The longer story

I was born in sunny Southern California and didn’t wear a long-sleeved shirt for the first three years of my life—until my parents moved us to the drizzly Pacific Northwest. Holy smokes, I cried some big tears putting on a hoodie for the first time, having never previously worn long sleeves!. That early sunshine infused me with an energy that burned bright throughout my life and career. But the sun stopped shining during my medical residency at Johns Hopkins Hospital while training to be a pediatrician. Lost in a fog of depression and sleep deprivation, I was prescribed an antidepressant, which fortunately lifted me out of the abyss. At first, it worked wonders—I was focused, driven, and filled with excitement. But, unfortunately, as I stayed on the SSRI, my mood kept rising, first in ways that felt positive and productive, then to heights that were dangerous and unsustainable.

When you wake up at 1 a.m. with a burst of adrenaline, slip out of bed, pull on your cycling kit, ride 100 miles through the pitch dark, then sneak back into bed before your wife wakes up—only to throw on scrubs and head into a 36-hour hospital shift—you know you have a problem. When your brain drives you to do this kind of thing repeatedly, you’re potentially days away from landing in a psych ward. I was.

After being diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder, I found stability through medication, therapy, exercise, music, meditation, friendships, family, and the incredible support of my wife. Running and cycling became essential to staying balanced—though both needed moderation (i.e., no more “Midnight Centuries”). Completing the rigorous, sleep-deprived journey of a medical residency—an environment that challenges even the most resilient minds—also played a significant role in restoring stability. While invaluable for medical training, its relentless demands and intense sleep deprivation were far from ideal for someone navigating emerging mental health challenges. Still, I carried around a great deal of shame and isolation about my diagnosis. When my psychiatrist reassured me, “There are many scientists and doctors at Hopkins with bipolar disorder, Jud, you’re in good company,” I believed him—but I didn’t know any of them. Like so many, I tucked my diagnosis in my back pocket and hid it, continuing my career as a pediatrician while also stepping into leadership roles in health tech startups.

The tension between endurance exercise as a powerful, grounding force and its potential to fuel hypomania has remained a thru-line in my journey to balance. Being an endurance athlete means different things to me at different times of the year. In the rainy winters of the Pacific Northwest, when I’m in a low-grade depression, it might mean grinding through a neighborhood five-miler. While, at my most dialed-in states, when I am frequently in flow and truly feeling like a Balanced Athlete, it could look like a 100k trail run or a 100-mile ride in the mountains. These aren’t record-breaking feats in the world of endurance sports, but for me, they mean everything. They demonstrate my will to survive, my love for the outdoors, and my tenacity in the face of mental health challenges.

When I began pursuing a Master’s degree in Applied Sports Psychology, things truly started to click. I had always been an avid reader of contemporary sports psychology literature, but now I was gaining a deeper academic understanding of the field. With that came a powerful realization: the same tactics and strategies used in sports mental performance coaching could also be applied to navigating mental health challenges (Turning-Point Realization #1).

I saw this unfold in my own life as I took concepts that had once been confined to my athletic pursuits—goal-setting, visualization, and flow-state optimization—and used them to help manage my bipolar symptoms. At the same time, I began integrating these approaches into my clinical work, finding greater success in helping adolescent patients struggling with anxiety and depression. By equipping both teens and their parents with mental performance tools, I saw them navigate challenges with newfound confidence and resilience.

Even more profoundly, I started to see mental health conditions—my own included—not just as obstacles, but as potential sources of strength. That shift in perspective led to another major realization: I could harness the energy, experiences, and lessons of bipolar disorder to enhance my performance and fulfillment in sports (Turning-Point Realization #2). With this came a fundamental change in how I viewed mental health challenges—not as limitations, but as complex, nuanced aspects of human potential. My self-stigma dissolved as I embraced the strengths that had emerged from my journey—persistence, resilience, and deep connection—and put them into action out on the trail.

Whatever your athletic or mental health journey, I invite you to join the conversation at The Balanced Athlete. All of us, while imperfect and imbalanced, can find strength in our journey toward balance. Let’s explore what it means to endure, to beat the statistics, and to push ourselves to new limits—not just in sport, but in life.