I remember those 2 AM nights so clearly. Scrolling through my phone, reading about childhood anxiety and a host of other mental health topics for the hundredth time, wondering how I’d missed the signs. I remember sitting in my car after school drop-off, finally letting myself cry where no one could see. The conversations I replayed over and over in my head, cringing at everything I wish I’d said differently.
If you’re reading this right now, searching desperately for how to help your child with anxiety or depression, or just looking for someone who understands what you’re going through, I want you to know: you are not alone. I’ve been where you are. I’ve lived through those impossibly hard days. There’s so much I wish I’d known then that I understand now.
The Weight I Carried
Watching my family struggle with mental health issues was a kind of hard I never knew existed before I lived it. The kind that woke me up at 3 AM with my heart racing. The kind that sat on my chest all day, even during the moments that should have been good.
I spent so many nights questioning everything. Was I doing enough? Had I said the right thing that day? Was this therapist actually helping, or were we wasting precious time? The guilt was constant and crushing. I felt guilty for needing a break. I was afraid to tell extended family and friends because I couldn’t handle one more well-meaning “have you tried…?” suggestion.
I felt angry too, at the situation, at how unfair this was, and then felt horrible for feeling angry at all.
Looking back, I can see that the worst part was the loneliness. I’d watch other families who did not appear to struggle, while I was just trying to make it through each day. The constant vigilance, always watching, always worried. Having to be strong for my family when I was barely holding it together myself.
Those years were hard. Some days were unbearably hard. What I didn’t know then was that I was allowed to grieve, grieve the easier path I’d thought we’d have, the childhood I’d imagined for my kids, the family life I thought these years would look like. I spent so much energy trying not to feel that grief, thinking it made me ungrateful or weak. I wish I’d given myself permission to feel it.
I Hadn’t Failed (Even Though I Was Sure I Had)
The message I needed to hear most, but couldn’t absorb for the longest time, was this: our struggles weren’t my fault. They weren’t caused by my parenting failures.
But I had a voice in my head that kept a running list of everything I thought I’d done wrong. I dismissed early warning signs because I didn’t recognize them for what they were. I lost my temper when my child needed me to stay calm. I said things in frustration that I can’t take back, things that still make me wince when I remember them. The fact I have degrees in psychology made all of this so much harder to swallow and accept (and often, it still is). The internal critic in each of us speaks loudly.
Here’s what years and therapy and a lot of hard work have taught me: yes, there are things I would do differently if I could go back. We all have those moments. But I can’t go back. None of us can. And I spent far too long beating myself up about the past instead of showing up in the present.
What I try to remind myself of now is that I was doing enough, even on the days when it felt like I was failing spectacularly. I was there. I was researching at midnight. I was fighting with insurance companies and advocating with school administrators. I was surviving impossible days and showing up the next morning to do it again. I was doing everything I could, even though I felt like I was falling short at the time.
My child didn’t need a perfect parent. They needed me, the imperfect, exhausted, still-learning version of me who kept showing up and loving them through all of it. It took me too long to understand that.
What I Learned They Actually Needed
I spent so much time trying to fix everything, trying to have all the answers, trying to make the pain go away. What I eventually learned was that my child didn’t need me to fix everything. They needed to feel safe. Heard. Loved, no matter what.
I learned that simple words mattered more than I’d thought. “I’m here.” “I believe you.” “You’re not alone in this.” “We’ll figure it out together.” These became my anchors, the phrases I came back to when I didn’t know what else to say.
I learned that sometimes just sitting nearby when they didn’t want to talk was enough. Presence mattered more than words.
When they said “You don’t understand,” I eventually stopped defending myself. I learned to say, “You’re right. I don’t know exactly what this feels like for you. But I want to understand. Can you help me?” Sometimes this worked and sometimes it didn’t. That is just the reality of it all.
When things got really bad, I had to learn to stay calm even when I was panicking inside. It has taken me years to change my behavior and try to validate their feelings without trying to immediately fix them: “This is really hard right now.” To ask what they needed instead of assuming: “Would a hug help right now, or do you need some space?” I still don’t get this right all the time. (See my post on the importance of Validation and my free Validation mini-guide).
One of the hardest things I had to come to terms with is that progress does not happen in a straight line. Some weeks were good. Some days felt like we were back at square one. I kept expecting that one breakthrough moment, one treatment, one conversation that would fix things or at least make it significantly better. Learning to be okay with slow, messy, non-linear progress was one of the hardest lessons.
But here’s what I can see now that I couldn’t see then: being a consistent presence mattered more than I realized and more than any perfect thing I could have said or done. Just being there, day after day, even on the days I felt completely inadequate.
Taking Care of Myself (The Part I Got So Wrong)
I used to roll my eyes when people told me to “practice self-care.” I’d think, when? Between managing crises and calling therapists, working and keeping the rest of life running?
What I learned, far too late, was that I couldn’t pour from an empty cup. That metaphor everyone uses? It’s true, even though I really resented hearing it.
Self-care for me didn’t look like spa days or yoga retreats. It looked like letting the laundry sit for another day so I could lie down for twenty minutes. Ordering pizza again because I just couldn’t cook that night. Crying in the shower. Saying no to volunteering at school. Letting my kid watch more TV than I’d said I ever would because we both needed the break.
Eventually, I started seeing a therapist myself. It was an hour every few weeks that I could share with a neutral person who was just concerned with and listening to me. I can’t explain how powerful it was to have someone validate how I was feeling, how hard this kind of parenting is, and to hear that the things I was doing to help my family were “right” because everything felt so wrong. When I felt like I was drowning, it was a little lifeline to keep me going.
If I could go back and tell myself one thing, it would be this: get support sooner. You need it just as much as your child does. Taking care of yourself isn’t selfish, it’s necessary.
Where We Are Now
We’re in a different place today. The daily crises have eased. We still have hard days, I’d be lying if I said everything is perfect now. I still worry. I think I always will, in the way that parents of kids who’ve struggled with mental health always carry a bit of vigilance with them.
The hypervigilance has softened into more of an awareness, at least most of the time. Looking back on those hardest years, I can see now what I couldn’t see then: we were making progress even when it felt like we were drowning. Every small thing I was doing mattered, even when I couldn’t see the results yet.
You Really Aren’t Alone
Here’s something I didn’t understand when I was in the thick of it: I wasn’t the only parent going through this. In the years since, I have talked with numerous friends and fellow parents, who unknown to me, were going through the same thing. We were all dealing with similar issues in isolation. Not sharing because we were too afraid of what it would say about our kids or us as parents, but the greater worry was that we may say or do something that might make things more difficult for our child and our family.
More than one in seven kids age 6-17 experiences a mental health disorder each year.[1] This is so much more common than anyone talks about. The silence around it made everything so much harder for me. I felt isolated when I didn’t need to be.
There are so many of us who have walked this path, at different stages, facing different challenges, but understanding this weight in ways that others just can’t. There are resources (I’ve put together a curated Resources Page of things that were helpful to me so you don’t have to spend hours searching for key tools and information), professionals who specialize in kids and teens, and communities of parents who truly get it.
I wish I’d found those communities sooner. I wish I’d talked about what we were going through instead of hiding it for so long. That said, I am also choosing to give myself grace for what I chose to do because I truly thought, at the time, that it was right for me and right for my family.
There Is Hope (I Promise)
When I was in the darkest moments, I couldn’t imagine a day when things would feel lighter. But they did. Not perfect, we still have struggles, and I still have worries, but different. Manageable. Sometimes even good.
With the right support, therapy, medication when needed, school accommodations, lifestyle changes, whatever combination works for your family, progress is possible. Treatment works. I’ve seen it work. I’ve lived it.
Kids’ brains are still developing, which means they’re also still capable of remarkable healing and growth. I held onto that fact on the days when nothing else gave me hope.
I learned to celebrate tiny victories that might have seemed silly to anyone else. The first time my child got through a full school day. The first time they told me how they were feeling without me having to pry it out of them. The first genuine laugh I’d heard in weeks. Those moments mattered. They were signs of movement toward healing, even when we were still so far from where we wanted to be.
To You, Right Now
If you’re in those dark 2 AM moments right now, I want you to know: you’re doing better than you think. The fact that you’re here, searching for answers, fighting for your child, that matters more than you know.
There is a path forward, even when you can’t see it yet. There were so many times I couldn’t see it, but it was there.
Keep holding on. Keep showing up. Some days, just surviving is success, and that’s okay. I had many of those days. More than I can count.
The journey isn’t linear. Progress comes in fits and starts. There will be setbacks that feel like you’re starting over. But you’re building something, even when you can’t see the structure yet. You’re creating a foundation of love and support and safety that your child is standing on, even when it doesn’t feel like enough.
You’re not walking this path alone. I’ve been there. So many of us have been there. We are making it through, and you will too.
You are not alone,
Laurie
If you need immediate help:
- 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline: Call or text 988 (24/7)
- Crisis Text Line: Text HOME to 741741
- NAMI Helpline: 1-800-950-NAMI (6264) for information and support
For ongoing support:
Check out my Resources Page for help finding therapists, support groups, and other tools. You deserve support just as much as your child does.
If you’re not in crisis but need someone who understands, there are support groups—online and in-person through NAMI and other organizations. You don’t have to wait until things are dire. Reaching out when things are hard is exactly the right thing to do. I wish I’d done it sooner.
For more information on how common these struggles are, check out these NAMI Infographics:
If this resonated with you, please share it with another parent who might need to hear it. Together, we can break the silence around childhood mental health. That silence kept me isolated for far too long. Let’s make sure other parents know they’re not alone.
The holidays are coming, so read more about my suggestions for navigating the holiday season when your child is anxious, and download my free Holiday Survival Guide.
[1] Whitney DG, Peterson MD. US National and State-Level Prevalence of Mental Health Disorders and Disparities of Mental Health Care Use in Children. JAMA Pediatr. 2019;173(4):389–391. doi:10.1001/jamapediatrics.2018.5399