Today, we turn 18
Before you read: This post shares our lived experience with eating disorders, inpatient treatment, and suicidal crisis. Please take care and read only if you feel safe to do so today.
Today, my youngest daughter turns 18.
I’m celebrating with a cupcake (her choice) and it feels almost surreal. Not just because she’s here, at home, but because for a long time, I didn’t know if we’d ever get to this moment.
She spent her 13th, 14th, 15th, and 16th birthdays in inpatient psychiatric units. Each year, she woke up and went to sleep in a hospital bed. Apart from her 16th, when we were allowed to go for a short drive, I was only ever granted an hour with her. One hour to celebrate her birthday.
Today, there are no ward restrictions dictating what I can give her. I can wrap up anything I like without adhering to the ‘prohibited items’ list. This year, the only Squishmallow she has is on the wrapping paper - those soft, comforting toys were some of the few gifts allowed back then, and she had too many plenty😉.
She was first admitted to an eating disorder unit that, like so many other units, couldn’t meet her needs. At the time, her autism hadn’t been diagnosed and as a result, the support she required wasn’t recognised or provided. After five months there, she was moved to a different unit and from that point on, she received no eating disorder-specific support. The system failed her in ways that too many families will recognise.
I shouldn’t feel like one of the lucky ones. But I do. Because my daughter is alive, and I know of too many families who can’t say the same. Too many young people took their own lives - not because of their mental illness alone, but because the system left them without hope. I nearly lost her, more than once. She believed there was no way out, that no one could help her get well enough to live at home again. That hopelessness didn’t come from her illness, but from the system that was supposed to help her.
When she was finally discharged, they didn’t expect her to stay out of hospital. Her psychologist (CAMHS) was told that she’d likely not need support for long - they assumed she’d be back in soon. Most of the young people she met during those years have been readmitted. It’s what the system expects. And that was one of the things that scared her most. Why fight, when relapse felt inevitable?
But today, she is here. At home (Apart from going to puppy yoga with her sister 🥰). Safe. Celebrating. She trusts me, and she trusts herself. She is eating. Her OCD is dormant. After 3 years and 9 months in hospital without a single bite of food, today we take the next step and eat cake. We continue the journey of recovery.
I’m heartbroken for the families who aren’t celebrating. Who should be, but can’t. The ones who were failed, like we were—but didn’t get another chance.
It’s part of why I’ve created The Support Tree. Because families deserve more than survival mode. They deserve real support, understanding, and hope. I’ll also be working as an Expert by Experience in Care, Education and Treatment Reviews (CETRs), doing my part to be the voice for carers and parents, and to push for the changes we desperately need.
We can do better. We must do better. I will keep showing up, because my daughter’s story - like so many others - is proof that change is not only necessary, it is possible.