I just can’t take it anymore. Where can I send my elderly mum?
I don’t know how much longer I can keep going. At first, I thought I could handle it—like it was just a rough patch, and love and patience would get me through. But now? I’m at my breaking point—emotionally, physically, mentally. Maybe some people will judge me for saying this. Others might understand because they’ve been there themselves. I don’t want to justify anything; I just need to get this off my chest.
My name’s Emily, and I’m the younger daughter. My older brother, James, is three years ahead of me. Mum had us later in life—she was 42 when he was born, 45 when I came along. My parents struggled to have kids for years, so when we finally arrived, Mum treated us like miracles. We were her whole world. Even though she was older than most mums at school, she gave us everything—love, warmth, a good education.
When I was 17, Dad passed away. It hit James and me hard, but for Mum? It was like her world ended. She barely held herself together, and I did my best to be there for her. James left for uni, then moved to the States—career, family, the whole lot. It was just me and Mum after that.
Fast forward years later. Mum’s 78 now, and I’m still here. Only she’s not just Mum anymore. She needs round-the-clock care, and I’m drowning in it.
She forgets basic things—leaves the iron on, walks away from the stove, puts the kettle in the fridge and the milk in the cupboard. I’ve told her a hundred times, *”Don’t worry, I’ll handle it,”* but she keeps trying to help—out of love, out of habit, out of wanting to feel useful. But it just makes things harder. And I hate having to say, *”Mum, please stop,”* because the look on her face—like she’s failed—just breaks me.
Then there was the worst day. Mum went out and didn’t come back. She forgot where she was going, forgot where she lived. We searched for three hours. I called everyone, ran around the neighbourhood, nearly lost my mind. A friend spotted her clear across town and rang me. Mum was confused, freezing, terrified. And me? I was drained. Completely shattered.
This isn’t a one-off. It’s my normal now. Constant stress. Constant fear that something’s gone wrong. Never a moment’s peace. I wake up at every noise. I don’t go anywhere. I’m not living—I’m just surviving. I’m not her daughter anymore; I’m her carer. And it’s slowly killing me.
I’ve got my own family too—my husband, kids, grandkids. I love them, I built my life around them. But right now, Mum’s the weight on my shoulders. And I can feel myself crumbling. I’m exhausted. Burnt out. I cry at night because I don’t know how much longer I can do this.
I can’t even bring myself to say it out loud: *”Where can I send Mum?”* The word *”send”* sounds like betrayal. Like I’m not her daughter but some cold-hearted stranger. But care homes exist. Retirement communities with proper staff. Places where she’d be safe. Why does even *thinking* about it make me feel guilty?
Because that’s how we were raised. Because your mother is sacred. Because she brought me into this world, raised me, protected me. Now it’s my duty to do the same. But duty shouldn’t be a life sentence. It shouldn’t feel like a millstone around my neck, dragging me under.
James helps—sends money, calls, listens. But he’s an ocean away. He doesn’t see Mum crying at night, getting lost in her own house, calling me by her mother’s name. He’s not the one frantically searching the streets when she wanders off. He’s not sweeping up broken plates she’s dropped. His life is peaceful. Mine? I’m stuck in this endless loop.
I don’t know what to do. I just want to *breathe*. Wake up without panic. Visit my daughter without fearing Mum’s left the gas on. I’m not asking for much. Just a little life. A little quiet. A little bit of *me* back.
Maybe someone out there will call me a bad daughter. Say I should carry her on my back till the end. Fine. Let them live like this for a year. Five years. Then tell me how it feels to be a person with no right to rest.
I don’t want to abandon Mum. I want her to be *okay*. Cared for. Safe. I want to love her, not fear for her. But right now? I can’t do this alone. If there’s somewhere she’d be better off—somewhere she’d have proper help—maybe I *should* consider it.
I don’t know. I really don’t. But I can’t keep going like this.
