Things I Wish I Knew Before My Adult Child’s Mental Health Crisis Took Over Our Lives

Things I Wish I Knew

What I’ve learned the hard way about loving an adult child in crisis

There’s so much I didn’t know when this all began.
I didn’t know how quickly things could unravel.
I didn’t know how lonely it would feel—even when I was surrounded by people.
I didn’t know how much it would hurt to be afraid of someone I love.
I didn’t know how much I’d lose trying to save her.

Here’s what I know now—the hard-earned truths I want to offer another mom who might be searching late at night like I did, wondering if she’s the only one.

1. You are allowed to love someone and still feel afraid of them.

No one talks about this.
But when your child screams, breaks things, threatens to hurt themselves or others—you’re no longer just their parent. You’re a frontline responder without backup.

And fear doesn’t cancel out love.
It just tells the truth: this situation isn’t safe.
And safety matters, too.

2. You can’t logic someone out of a trauma spiral.

I spent years trying to say the “right thing.”
Tried to stay calm. To reason. To avoid the triggers.
But trauma doesn’t respond to logic—it responds to threat.
And when their nervous system is on fire, your calm voice can’t reach them.

Sometimes the most loving thing you can do is step back, call for help, and let professionals take over.

3. Hope doesn’t mean pretending everything’s fine.

Hope can live in truth.
It’s not about blind optimism.
It’s about believing that something can change—even if today looks exactly like yesterday.

Some days, hope is just making tea and surviving the night.
Other days, it’s hearing your child say, “I think I need help.”
Both count.

4. No is not abandonment. Boundaries are not betrayal.

This one still guts me.

I don’t feel empowered when I set boundaries.
I feel like I’m choosing myself at her expense.
I feel like a mother who’s lost the script.
I feel afraid. Not just of her anger—but of what silence might mean if I don’t give in.
Every boundary feels like a gamble.
I feel like a traitor to the version of me that said I’d always be there—no matter what.
And I hate that survival has to feel like betrayal.

But I’m learning:

It’s not my job to absorb all the pain. It’s my job to survive this, too.

Boundaries don’t mean I’ve stopped loving her.
They mean I’ve started loving me, too.

5. The system isn’t built for this—but you still have options.

I wish I knew how hard it would be to get my adult child help.
That I’d need to document everything, know legal terms, learn to say the words “psychiatric hold” without crying.

But I also wish I knew that people do show up.
That social workers, crisis lines, community programs—while imperfect—can become lifelines.
You just have to keep knocking. And knocking. And sometimes you have to get loud.

6. You need support, too. Not as a luxury—as a necessity.

This journey doesn’t just scar your child—it carves deep into you.
Your health. Your identity. Your sense of safety.

Therapy. Journaling. Peer groups.
Even this blog—it’s my oxygen mask.
Because no one gets to martyr themselves into being a “good mom.”

7. It’s okay to grieve. Even if your child is still here.

I grieve who she used to be.
I grieve who I used to be.
I grieve the relationship we might never have.

And that grief doesn’t mean I’ve given up.
It means I’m finally telling the truth.
Grief isn’t the end—it’s the middle. And it’s where healing starts.

If you’re still reading…

Please know this:
You are not a bad mom.
You are a tired mom. A wounded mom. A warrior mom.
And you don’t have to walk this alone anymore.

I see you.
And I’ll be sharing what’s helping me keep going—even on the days when everything feels broken.

If you’re walking this road too, drop a comment. I’m building a space where none of us have to pretend anymore.