There is no term more prevalent in language today than “mental health issues”. The truth is, we have all wrestled with it at some point during our lives. If you claim to have never had one, it’s OK—we know you’re lying. In fact, the human experience itself might just amount to the sole overarching mental issue we humans face—life, the existence of.
Tori E. has been faced with the challenge of battling her own mind from a young age. This struggle has evolved to ultimately ostracize and alienate her throughout life, thus creating a complex psychological labyrinth. Unfortunately for some of us, we are stigmatized by the issues we face, which can often perpetuate and stress the ‘problem’. Add drugs and/or alcohol to the mix, and we’ve got some hurricane-like brain chemistry. And if you’re a skilled baker like Tori, that’s a whole other layer of science you’ve got to measure—and she’s pro.
Tori was born and raised in West LA, a Crossroads [School for Arts and Sciences] “lifer”. One of her earliest memories comes with teeth: preschool—bullied, another kid biting at her stomach with the saber-toothed fangs of a staple remover. Later, in high school, she was ostracized for not wanting to drink or do drugs. The irony is she wasn’t trying to be “good”—moreover, “I had this crippling fear of vomiting!”
Mental health wasn’t a chapter for Tori—it was the backdrop. At fourteen: generalized anxiety disorder and ADHD—Ridilin. At twenty-one: major depressive disorder and progressing on to eventually being diagnosed as bipolar. “Mental illness is my primary problem, and addiction’s my secondary problem.” The mood swings, fear, and loneliness came first. Substances, mainly weed, eventually just became a way to balance things.
Tori left LA for Syracuse to get far away from herself and everything that knew her. She studied TV, radio, and film, thinking entertainment would be her world, but it felt hollow. Tori tried to force herself into a mold that looked like belonging—joining a sorority. She hoped it would fix the loneliness. It didn’t. “It was not me at all.”
But baking was different. Baking was the one thing that consistently worked. “It was always my hobby growing up.” It wasn’t just talent—it was connection. “It was kind of how I won people over.” A cookie could do what words couldn’t. It could soften teachers, win over friends, create comfort where she didn’t feel safe. It wasn’t a gimmick—it was her love language.
At twenty-four, that language became a career. In 2018, Tori landed a job at Milk Bar, a popular celebrity chef-owned bakery. It wasn’t just a job—she found her lane. She eventually moved into R&D (recipe and development), testing new ideas and building flavors the way her brain naturally thinks. “Putting a bunch of random stuff together and having it magically turn out well. It was probably the most fun job I’ve ever had.” It was the rare time life felt aligned.
Then COVID hit, and the structure disappeared overnight. She got furloughed and vanished into the couch. “Smoking weed…watching Real Housewives…doing absolutely nothing.” It became constant—“all day, every day”—even while baking. Eight-minute cookie timer, joint on the balcony, repeat. And at the same time, she was still walking into doctor’s appointments, saying she felt depressed, insisting weed wasn’t part of it, “I was just in denial.”
When her parents pressured her to do something, she tried to restart her baking business out of their house. Tori already knew the problem: marketing. Visibility. Being seen. “I’m very introverted and don’t like promoting myself.” Building that business drove her crazy and she eventually pivoted into craft services catering for TV, a blend of entertainment and baking that finally made sense—until the strikes hit, productions stopped, and the work vanished. To make things worse Tori’s grandmother passed away—she had witnessed her stroke firsthand a year and a half earlier, and the loss brought with it a deep depression. “I was so depressed that I couldn’t speak. My mind was just blank.”
In August 2023, she moved to Silver Lake—Tori’s dream neighborhood—but even the dream felt heavy. “Furnishing an apartment seemed so daunting.” Her parents didn’t understand. “‘You shouldn’t be depressed. You should be super excited.’” Easier said than done. Then something shifted: her mood lifted, fast. At first, it felt like a miracle. But the rise didn’t stop at relief. It climbed into mania.
She stopped sleeping. Talked nonstop. Needed connection—constantly, “I needed to speak to someone at all hours of the day.” Then came the grand ideas and impulsive swings, “I started a TikTok…I wanted to be the next big mentally ill TikTok star.” Six followers gained—viral. Then, where the shopping sprees disguised as furnishing the apartment…her memory from that time is fragmented—needless to say, bills were racked up to the extreme.
Then came the first moment she felt truly out of control: sitting in the bath, laughing hysterically for no reason. Followed by instantly sobbing. Over and over. “That was the first moment that I really felt insane.” She draws a line around the language for a reason. “I am the only person allowed to call me insane or crazy.” Not because she’s denying it—but because stigma lands like a second injury. It doesn’t help you heal. It reminds you that you’re broken. Makes you think that you are unworthy of love.
Tori’s parents noticed the changes—lateness, spending—and found a residential mental health program in Pasadena. Detox came first: weed, Ritalin, Ativan. It felt like a pause button. “They doped me up. I slept for three days.” But the Pasadena placement couldn’t hold the intensity. Boundary issues. Landline calls that wouldn’t stop. Grand plans. Delusions. Birds outside became a sign, “I was convinced [the crows] were my grandparents’ spirits.” She was sure it meant her grandma had passed away—her father reassured her of the opposite; she was alive and well.
Friends she trusted called her “crazy” and left. Tori’s parents told her a truth no one wants to hear. “We’re your parents…we’re never going to abandon you…but your friends have no obligation to stay your friends.” She explains, “I am lucky to have parents who really care about me and never gave up on me, and even though they can be overbearing, I know they just want what’s best for me.”
After that, the carousel sped up—more programs, another psych ward, and one experience that still burns. “[One program] literally abandoned me at the ER.” For someone who has felt deserted throughout her life, that wasn’t just clinical negligence. It was cruel.
After thirteen months in treatment (four months at home), Tori relapsed with weed. It started with an old stash hidden in her closet, then a fresh joint. Four hits in and she knew instantly she’d made a huge mistake. Then came a bad relationship, desperation, and a “legal” research chemical, a liquid benzo—from the dark web. She texted a bad joke: “Should I drink the whole bottle?” Then fell asleep. He panicked and, at 3:30 am, she woke up to her mom: police and social workers were at the door. Even in the haze, one thing mattered. “It wasn’t only the police.”
Family takeover. One sentence. “You’re going to Beit T’Shuvah.”
The resistance was immediate. “I’m not going to an Orthodox rehab. Are you fucking kidding me?” Culturally Jewish, not religious, she braced for an identity mismatch, pushing back hard. And then she arrived.
July 11th. Beach day. Everyone outside. “Best intake I’ve ever had.” She didn’t want a roommate—turns out they clicked, “I immediately felt comfortable. It felt very different than any place I’d ever been.” They are still very close to this day.
At BTS, Tori found what she hadn’t found anywhere else: a real team. Real structure. Real people. Here, she says she found “the best therapist I’ve ever had.” Rabbi Jade became a spiritual support without forcing her into something she isn’t. Jill helped rebuild her family system after two and a half months of silence, when her parents had to drop her dog at the front desk like a fragile ceasefire. Jill even brought her brother into the room so the resentment could finally be spoken out loud. It wasn’t pretty. But it was real. And real is where healing starts.
Tori also found small stabilizers that actually matter. The right medication. Fulfilling work—an internship at the BTS Thrift Shop: the routine of sorting clothes, the simple joy of being in the back, and the honest confrontation with her shopping addiction. Little wins. Day-to-day structure.
Now she’s applying to Antioch to become a therapist. Another reinvention. The second mountain. “It’s scary, but it’s exciting.” Because she knows what it feels like when your brain turns on you—and she knows what it feels like when the world treats that like a character flaw instead of a condition. She isn’t trying to be a poster child. She’s trying to be human.
And maybe that’s the strongest part of her story: Tori isn’t pretending. She’s building a life where she can stay. Where weed doesn’t get to hijack her brain.
Tori came to Beit T’Shuvah thinking she was walking into another cage. Instead, she walked into a place that held her steady. Held her long enough to remember who she is under the diagnosis—and strong enough to know that, within her, is the recipe to success.