Disclaimer: Let’s get real. This post is candid. It’s personal. 

​​Welcome back, everyone!

For this article, I want to get real with you—candid and unfiltered.

Shame quietly lingers in many of our minds when it comes to discussing mental health. For a long time, mine was a secret. On the rare occasions I opened up, I often felt like I was pushing people away—or worse, that they didn’t take me seriously.

I remember once telling a guy I was interested in that I’d been battling borderline personality disorder, back when I thought that was my fate. I thought we had a connection, but after that conversation, I never heard from him again. No calls, no texts. While there could’ve been many reasons for his silence, I often wonder if opening up too soon about my mental health played a part in the bond never solidifying.

That’s something many of us with bipolar disorder—or any mental health condition—struggle with. Society doesn’t treat mental illness like a broken arm or leg. It’s invisible, misunderstood, and still heavily stigmatized. While we’ve made progress—thanks to organizations like NAMI (National Alliance on Mental Illness), DBSA (Depression and Bipolar Support Alliance), Active Minds, and Black Mental Wellness—we still have a long way to go.

I once confided in a mentor about my diagnosis. She was supportive, but she also shared some harsh truths. She reminded me that even though job applications may include a disability section that claims your disclosure won’t affect your chances, the reality is—it can. She wasn’t the only one. Other women I know who’ve climbed the corporate ladder have echoed the same warning.

This creates an internal conflict: Should I be honest or protect myself? The fear of being judged or rejected breeds shame. And as a Black woman who once worked in corporate America, I was already doing everything I could to avoid the “Angry Black Woman” stereotype. Bipolar disorder can cause irritability and bursts of anger, and I was terrified of being labeled for it.

When I worked in entertainment journalism—a field where you’re expected to be upbeat and sociable—I felt like I had to wear a mask. The industry is fast-paced and emotionally demanding, but I kept a smile on my face and played the part. It wasn’t until I stepped away that I could finally speak honestly about the toll it took on my mental health. I love music and pop culture, but the environment became too intense—especially with bills piling up and life shifting rapidly.

During COVID, I worked full-time five days a week and freelanced on weekends for six months straight. It was a product of my high-functioning symptoms—something many people with bipolar disorder can relate to. I made connections and earned income, but I had no time to breathe, to rest, or to heal. I turned to alcohol instead. That led to weight gain and other personal challenges I’ve previously opened up about.

At the time, I thought revealing my diagnosis would lead to rejection. I worried not only about my reputation but about bringing shame to my parents—who have supported me through every high and low. Even with their love, I sometimes wondered if they internalized my struggles, blaming themselves for something they didn’t cause.

But the truth is, bipolar disorder stems from a complex mix of factors. Still, in many Black and Brown families, mental illness remains taboo. We’re often met with “What’s wrong with you?” instead of compassion. I’ve asked myself that same question too many times to count. There were moments I begged God—or anyone—to “fix” me.

I tried to outrun it. I moved from state to state, job to job, project to project, hoping that productivity would silence the disorder. I believed that if I could succeed in school and work, neither I nor anyone else could use my diagnosis against me. But in reality, I was overworking to avoid being seen—truly seen—in my rawest, most vulnerable state.

That’s why Ebony Emotions exist. Yes, it’s for you—but it’s also for me. It’s the healing space I needed as a little girl. It’s my way of speaking to those who feel lost or hopeless. This platform is here to dismantle shame and create belonging for those living with bipolar disorder and other mental health conditions.

Your mental health is not a weakness.

Being open about it is a form of strength. I’ve met artists, entrepreneurs, and creatives who live with this disorder and continue to thrive. When you speak your truth—whether to a friend, family member, coworker, or therapist—you help break the shame cycle.

🔁 Ready to Start Recovery? Try This:

Here are 5 simple ways to start breaking the shame cycle today:

1. Come to terms with your diagnosis. You can’t fight what you won’t face.

2. List five things you’ve achieved in spite of your disorder. You’re doing better than you think.

3. Write down three things you want to improve. Examples: sleep, diet, emergency contact list.

4. Educate yourself. Read articles, watch videos, listen to podcasts. Knowledge is power.

5. Talk to someone you trust. Let them know what you’re going through—and how they can support you.

Final Word

You are not broken.

You are healing.

And healing is powerful, messy, and courageous.

Let’s keep breaking the shame cycle—together.

With love,

Sierra Porter