Bipolar world

I was diagnosed with Bipolar 1 in 2020.

It wasn’t my first diagnosis of some sort, but it was the first one that stopped me in my tracks and made me analyze my entire life. I started asking questions I hadn’t asked before: Was it really me? Or was it the special way my brain works that had always been showing up—loudly, softly, beautifully, chaotically—in everything I did?

At first, I took the meds. Then I stopped. I had decided, somewhere deep in my spirit, that medicine would make me someone or something else. I wasn’t interested in being anyone else—I was just trying to figure out how to be me and be okay.

Around the same time, I started going to sound bowl sessions with Shanna Thornton in the East End. I was also going to BareSOUL Yoga, trying to find new ways to be in relationship with my own energy. I wasn’t running from the diagnosis—I was trying to understand what it meant to manage myself on purpose. I wanted to know: How do I hold space for the intensity, the fire, the sensitivity, and the silence inside me?

Someone once said, “There’s no harder relationship to mend than the one with yourself after your mind betrays you.” And I felt that. Because when your own mind—your thoughts, your moods, your actions—become foreign, frightening, or even dangerous, the process of rebuilding trust with yourself is holy work.

This year has been hard in a lot of ways.

My spiritual and mindfulness practices helped me manage my external actions, but inside—I was exhausted. I actually stopped sleeping. I relied on nighttime pain meds just to rest. I was having vivid nightmares, sweating through my sheets, grinding my teeth. What was happening in my life was truly stress-inducing, and the constant effort to manage my mind, my thoughts, my energy left me with nothing in the tank. No reserves. No cushion.

I don’t think there was a relationship in my life left untouched by it.

This spring, I made a decision to speak with my doctor. I've now been back on antipsychotic medication for four weeks. I know this is just the beginning of a new chapter, but I’m sleeping again. I’m experiencing space in my mind again. I’m able to just be with my loved ones again.

For now, that’s more than enough.

Please know that options are many. There is no one-size-fits-all path to wellness. My hope for you is that you simply be. Just like my hope for myself is to be—without shame, without pressure, without fear.

Step one is to live.
Step two is to live good.

Embodying Healing: My Journey with Yin Yoga and Chronic Pain

Embodiment has been a central theme in my life, but it wasn’t until I deepened my practice in Yin Yoga that I truly understood what it meant to listen to my body in a different, deeper way.

For years, I’ve navigated chronic pain. It’s been my quiet companion—always present, sometimes louder than others, but always with me. In the past, I’ve turned to many practices, seeking relief, comfort, and understanding. But it wasn’t until I immersed myself in Yin Yoga that I began to cultivate a different relationship with my body and pain—a relationship based not on resistance, but on acceptance, gentleness, and patience.

What is Yin Yoga?
Yin Yoga is a slower, more meditative practice focused on long-held postures that target the deeper connective tissues of the body. Unlike more dynamic forms of yoga, Yin encourages a deep, intentional stillness, allowing the body to release tension and open up on a much deeper level. The practice offers a powerful space for inner reflection and awareness, where we can be with ourselves as we are—without pushing, striving, or forcing.

In my training, I learned how Yin is not just about physical postures—it’s about learning to sit with discomfort, finding space in our bodies and minds where we often want to avoid. It’s about tuning in, listening deeply, and being present with the sensations of the body, especially the ones that are uncomfortable.

Pain as Teacher
Through this practice, I’ve come to view chronic pain not as something to fight against, but as something to learn from. Yin taught me to hold space for pain with curiosity rather than judgment. I started to ask myself questions like:

• What does this pain have to teach me?

• How can I sit with this, instead of trying to push it away?

• Where can I find ease within the discomfort?

Before Yin, I would tense up whenever pain arose—whether physical, emotional, or mental. I would resist, try to push through it, or try to distract myself. But Yin gave me the space to soften. To breathe into the sensations. To feel into the areas that I used to avoid.

The Practice of Patience and Acceptance
Yin Yoga has helped me recognize how much of life, and healing, is about being patient with what is. There’s no rush. No expectation of instant relief. Just the invitation to be with my body as it is, to honor its rhythm and listen for its needs.

It’s taught me how to sit in discomfort without running from it. And in that sitting, I’ve learned that I don’t need to change everything at once. Small shifts, small moments of presence, can create deep transformation. It’s about showing up for my body every day—not with force, but with care.

A New Relationship with Chronic Pain
Now, when pain arises, I don’t automatically try to push it away. I allow myself to feel it fully and respond with what my body needs. Sometimes that’s rest. Sometimes it’s movement. Sometimes it’s simply being still.

I’ve realized that pain doesn’t have to define me. It’s a part of me, yes, but it’s not all of me. Through this practice, I’ve learned how to create space between myself and my pain. To notice it, honor it, and still move forward with my life, even when it’s present.

Why This Matters for You
You don’t have to have chronic pain to benefit from what Yin Yoga can teach. Whether you’re experiencing physical discomfort, emotional overwhelm, or mental fatigue, this practice offers us the tools to slow down, soften, and listen to what our bodies are telling us.

We live in a world that constantly pushes us to do more, be more, and move faster. But Yin Yoga invites us to step back, to tune in, and to remember that healing isn’t linear—it’s a practice of gentleness, patience, and deep listening.

I’m continuing to deepen my embodiment practice and learn more about how to navigate life with a body that is ever-changing. I invite you to explore this practice with me. Whether you’re new to Yin or have practiced for years, it’s always about meeting yourself where you are and showing up with care.

Closing Reflection:
If you’re struggling with chronic pain—physical or emotional—know that you don’t have to push through it alone. There are ways to live alongside it, and sometimes, even to learn from it. Yin Yoga has given me that gift: the ability to sit in my body, to be with it fully, and to continue moving through life with it, not in spite of it.

If you’d like to explore Yin Yoga or learn more about embodiment practices, I’d love to share this journey with you. Healing doesn’t happen overnight, but every moment of stillness brings us closer to wholeness.

a return.

It’s been a while.

If you’re new here—welcome. I’m Vee, the heart behind Rich City Kolibri: a space for wellness, culture, creativity, and collective care. If you’ve been rocking with me for a while—thank you for your patience, your presence, and your quiet belief in slow returns.

I’ve been gone for about a year.

Not gone-gone, but underground. In the soil. Letting things shift and root in deeper ways. Life did what life does—offered lessons, rest, grief, growth, and hard questions. I’ve been saying no more often. Saying yes more carefully. Building things that last. Healing. Crying. Laughing. Walking away from what no longer fits and walking toward what feels true.

In that time, I’ve:

• Grown my work at The Well Collective, holding space for leaders, visionaries, and everyday folks to imagine new ways of being in relationship—with themselves and each other.

• Deepened my herbal and embodiment practices.

• Led community wellness workshops, justice-centered circles, and self-care experiences rooted in culture and care.

• Moved through burnout, found my breath again, and remembered that rest is resistance.

• Recommitted to joy. Not just as a feeling, but as a practice. A way to survive and thrive.

This blog will be a home for reflections like this—where I get to write, wander, wrestle, and remember. You’ll find essays, rituals, resources, and glimpses into the behind-the-scenes of building something that’s both deeply personal and radically communal.

I don’t know exactly how often I’ll post here. But I do know this: I’m showing up from a place of truth. And I hope what I share will serve you—whether it’s a balm, a blueprint, or simply a reminder that you’re not alone.

Here’s to returning.
Here’s to beginning again.
Here’s to wholeness—in whatever shape it takes today.

In care and culture,
Vee