Once They’re Safe: Taking Care of Yourself While Your Child Is Receiving Mental Health Care
The following are real stories from parents who have lived through the strain of an inpatient hospital stay for their child. Each one shares something that helped them get through it. Not advice. Not instructions. Just what helped.
You might find a piece of your own story in theirs. You might take something with you that makes this moment feel a little less heavy.
Take what helps. Leave what doesn't. You are doing the best you can with something incredibly hard.
Amanda and Ryan Stayed a Team
The past few months had been devastating for Amanda and Ryan’s family. Their 13-year-old daughter had been struggling, and after more than 24 hours in the emergency room, they finally found her a bed in a psychiatric hospital several hours from home. Knowing their daughter was safe didn’t bring the relief they expected. Instead, Amanda and Ryan felt wrung out, scared, and completely overwhelmed. On the long drive home from the hospital, they talked. Not about solutions, just about how bad it all felt. They talked about how things had been going, what had scared them most, and what felt impossible to keep up with. Ryan admitted he felt like he was constantly losing track of things. Papers. Phone numbers. Instructions. Every conversation seemed important, and he couldn’t remember where anything lived anymore. He felt disorganized and behind, no matter how hard he tried. Amanda got it. She was beyond burned out from talking to people. As an introvert, her social battery had been drained days ago, and now even well-meaning check-ins made her feel snappy and guilty at the same time. She didn’t like how it felt, but she couldn’t shake it. So she told Ryan. The drive was emotional, but it reminded them of something important: they felt better when they named what was hard and faced it together. By the time they pulled into their driveway, they had a loose plan. Amanda offered to take on the paperwork, the one thing she still had energy for. Over the next few days, she picked up a binder and started gathering everything in one place: doctor names, medication lists, phone numbers, insurance details, admission paperwork and treatment plans. Using her natural organizational skills helped Ryan feel less scattered and helped both of them breathe a little easier. Ryan took over communication. He was more comfortable talking to people and managing logistics. He handled insurance calls, returned messages from the school, and kept extended family informed. He started a group chat for close family and friends, so Amanda didn’t have to repeat updates or respond to dozens of texts. When calls came in from people who weren’t particularly helpful and insurance issues popped up, Ryan managed it. As they walked into the house that night, the situation hadn’t changed but the weight felt a little lighter. They were a team and together they felt less helpless. They also let others help. Ryan accepted his sister’s offer to pitch in. Even though she didn’t live nearby, she organized a meal train with local family and friends. She even organized a gas card and restaurant gift card drive so out-of-town relatives could pitch in. Dinner stopped being one more thing they had to solve. The mental load of having a child in crisis is relentless. Amanda and Ryan didn’t power through it alone. They leaned on each other and on a small circle of trusted people to get through the hardest days. When their daughter was finally discharged, Ryan had the appointments for her continuing treatment scheduled. Amanda had some emotional energy left. Together, they were able to focus on what mattered most, reconnecting with their daughter and helping her begin to heal.
Jennifer Learned That Rest Didn’t Always Start with Sleep
By the time Jennifer’s son was admitted, her body had been running on pure adrenaline for days. After multiple nights in the ER, they finally found him a bed for inpatient stabilization following a serious threat to end his life. At first, she was told the stay would likely be about two weeks. That timeline gave her something solid to hold onto. But later, while talking with a floor nurse, she learned the reality - sometimes stays were much shorter. Three days wasn’t unusual. Discharge could happen quickly, depending on how fast her son stabilized. Jennifer nodded and thanked the nurse. But once she got home, everything unraveled. Exhausted and overwhelmed, she crawled into bed at 8 p.m. but just couldn’t sleep. She stared at the ceiling, heart pounding, thoughts looping. Was he okay right now? Did he eat? Was he scared? What if discharge happened before she was ready? Her body felt tense and electric, like it couldn’t settle no matter how tired she was. Rest felt impossible and honestly, a little wrong. Guilt crept in fast. How could she relax when her child was in a hospital bed? Around midnight, after another round of doom scrolling, Jennifer realized something important: she wasn’t spiraling because she wasn’t trying hard enough. Her body was still in emergency mode. She wasn’t going to think her way out of this. So she gave her body something else to do. Jennifer got up, pulled on sneakers, and walked quickly to the mailbox at the corner and back. It wasn’t exercise. It was release. The cool air hit her face. Her legs moved. The panic had somewhere to go. When she came back inside, she didn’t climb straight into bed. She stretched on the living room floor, rolling her shoulders, unclenching her jaw, breathing slowly on purpose. For the first time all night, she noticed how much tension she’d been carrying. It didn’t fix everything. But it shifted enough. The next morning, Jennifer took a long hot shower and let the water hit her back, imagining it washing the stress away. She ate something, nothing impressive, just real food because she knew her body needed fuel if this was going to be a long fight. At work, she caught herself holding her breath again, shoulders up near her ears. On her break, she started doom scrolling, then stopped. Instead, she went outside and walked fast around the block. Her breath deepened. The buzzing in her chest softened just enough to keep going. She began doing this on purpose. Walking on breaks. Eating regularly, even when she didn’t feel hungry. Setting phone reminders that simply said, Drop your shoulders. Each time it went off, she rolled them back and took a slow breath. Jennifer reminded herself - out loud sometimes - that her son was safe right now. And if she wanted to be able to show up for discharge planning, for the hard conversations ahead, for the long road of healing, she had to take care of herself too. That night, when the urge to spiral came back, she moved again. She stretched. She breathed. She gave her nervous system relief instead of more fear. Sleep still came in short stretches but it came. And when the hospital called to talk about next steps, Jennifer had enough steadiness to listen, ask questions, and write things down. Taking care of her body didn’t mean she stopped worrying about her son. It meant she was strong enough to keep going.
This Isn’t Tanya’s First Rodeo...
Tanya is a mom of four. Two of her children struggle with their mental health, and both have had treatment stays over the years. Each admission is different. Each one comes with its own fears, logistics, and emotional weight. Tanya isn’t calm because it’s easy. She’s steadier now because she’s been through this before and learned, often the hard way, what doesn’t work. Early on, Tanya became very aware of how much other people’s reactions affected her. She worried about judgment, gossip, and unhelpful opinions, and she learned that not everyone deserved explanations or access to her family’s story. That realization helped her prioritize finding the people who were kind, trustworthy, and truly supportive. After her son’s very first hospital stay, Tanya was completely burned out. It took nearly a year before she felt like herself again. That experience changed how she approached everything that came after. Over time, Tanya learned she couldn’t do this alone and she didn’t have to. She found a small group of people she could trust, both in person and online, who truly understood. Other parents who had been there. A therapist who helped her process fear and stress. Parent peer support who didn’t judge or minimize. Building her own support system became part of her plan, not something she reached for only when things were falling apart. This time, she was prepared. She had a small go-bag ready, nothing fancy, just practical. Phone chargers. Granola bars. An extra toothbrush. A change of clothes. Knowing it was there gave her peace of mind. If she needed it, she could grab it and go without thinking. Once her daughter was admitted and settled, Tanya had to go home. There was nothing else she could do at the hospital, and sitting in the uncertainty wouldn’t help. When she got home, she opened a notebook and did a massive brain dump. She wrote down everything that was jumbled up in her head - her other children’s soccer practices, a pharmacy call, bills, her own doctor’s appointment. Getting it out of her head and onto paper helped her stop mentally rehearsing and worrying she’d forget something important. She didn’t push herself to make a plan that night. Writing it down was enough to let her rest. And yes, she kept her own appointments. Years ago, she would have canceled them. Now she knows better. Therapy helps her regulate emotionally. Medication helps her stay focused and sleep. Caring for her own health helps her care for her kids. Tanya also learned that she doesn’t owe everyone everything. She doesn’t have to explain every detail or absorb opinions that don’t fit her family. During crises, she relies on her trusted circle and sets boundaries that protect her peace while she’s protecting her child’s. She understands now that this isn’t selfish, it’s survival. Tanya didn’t become steady overnight. She learned through trial and error, exhaustion, and experience. While she would give anything not to have this kind of knowledge, she trusts herself now. She knows she can handle this.
Every parent in these stories had to find their own way through. None of them had the answers. But each one found something that helped them survive the hardest days.
Taking care of yourself while your child is in crisis is not selfish. It is necessary. It is what helps you keep going when things get hard. You cannot pour from an empty cup, and your wellbeing matters too.
You are already doing something incredibly hard. You deserve care too. And we are here if you need support.
Some children need more than a short hospital stay. If you're considering residential treatment, we have a guide to help you take the next step.