What 10 Years in a Psychiatric Hospital Taught Me About Humanity, Healing, and Hope

Content warning: This post discusses suicide, mental illness, addiction, and grief. If you’re not in a place to take that in today, please honor where you are — and come back to it when you’re ready.

There’s a reason I took the job at the psychiatric hospital. I knew it would be the hardest work I’d ever do — and I said yes anyway. Because not long before that, I lost my dad. And after that, everything changed.

2011 Changed Everything

Three months before my dad died by suicide, my stepfather — the man who helped raise me — passed away in hospice. Two devastating losses. Just three months apart. And I was barely holding it together. I was raising two small children, navigating overwhelming grief, and questioning everything I thought I understood about life, truth, and stability.

2011 was, without a doubt, the hardest year of my life. At the time, I was working at my son’s preschool — not in a hospital or a clinical setting. But somehow, even there, I was surrounded by exactly who I needed: a group of women who barely knew me, but prayed for me, carried me, and showed up in extraordinary ways.

Their kindness anchored me during a season that left me raw. Because in the middle of that heartbreak, I was also being pushed to make hard decisions. Decisions that shifted important relationships in my life.

Not everyone agreed with the path I chose. Some people I’d known for years had strong opinions about what I should or shouldn’t do. And still — I chose to sit in my truth. To walk in it. To make the decisions that felt most honest and right for me. Not because they were easy. But because watching two lives end so close together reminded me that we don’t get unlimited time. And if I was going to keep showing up in this world, I had to start showing up for myself.

So I Took the Hardest Job

I walked into the psych hospital knowing it wouldn’t be easy — but I also knew if I could do that work, I could do anything. For the next 10 years, I worked side by side with patients in crisis, families in despair, and colleagues trying to hold space for it all. I wasn’t a therapist on the floor — I was the clinical social worker. The one assessing, coordinating, advocating, and making sure each patient had a discharge and treatment plan. The one asking the hard questions. The one providing education to families. The one seeing people at their rawest — after an attempt, after being brought in by law enforcement. Most patients are admitted involuntarily - you can imagine what that feels like and looks like.

And over those years, I met people from every walk of life:

• Incredibly successful businessmen, Professors

• Nurses, Doctors

• Attorneys

• Beloved teachers

• College and professional athletes

• Legendary musicians

• People who had battled mental illness since childhood

• People who were left unhoused because of their symptoms

• People who had been thrown away by their families

• People whose families wanted to help but didn’t know how

• People whose families never left their side

That’s one of the most eye-opening truths I carry from that time: Mental illness doesn’t discriminate. It doesn’t care how successful you are, how educated, how loved. If you’re battling inside, the outside can fall apart fast. I watched people wrestle with whether or not they wanted to keep living. I watched them try medication after medication, show up for therapy, do the work, then relapse, try again. I saw the heartbreak of patients begging for family to visit — and no one showing up. But I also saw fire. Strength. Resilience. And recovery.

You can’t do that kind of work for 10 years unless you believe in healing. And I do. Deeply. Because as hard and messy as it is — I’ve seen people get better. I’ve seen what happens when someone is finally met with compassion, support, and a way forward.

I can’t change the way my dad’s story ended. I wish I could. He was incredibly smart. Incredibly charming. A college athlete. The best storyteller in the room.

If you knew him outside our family, you probably loved him. But he was also battling deeply — with bipolar disorder, alcoholism, unresolved trauma, and complex family dynamics.

We tried everything. Top psychiatric teams. Trials and trials of medication. Support. Treatment. But if there was a 1% chance of a bad reaction to a medication, he’d get it. And we’re still not convinced he ever fully stopped drinking.

He chose to go out on his own terms. And while I wish with every fiber of my being that he hadn’t — I know we did everything we could. I also know now, more than ever, that healing doesn’t happen in isolation. And staying alive when you’re in crisis takes support, education, and the right people showing up.

That’s why I still do this work. That’s why I keep showing up. Because I’ve seen what happens when someone finally gets to feel safe enough to try again.

— Jamie

Truth-teller. Firestarter. Someone who can’t wait for you to walk in your truth.

About STG Wellness

Founded by Jamie Codispoti, LCSW, STG Wellness creates bold, guided journals that help women reconnect, reflect, and reclaim their fire.

These aren’t your average self-help tools — they’re unapologetic spaces for truth-telling, healing, and walking back into your power.

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