescription you take or a struggle you carry. What matters isn’t the name of your condition. What matters is that you’re doing what you need to do to take care of yourself.


For years, I thought my diagnosis was the most important part of my mental health journey. Now, I realize it was never about the label. It was always about the work I was doing—the choices I made every day to show up for myself, to be there for my family, and to live a life that feels good.


That’s what matters. That’s what I’m holding onto.

By Amber Kraus

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