Beyond Awareness, Beyond Labels

When I wrote my original piece, I was proud. I still am. Sharing my story was an act of bravery. It was a declaration that I refused to be erased. I wanted to believe that by speaking up, I could help shift the narrative around Borderline Personality Disorder. I believed that if people heard my truth, they might start to see the human behind the diagnosis. That maybe the system could change. That maybe we were getting somewhere.

But the truth is, we aren’t. Not really.

Year after year, the same awareness campaigns come and go. Mental Health Awareness Month. BPD Awareness Month. Graphics, hashtags, curated stories meant to inspire hope. But what happens the other eleven months? What happens when the spotlight fades? I will tell you: nothing changes. The stigma remains. The assumptions still show up in therapy rooms, hospitals, peer circles, and staff meetings. Providers still say the same tired things. “Manipulative.” “Too much.” “Non-compliant.” The same words they used on me when I was a teenager are still being used on people just like me today.

And here is what hurts the most: I’ve come to realize that I cannot change how people see BPD by telling my story. All I can do is change how they see me. And even that only lasts until I do something they decide doesn’t match their idea of “wellness.”

Because once someone knows that label, it clings to everything I do. If I speak up, I’m difficult. If I cry, I’m unstable. If I advocate, I’m angry. It becomes a lens that distorts even my most human moments. And I am tired of living under that microscope.

I have grown so much since I first heard the words Borderline Personality Disorder. I’ve done the work. I’ve cried, screamed, healed, relapsed, rebuilt, and showed up again. I have found parts of myself that were buried under shame. I’ve cultivated gentleness and boundaries. I’ve supported others in their recovery. I’ve become someone I’m proud of.

And yet, I no longer identify with the labels that were once forced on me. Not because I am ashamed of where I’ve been, but because I refuse to be defined by systems that never saw me clearly to begin with. Systems that pathologized my pain and called it disordered personality. Systems that punished my survival strategies. Systems that silenced me unless I could make them comfortable.

The truth is, many of us live in that in-between space. Between wanting to be seen and not wanting to be reduced. Between wanting to educate and protect ourselves. Between pride in our survival and exhaustion from having to constantly prove our humanity.

I want to be clear: this is not a surrender. This is a reclamation. I am not here to perform resilience for people who refuse to confront their own bias. I do not exist to make BPD more palatable for those who think compassion is conditional.

So no, I do not believe awareness months are enough. Not if you only show up when it’s trending. Not if you still whisper about us behind closed doors. Not if your “compassion” ends the moment we become inconvenient.

We need more than awareness. We need change. We need people to stop treating us like walking diagnoses. We need providers who do not flinch at our intensity. We need care that honors our full selves, not just our symptoms.

Until then, I will keep showing up for my community. Not to prove a point. But because we deserve to be held with tenderness and truth.

We are not the problem. The way we are treated is.

And I am still here. Not because the system worked, but because I found ways to heal in spite of it.