The first semester of my freshman year took an unexpected turn when I experienced a manic episode.

The transition from the laid-back, sun-soaked lifestyle of Hawaii to the fast-paced city life of Denver was jarring. I went from island time, where the days revolved around beaches, sunsets, and a slow rhythm, to the concrete jungle, where my dorm overlooked a sea of buildings. The shift in energy was exhilarating at first - new city, new people, new opportunities. I thrived in the excitement, but that excitement quickly spiraled out of control.

What started as skipping a class here and there turned into missing half the semester. I was constantly on the move, meeting new people, chasing grandiose ideas, and riding an overwhelming wave of euphoria. The city’s energy fed my own, and before I knew it, I was partying excessively, drinking heavily, and letting my health deteriorate. The optimism I felt was intoxicating, but it was also delusional.

This manic high lasted about two months before it all came crashing down. One morning, still drunk from the night before, I answered a phone call in the campus cafeteria with a loud, “Dude, what the FUCK is up?!” That moment of reckless excitement was enough to draw the attention of a student housing manager, and soon, a cop was standing over my shoulder. I was arrested for disturbing the peace and spent the weekend in jail.

By this point, my parents knew something was seriously wrong. My mom, still in Hawaii, sensed the change in me and immediately flew to Denver. Within twenty minutes of seeing me, she made the decision to take me to the hospital.

I was lost in my own world but trusted my mom enough to follow her lead. In the hospital, I remember explaining to the nurse that I was absorbing energy from the electrons in the lights. I told them I didn’t need to sleep as long as I had light, and I dressed in colors that resonated with me—red, yellow, and green. It was during this hospital stay that I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder and placed in a psych ward for 72 hours.

When I was released, all I could think about was smoking cannabis. But without an income or access, I had to go without it for the first time in years. The absence of cannabis, combined with my deteriorating mental state, sent me into a deep depression. I turned to alcohol for relief, but it only made things worse. Over the next three months, I gained 100 pounds and fell into the worst shape of my life. My family and I were at a loss, we didn’t know what I needed to get better.

Then, an opportunity arose: a chance to return to Hawaii to work and recover. It felt like a lifeline, an opportunity to reset in a familiar environment. But recovery was not immediate.

Even in paradise, I felt empty. I could see the beauty around me—the ocean, the sunsets, the vibrant life—but I couldn’t feel it. My emotions were numb, my thoughts a blur of despair. I had lost everything: my friends, my college experience, my independence. Time felt stagnant, and I was trapped in a meaningless void.

One day, while standing under the showerhead, something shifted. I started breathing rhythmically, letting the hot water cascade over me, fully immersing myself in the sensation. In that moment, I had an out-of-body experience—I could feel my breath, the water, and, most importantly, a sense of life returning to me. Something changed inside me that day, and from then on, I slowly started to recover.

A pivotal moment in my journey came when I met a doctor who explained bipolar disorder from a neurological perspective. She sketched a diagram illustrating how nerve signals misfire, leading to extreme mood swings. For the first time, someone had broken it down in a way that truly clicked. Unlike other doctors who simply assigned me a diagnosis, she helped me see what was actually happening in my brain.

She prescribed Lamotrigine, a mood stabilizer, and Lithium, which slows down electrical connections in the brain. The medications helped, but something still felt off—just like the pills I had taken in childhood, they felt like a band-aid rather than a solution.

Aside from pharmaceuticals and the healing environment of Hawaii, four things played a major role in my recovery: a good job, supportive family, cannabis and exercise. I reconnected with old friends who helped me gain access to cannabis again, and I started the P90X workout program. Working out six days a week, I began to feel alive again.

My routine became simple but effective: P90X in the morning, construction work in the heat of the day, and surfing until dusk. Over the next six months, I lost 80 pounds and felt more functional than I had in over a year. When the opportunity came to return to college, I hesitated. But I knew I had to keep moving forward. So, once again, I left Hawaii for Denver.

Back in school, I had a better grasp on my mental health. Cannabis was still difficult to access at around $20 per gram, it wasn’t something I could afford regularly as a college student. It wasn’t legal yet, nor widely accepted as medicinal, but I found ways to get it.

Meanwhile, the cannabis culture in Colorado was evolving. By the late 2000s, the medical cannabis market was expanding, and high-quality strains once just “chronic” were now labeled “medical.” Excitement filled the air. The industry was shifting, and I could feel something big was coming.

In 2014, everything changed. Medical cannabis was legalized in Colorado, and suddenly, the industry exploded. What had once been an underground market became legitimized. For the first time, cannabis was being recognized as a real medicine.

I spent the next few years in Denver, balancing school, work, and my growing appreciation for cannabis. I smoked the best “medical” strains I could find, fascinated by how they affected my mind and body. The culture was evolving rapidly, and I knew it would never be the same once it hit the mainstream.

Looking back, my journey through mania, depression, and recovery was a turning point in my life. It forced me to reevaluate everything: my health, my habits, and my relationship with cannabis. What started as a chaotic, painful experience eventually became the foundation for a new perspective - one that would shape my path forward in ways I never could have imagined.