I had a day full of stress and anxiety. Depression showed up, and paranoia never left. But it wasn’t all gloom and despair.

There were moments of clarity. Of pride.

Moments of acceptance.

Moments of relief.

I did something I’ve wanted to do for a while.

After a panic attack, a screaming match with my overwhelmed 8-year-old, and a dentist appointment (the trifecta of modern survival), I took another crucial step in this self-discovery journey.

I went to our local science museum to see a mental illness exhibit I’d been wanting to explore.

Ever since being diagnosed with bipolar and schizoaffective disorder, I’ve craved anything that helps explain the why. Anything that opens conversations, that validates what it feels like to live in a mind that sometimes turns against itself.

And honestly? The progress I made just by going alone was its own reward.

When I purchased my admission and walked across the white marble floor toward the glass double doors marked “Mental Illness,” I felt something rare—confidence. The kind I didn’t feel like I had to earn.

There was a small advisory sign near the door that said the exhibit might be difficult to explore.

That only made me want it more.

Inside, a black wall displayed video screens—welcoming messages from people of all kinds, sharing their experiences with mental illness. Calm voices. Soft facts. A hush.

The doors shut behind me, and I felt something I almost never feel in public.

Safe.

The silence was only broken by the gentle sounds of each exhibit.

I stepped forward.

I noticed a desk with a picture book of handwritten notecards—personal notes left by other visitors.

Some were dark.

Some were hopeful.

Some made me cry.

Blank notecards and pencils waited beside them, inviting you to add your voice. I knew right away: I’d be back here last.

Further in, I found a leather reading chair, timeless and familiar. It sat beside small boxes of mental health facts. This was the bipolar station.

The books were ones I knew and others I didn’t. Some written for loved ones, some for those who are simply curious, and some for us—the ones who carry it.

One was a children’s book about managing reactions to things outside of your control.

I immediately thought of my 8-year-old from earlier—lost, scared, out of control. I took out my phone and wrote down the title and author. Then I moved on.

Every station was thoughtfully placed. The room wasn’t loud or flashy like the rest of the museum. It felt intentional. Quiet. Human.

And I noticed—I was gravitating toward the bipolar and anxiety areas. I barely went near the schizophrenia section.

I think I already knew that one would hurt.

I felt like I belonged. Not just as someone diagnosed with mental illness, but as someone who’s starting to believe this is what I’m meant to do—mental health work, advocacy, maybe even therapy.

The more I walked, the more it felt like a home I hadn’t visited in years.

Then I came to a simulation on depression in families.

And that’s where the tears started.

I felt the pain of the wife.

I wanted to pick up the child and tell them, This is not your fault.

I wanted to drag the man out into the sunlight and hug him with every ounce of love I’ve ever been denied.

The next station had two buttons.

I pressed “schizophrenia.”

Time stopped.

The voice that spoke was deep, calm, gentle—but it shook me to my core.

Everything he said felt like he was reading from a transcript of my inner life.

The way someone with schizophrenia connects patterns that aren’t there.

The meaning-making. The wires crossing. The loneliness.

I wasn’t comforted.

I felt seen—and it wrecked me.

When the bipolar station spoke, it felt like a friend.

This one felt like a mirror I didn’t ask to look into.

I started to unravel.

The room that had felt so safe and still started to close in.

The families became players in a narrative I couldn’t explain.

The pride of being independent began to crack.

Now I was radiating paranoia.

Disappointment.

Delusion.

Hiding.

Or maybe I thought I was.

I told myself no one was paying attention to me.

I couldn’t believe that.

They must be here for me.

This must be part of some plan.

When I calmed down later, I realized: the plan was nothing.

You’d think that would be comforting.

It wasn’t.

It made me feel worse.

Like I’m both “crazy” and know I’m crazy.

And somehow that’s worse than not knowing.

All the therapy, all the meds, all the progress—I suddenly hated myself for it all.

Because even at my most grounded, I’m still battling invisible connections, still talking myself through reality, still exhausted from trying to stay tethered.

People call me insightful.

But how do you live when you’re so insightful that you know your thoughts are delusional—

but you still have them?

How do you keep being the glue for your family when your own mind feels like it’s dissolving daily?

I am the mom.

The partner.

The student.

The daughter.

The strong one.

The light in the dark.

The one everyone needs.

And nobody knows how much I need someone.

Every crosswalk, I have to convince myself the pedestrians aren’t crossing because of me.

That the cars aren’t following me.

That the accident wasn’t about this.

That my neighbors aren’t planning something.

That my dad didn’t cash in on my disability.

I know none of it is true.

But I still have to convince myself.

Every single day.

And even though I broke down in that room, I didn’t leave shattered.

By the end, I felt steadier. More prepared.

Not fixed—but more whole than I was walking in.

Before I left, I returned to the notecards.

I wrote:

“I’m a 33-year-old mom of 3. I’m a partner, a student, a sister, and a daughter. I love to snuggle with my dogs. I love art and writing. I also have bipolar I disorder and schizoaffective disorder. I’m so much more than just my diagnosis. Don’t let it define a person completely. Remember, you matter. <3”