I’ve reached my limit. Where can I send my elderly mother?
I don’t know how much longer I can hold on. When it all started, I thought I’d manage—that it was just a rough patch, and love and patience would see me through. But now I’m standing on the edge—emotionally, physically, morally. Some might judge me for saying this. Others might understand because they’ve been there themselves. I want to share my story—not to justify anything, just to get it off my chest.
My name is Emily, the second child in the family. I’ve got an older brother, three years my senior. Mum had us later in life—my brother at forty-two, me at forty-five. My parents struggled to have children, so when we finally arrived, Mum treated us like miracles. We were her world. Despite the age gap between her and other mums, she gave us everything—love, warmth, a proper education.
When I was seventeen, Dad passed away. For my brother and me, it was devastating, but for Mum? The end of the world. She barely coped, and I did my best to support her. My brother left for university, then moved to America—career, family, the whole lot. It was just Mum and me.
Years have passed. Mum’s now seventy-eight. And I’m still here. Only now, she’s not just Mum. She’s a full-time care case. Almost round-the-clock. And I’m drowning.
She forgets the basics. Leaves the iron on, forgets the stove, puts the kettle in the fridge and the milk in the cupboard. I’ve told her a hundred times not to try and help—I’ll do it. But she keeps at it—good intentions, habit, wanting to feel useful. Only now, it’s more hindrance than help. And I feel guilty saying, “Mum, don’t,” because I see the hurt in her eyes when she realises she can’t manage.
The worst happened recently. Mum went out and didn’t come back. She forgot where she was going. Forgot where she lived. We searched for over three hours. I rang everyone, combed the neighbourhood, nearly lost my mind. A friend spotted her on the other side of town and called me. Mum was confused, freezing, terrified. And me? Drained, shattered, hollow.
This isn’t rare anymore. It’s the new normal. Constant stress. Constant fear that something will go wrong. Constant responsibility. I can’t relax for a second. I wake at every noise. I don’t go anywhere. I’m not living—I’m surviving. I’m not a daughter—I’m a carer. And it’s chipping away at me.
I’ve got a family too. A husband, kids, grandkids. I love them, built my life around them. But now, Mum’s the weight on my shoulders. And I’m running out of strength. I’m exhausted. Burnt out. Crying at night because I don’t know what comes next.
I can’t even say it out loud: “Where can I send Mum?” The word “send” sounds like betrayal. Like I’m not her daughter but some heartless stranger. But care homes exist. Retirement communities with support. Special facilities. Why can’t I consider them without guilt?
Because we were raised this way. Because mothers are sacred. Because she brought me into this world, raised me, protected me. Now it’s my duty to be there for her. But duty shouldn’t be a life sentence. It shouldn’t feel like a noose around my neck, dragging me under.
My brother helps with money, calls, sympathises. But he’s across the pond. He doesn’t see Mum crying at night, getting lost in the high street, mixing up my name with Gran’s. He doesn’t panic-dash around the neighbourhood when she doesn’t come back from the shops. He doesn’t sweep up the plates she drops. He’s living his life. And me? I’m here. In this house. In this never-ending loop.
I don’t know what to do. I just want to breathe. Wake up without dread. Visit my daughter without fearing Mum’s set the flat on fire in my absence. I’m not asking for much—just a bit of life. A bit of quiet. A bit of *me*.
Maybe someone will judge me. Call me a bad daughter. Say a mother should be carried to the very end. Fine. Let them live like this for a year. Two. Five. Then tell me what it’s like to be alive but never allowed a moment’s rest.
I don’t want to abandon Mum. I want her to be safe, cared for, looked after. I want to love her, not fear her. But right now—I can’t do this anymore. If there’s a place where she’d be happier, where she’d have proper care, where someone could watch over her… shouldn’t that at least be considered?
I don’t know. Truly, I don’t. But I can’t keep going like this.
