I just can’t take it anymore. Where can I send my elderly mum?
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, that love and patience would get us through. But now I’m at my limit—emotionally, physically, mentally. Some might judge me for saying this. Others might understand because they’ve been there themselves. I just need to get this off my chest—not to make excuses, just to be heard.
My name’s Emily, the younger daughter in the family. I’ve got an older brother, three years my senior. Mum had us later in life—my brother when she was forty-two, me at forty-five. My parents struggled to have kids, and when we finally came along, Mum treated us like miracles. We were her whole world. Even though she was older than most mums, she gave us everything—love, warmth, a good education.
When I was seventeen, Dad passed. It shattered me and my brother, but for Mum, it was like the world ended. She barely pulled through, and I did what I could to keep her going. My brother left for uni, then moved to the States—building a career, starting a family. It was just Mum and me after that.
Years flew by. Mum’s seventy-eight now. And I’m still here. Only now, she’s not just Mum anymore. She needs constant care—round-the-clock. And I’m drowning.
She forgets the simplest things. Leaves the iron on, walks off with the cooker still running, puts the kettle in the fridge and the milk in the cupboard. I’ve told her a hundred times—don’t bother, I’ll handle it. But she keeps trying—out of love, out of habit, out of wanting to help. Only it just makes things harder. And it kills me to say, *“Mum, stop,”* because I see how much it hurts her, realising she can’t do things anymore.
Then the worst happened. Mum went out and didn’t come back. She forgot where she was going. Forgot where she lived. I searched for over three hours—called everyone, ran through the neighbourhood, nearly lost my mind. A friend spotted her clear across town and rang me. Mum was confused, freezing, terrified. And I—I was wrecked. Shattered. Empty.
And this isn’t rare anymore. It’s normal now. Constant stress. Constant fear that something’s gone wrong. Constant responsibility. I can’t relax for a second. I wake up at every noise. I don’t go anywhere. I’m not living—I’m surviving. I’m not her daughter anymore. I’m her carer. And it’s slowly breaking me.
I’ve got my own family too. A husband, kids, grandkids. I love them, I’ve lived for them. But right now? Mum’s my whole world. And I can feel myself crumbling. I’m exhausted. Burnt out. I cry at night because I don’t know what else to do.
I can’t even bring myself to say it out loud: *“Where can I send Mum?”* Just the word—*send*—feels like betrayal. Like I’m some heartless stranger. But care homes exist. Retirement villages with proper staff. Special facilities. Why does even *thinking* about it fill me with guilt?
Because that’s how we were raised. Because mothers are sacred. Because she birthed me, raised me, kept me safe. Now it’s my duty to be here. But duty isn’t a life sentence. It’s not a cross to bear. Yet it feels like a stone around my neck—*“Carry it till you collapse.”*
My brother helps—sends money, calls, sympathises. But he’s an ocean away. He doesn’t see Mum crying at night. Doesn’t watch her get lost in her own home, mixing up my name with Grandma’s. Doesn’t sprint through the streets in panic when she doesn’t come back from the shops. Doesn’t sweep up plates she’s dropped. His life’s peaceful. Mine? Stuck in this house. In this endless loop.
I don’t know what to do. I just want to *breathe*. Wake up without dread. Visit my daughter without fearing Mum’s burnt the flat down. I’m not asking for much. Just a little life. A little quiet. A little *me*.
And maybe someone out there will judge me. Say I’m a terrible daughter. That you should carry your mum in your arms till the 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 to rest.
I don’t want to abandon her. I want her safe. Cared for. Loved. 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 better off—where she’d get real help, real supervision—maybe I should consider it?
I don’t know. I really don’t. But I can’t keep going like this.
