When Love Isn’t Simple: Mothering Through Crisis
I never imagined I’d be the mom Googling how to protect my home from my own child.
I never imagined I’d have to hide sharp objects. Or lock my bedroom door. Or memorize the number to a local crisis team.
And yet—here I am.
Not because I failed her. But because she has been failed, and I am still here trying to hold both of us together.
What I’m carrying isn’t just a “parenting challenge”—it’s a storm of trauma, grief, fear, and love all tangled together.
My daughter is beautiful, bright, funny, and deeply loved.
She’s endured more in her 22 years than most people face in a lifetime - and it shows up in explosive ways. She’s struggling with trauma, mental illness, suspected neurodivergence, and occasional substance use.
And now, as her mother, I’m standing at the intersection of protection, helplessness, and survival.
We’ve lived through violent outbursts, broken doors, broken trust, and broken hearts.
And through it all, I’ve done what so many mothers do:
Tried harder.
Loved louder.
Carried more than I ever should’ve had to.
The Truth I Had to Face
But here’s what no one tells you when your child spirals into crisis:
Love is not enough.
Hope is not a plan.
And self-sacrifice will not save them.
This is not something any one person is supposed to know how to handle alone. The experience is traumatic in its own right and leaves you feeling depleted, numb, guilty, angry, scared, even hopeless. Those emotions are all valid and expected.
I used to think if I just said the right words, kept the peace, stayed strong enough—she’d come back to herself. But the truth is, trauma doesn’t respond to logic. Mental illness doesn’t disappear because you bring them their favorite meal or sit beside them in silence.
And when they refuse help, when they rage, when they hurt you or themselves—you can’t love them into safety.
That realization nearly shattered me.
What I wish others understood about what it’s like to be her mom…
That it’s not just exhausting—it’s grieving in real time.
Grieving the daughter I once knew.
Grieving the future I hoped for her.
Grieving the mother I used to be, before trauma took up so much space in our lives.
I wish people knew that this isn’t about bad parenting.
It’s about being handed an impossible situation and doing everything I can with zero margin for error.
I wish they knew how many nights I’ve stayed up listening—just in case I hear something break, or worse… nothing at all.
I’m not just tired. I’m holding a life together with string and silence.
I love her fiercely. But loving her in this state has broken something in me I don’t even know how to fix.
What I’m scared to admit (even to myself):
That sometimes, I wonder if she’ll ever come back to me.
That there are days I fantasize about disappearing—just vanishing into quiet.
That I resent her. That I resent myself.
That I feel like a fraud when I tell other people “I’m okay.”
That I’m scared one day she’ll go too far, and I’ll be the one who has to find her. Or worse, one of her siblings.
That I don’t trust myself to keep doing this much longer without breaking.
That some days, I’m not sure I want to keep doing this at all.
How this is affecting my health, my identity, my hope:
My body feels like it’s always bracing for impact.
Since my SCAD and FMD diagnoses, stress isn’t just a problem—it’s a threat. But the stress is unrelenting.
I’ve lost pieces of who I was before all of this.
I used to be light-hearted, creative, capable of joy. Now I feel like a machine programmed for survival, panic, and damage control.
My hope comes and goes like a flickering candle.
Sometimes it feels impossible to dream past this chapter.
Sometimes it feels like hope is a luxury I no longer get to afford.
What it’s costing me to keep going:
It’s costing me my body.
My peace.
My friendships.
My time with people who love me but don’t know how to help.
It’s costing me rest. Safety. Breath.
It’s cost me trust in family. In the system. In my own instincts.
And more than anything—it’s costing me the chance to heal my own wounds, because I’m always dressing hers.
But I keep going.
Because I love her.
Because no one else is stepping in.
Because somewhere inside me, there’s still a whisper that says
Maybe she’ll come back. Maybe she’ll fight for herself. Maybe this love will still mean something.
The Moment That Changed Everything
Recently, in a rare quiet conversation, my daughter cried.
She rarely does. She told me she missed her brother hugging her.
She asked if she had done something “that bad.”
She talked about her anger. Her trauma. Her pain.
And for the first time, she said out loud: “I think I need to talk to someone.”
It was a small moment. A tear. A sentence.
But it was everything.
It was the first crack in the armor she’s worn for years.
And in that moment, I realized something about myself, too:
I’m not weak for feeling broken.
I’m strong for staying soft.
I’m still here. And I’m still trying.
What I Want Other Moms to Know
If you’re reading this and nodding through tears, let me speak directly to you:
You are not crazy.
You are not alone.
You are not a failure because your child is struggling.
You are allowed to say, “I can’t do this alone.”
And you are allowed to stop setting yourself on fire to keep everyone else warm.
There is no easy fix. But there is relief in truth.
And there is power in community.
Moving Forward
Here’s what’s helping me, and might help you:
Create a crisis plan. (Know who to call, where to go, what your limits are.)
Set loving boundaries. (You can say, “I love you” and “No” in the same breath.)
Write it down. Journal. Blog. Voice memo. Get it out of your body.
Let people in. Even just one safe person. You don’t have to carry this silently.
Forgive yourself. Daily. Hourly, if needed.
This journey is not for the faint of heart.
But if you’re still showing up—even with shaking hands and a tired soul—you are not faint.
You are a force.
Next Post Preview:
💬 The day I almost called the police—and why I did the right thing.
(How to make safety decisions that may break your heart but protect your family.)
