I admitted my teen to a psychiatric ward. With time apart, I realized I also needed to take care of myself.

In November 2023, after many false starts, my schizophrenic daughter and I made our way to Seattle Children’s Hospital.

My daughter was having a psychotic episode. Weeks earlier, she thought she saw a shooter trying to kill us while walking our dog. This hallucination was quite real for her; she believed our family was in imminent, mortal danger.

She hallucinated all the time, but not with this intensity. I was afraid, not only for her but for myself. It’s been difficult for me to care for and manage her as a single parent. We’ve been through an odyssey since she was diagnosed. There were few services we qualified for to help with daily living. I’ve felt unsure of how to navigate parenting a schizophrenic child.

At the hospital, she was taken to an exam room and poked and prodded. After the residents and interns left, silence filled the room. We waited for something — anything — to happen. Eventually, a doctor told us no beds were available so she wouldn’t be admitted. A social worker handed us outpatient information.

A month later, she was admitted to the hospital

In December, she had a delusion the police were arresting her. She ran down the block barefoot, holding her hands up to be cuffed. I was worried she’d get injured or lost, so we went back to the ER.

This time, I decided to leave her in the ER for observation. My daughter pleaded to go home. I softened my voice and said staying at the hospital was non-negotiable. As luck would have it, a bed opened up. Before I started the admissions paperwork, her eyes locked with mine. I told her, “It’s going to be OK.”

I was dog-tired. My Lyft finally arrived, and I snuggled into the backseat, pleased to be a passenger for a change. There were emails to write and texts to send, but I didn’t care. I looked at the Christmas lights, wondering what I should do now — for me.

While caring for my daughter, I pushed away any physical or emotional pain. Now, with almost two weeks to myself, I felt an unraveling inside me. Tears and anger were fighting to rise to the surface. No longer comfortably numb, I felt every lost emotion.

To stay healthy, I had to come first. To be the best mom, I had to be my best self.

I needed time alone

When she was in the hospital, I reveled in the silence. One night, the kitchen beckoned me to prepare steak and garlic mashed potatoes. They were delicious. I finally ate something substantial; I usually pick at leftovers. Sitting at the dinner table and eating what you’ve made is priceless. No longer struggling to meet my basic needs felt good.

I spoke with her nightly, and my message was to focus on herself during the time away. She begged to come home by day three, but it was too soon.

I knew that making time for myself after she left the hospital would be crucial. I thought about ways I could incorporate “me time” into our daily routine. I didn’t have to cook every night; my daughter, at 16, could take it on at least one night a week. She could take on basic housekeeping chores to learn life skills. This would free me up to read, nap, or, ideally, do nothing. My brain calculated the possibilities.

During my time alone, I met with my therapist. She praised my ideas, and we talked about my daughter’s care plan. She stressed I didn’t need to be hypervigilant; she was in good hands at the hospital. Most importantly, I couldn’t be everything to her. She told me I had to take care of myself. Those words gave me permission to let go. I spent a lot of time relinquishing grief and anger about her illness.

She was discharged Christmas week. She looked great — my girl was back. She had a focused gaze, clear skin, and a shy smile. As I hugged her, I told her how beautiful she looked. She pulled back and said, “Mama, you look beautiful too. What did you do?”

It’s been almost a year since my transformation; I try not to overfunction. There are times we can string together a few wonderful days, and other times it all falls apart. I feel the most content when I listen to a soft voice within me, guiding me on a path of grace. For that, I’m forever grateful.