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Yuly

Yuly

I remember being at work when everything started to shift. Something felt off in my mind—unfamiliar and terrifying. I had always sensed something wasn’t right with me mentally, but this was different. Within a week, I was demoted from office manager to pulling permits. Then I got fired.

But the truth is, the signs had been there for years. I knew something was wrong with my mental health as a teenager. Deep down, I always knew I was bipolar. But anytime I brought it up, people would brush it off:
“You’re Colombian—that’s just how we are.”
“You’re Hispanic. You’re emotional.”
“It’s because you’re a Gemini.”

And while maybe there was some truth to that, I knew it was deeper. As I got older, the signs became louder—depression, anxiety, obsessive thoughts, and eventually ADHD symptoms. My mind never stopped, and my emotions came crashing in like waves I couldn’t control.

That breaking point at work wasn’t sudden—it was the result of years of silent struggle.

I’m sharing my story because I know I’m not the only one going through this. For the first 10 years of my recovery, I was part of a fellowship, and even then, I felt alone. I’m telling my story because mental health is real, and we don’t talk about it enough—especially in recovery spaces. It’s not just about drugs. It’s about trauma. It’s about emotions we never learned how to deal with.

I’m telling my story for anyone who feels like they’re drowning inside while trying to stay strong outside. I want you to know you’re not alone. It’s OK to cry. It’s OK to yell. It’s OK to feel everything. You’re allowed to feel—and you’re allowed to get help.

Before I spiraled, my life looked “fine” on the outside. I was doing everything the fellowship told me to do. I worked the steps. I spoke in front of rooms filled with 100 people. I sponsored women. I showed up. I served. But inside, I was breaking.

We didn’t talk about mental health in the fellowship—because “we’re not doctors.” I would get emotional, lash out, not eat, spend impulsively, and have sex just to feel something. And the only advice I got was: “Just don’t use.” But I knew something more was wrong.

I was in constant fight-or-flight mode. Always on edge. I would scream, yell, throw things. I had been angry since I was a kid. I tried to manage it as I got older, but it never really left me. I struggled in relationships, especially with other women. Even though I looked like a go-getter, deep down, I was a ticking time bomb.

When I lost my job, I spiraled fast. I was crying all the time, not eating, losing weight, isolating, and falling into denial. My mind didn’t feel like mine anymore. My boyfriend at the time suggested I try medication. I said no. I’d been clean from drugs for 13 years, and for the first 10, I saw all medication as dangerous. In my head, pills were pills.

But this was different. I didn’t have health insurance. I didn’t have support. I just had suicidal thoughts, emotional chaos, and exhaustion. I went cold turkey through the worst mental health crash of my life. No meds. No therapy. Just me and the darkness. It reminded me of my last high—something I never forget. I was suicidal with my son in the next room. I was scared, ashamed, and lost.

Now I know: I had a full-blown bipolar manic episode. At the time, I didn’t even have the language for what was happening. I just knew I was falling apart—and no one could catch me.

The moment everything changed was when I started hearing voices in my head. That was it. I couldn’t ignore it anymore. I wasn’t managing it. I was breaking. I finally said yes to non-narcotic medication. It was terrifying after being clean so long. But this wasn’t about escaping—it was about surviving. I didn’t want to die. I just wanted peace. I was scared, but I took that step. And that was the beginning of something new.

About three weeks after starting medication, I began to feel it working. My hands shook less. My heart slowed down. I could finally eat again. That’s when I knew something was changing. I started therapy. I saw a psychiatrist. I took my meds as prescribed. It wasn’t perfect—I was still confused and emotional. But one day, something different happened. I didn’t get angry. I didn’t react. I felt calm. Still. And that was foreign to me—because I had never known peace like that. That’s when I knew I had made a real change.

Since then, I’ve been learning everything I can about mental health. I use apps, worksheets, writing, and therapy tools. I talk. I share. I ask for help. I’m a proud Chatty Cathy now, and it’s helping me heal. I’m so grateful I took a stand for my life. Now, I’m becoming the person I always believed I could be. I can name my emotions. I can sit with them. I can move through them. It’s been almost 3 years. And I’ve come farther in these 3 years than I ever did in my entire time in the fellowship.

Today, I’m in a beautiful place. I’ve built a strong, loving relationship with my 15-year-old. I’ve rebuilt trust with my family. I’m loving life—really loving it. Honestly, I feel like I could burst into this magical unicorn I’ve always known I was. Bright, wild, and free.

I still go to therapy. I still see my psychiatrist. I still ask for help. Because I know I can’t do this alone. I need a team—people who support me, challenge me, and love me enough to hold me accountable. If I don’t take care of me, I can’t take care of anyone else. This hasn’t been easy. But anything you put real work into? It turns out better than you ever imagined.

I’ve learned that when something doesn’t feel right inside you—you have to listen. Go get help. Don’t wait. In the fellowship, we call it “outside help.” That outside help saved my life. I’ve learned that trauma doesn’t go away until you deal with it. And you have to educate yourself, because not everyone can walk the road with you.

I’ve learned that if I don’t take care of my mental health, it could cost me my life. And if I ignore it, what am I teaching my child? What am I showing the people I love?

So my message is simple:
Don’t give up.
Cry for help.
Scream if you have to.
Call the numbers.
Talk to someone.
Do whatever you have to do to stay alive.

You matter. You are not broken. And you are not alone.

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