14April2025
I rose before the alarm, pulled on my coat and helped my daughter, Emily, into her school shoes. At almost fortytwo, I still feel the weight of years in my eyes, and my oncedark hair is now clipped short and pulled back. Every weekday around ten oclock we set off for the daycentre that treats anxiety disorders. The end of March in Manchester is still chilly; puddles glisten on the pavement from the last of the snow, and a brisk wind reminds me that spring has not yet gathered its full strength.
Emily turned twentytwo yesterday. She looks like any other young woman, but shes constantly on edge, flinching at every rustle. A few weeks ago her therapist suggested she attend a daytime facility for people with anxiety. I welcomed the idea with a mix of relief and dread relief that help might finally reach her, dread at the word hospital which still sounds frightening to me.
We walked to the bus stop, I slowed at each traffic light so she wouldnt be startled by honking cars, and we reached the clinics entrance together. The staff explain that the daycentre works like an extended therapy session: patients stay from morning until early evening but return home to sleep. Visiting relatives are welcome from nine in the morning until six at night, provided we follow the rules leave coats in the cloakroom, wear disposable shoe covers, and keep phones on silent. I found myself switching my phone to vibrate the moment we stepped inside, not wanting a sudden buzz to spook Emily. She startles easily at sharp sounds, so I try to keep the atmosphere as calm as possible.
From the moment we entered, tension settled over me. The bright white corridors, the steady humming of fluorescent lights, the hushed conversations between doctors all replaced the familiar spring scenes outside. The past few months have been hard for me. I work for a small recruitment agency, calling candidates, processing applications, juggling several tasks at once. Emilys anxiety has crept in slowly; even at university she began skipping lectures, fearing crowds, complaining of rapid heartbeat before exams. At first I chalked it up to normal student stress, but after a couple of panic attacks we sought professional help. Thats when we realised we needed to slow down and watch her more closely.
I tucked my long, warm coat onto the hook and slipped on the shoe covers. Emily squeezed my hand before the nurse led her to the first assessment room. I lingered in the hallway and saw a mixture of people many, like me, in their forties, some looking nervous, others more relaxed. In a corner a married couple whispered, presumably about their son who was also a patient. Nearby, a wearylooking woman sat with a bag on her lap, forcing a smile whenever a doctor stopped by. The whole place felt tense, as if everyone were waiting for permission to visit their loved ones, yet hesitant to intrude on anyone elses worries.
At first I kept my distance, my mind already racing with questions: what will the doctors say, could the diagnosis be more serious than anxiety disorder? Then a woman about fifty, with a short bob and a single earring, sat down beside me. She seemed friendly despite the fatigue in her eyes. I nodded, and she replied in a low voice, First time here? I took my son to another hospital before, but they were very formal. This place feels different. I told her I hoped for a good outcome: Emily is struggling, but the doctors said the daycentre offers useful groups psychological workshops, not just medication. She introduced herself as Lucy and mentioned that they also offer joint counselling for parents. Listening to her, I recognised my own worries reflected in her words.
A nurse in a lightblue uniform informed us that the specialists schedule was unpredictable some families might wait half an hour, others an hour, before a consultation. I glanced at my watch and remembered I had to pop into the office briefly later, but staying with Emily felt more urgent. The thought of work and missed calls irritated me; I felt guilty for not having everything perfectly arranged. Lucy noticed my tension and suggested, Shall we get a cuppa in the refreshment room? I agreed, and we descended the stairs to a tiny lounge with a few tables. The lamps cast a soft glow; I poured tea but could barely taste it. My thoughts kept circling back to Emily: She must be in the exam room now. I hope she isnt scared. I kept stealing glances at my silent phone.
When we returned, the corridor buzzed with movement. Patients emerged from consultation rooms, some headed to group sessions, others to the reception desk. The nurse brought Emily back; she sat beside me, a little flushed, and said the doctor had asked about the frequency of her panic attacks, prescribed a calming tablet, and invited her to a later group meeting. While she stepped away briefly to the restroom, Lucy appeared again with her own daughter, a shortbrown girl. They whispered quietly, trying not to disturb anyone. Dont worry, youll get used to the timetable, Lucy said. Did the doctor tell you when the groups start? I sighed, Not yet they promised to let us know by midday. I feel well be here a while. A muffled sob escaped from behind a closed door, reminding me that many more serious cases passed through these walls.
My mind drifted back to a conversation a year ago when Emily confessed she sometimes felt like she couldnt take a full breath, as if her chest were being squeezed. I tried to rationalise it as simple fear, but now, standing in this semisilent hallway, I realised I had felt similar tightness myself. Evening after evening, I caught myself tensing over trivial matters a clients call, a family squabble, a misplaced document. I told myself it was just fatigue, nothing to worry about. Yet watching other parents and fathers listening for every footstep, waiting for their loved ones, I saw my own fear mirrored in their eyes.
By midday many relatives found a sort of compromise with their own unease: some stepped outside for fresh air, others leafed through pamphlets about the therapy programmes. I noticed a poster on the wall, printed in bold letters: Anxiety in relatives is as important as in patients. The words sent a prickling sensation through my chest. Around me, Lucy waited patiently for her daughter, a couple nearby argued heatedly likely over their sons progress. It struck me that we were all there to support someone else, yet perhaps we each needed support ourselves.
A doctor on duty passed by, smiled, and asked if everything was alright. I nodded automatically, though a wave of anxiety rose to my throat. I had been so occupied with Emilys worries that I hadnt noticed how tightly Id been clenching my shoulders all day. It was a turning point either continue pretending everything was under control, or admit I too needed help. Deep down, I chose the latter.
I took a slow breath, glanced at the clock at the far end of the corridor Emilys appointment would end soon, after which the staff would likely invite us for a brief discussion. In that instant I felt there was no turning back. I had to support my daughter, and also be honest with myself. I didnt know exactly how to voice it, but I sensed that the next minutes would change my life. I clenched my hands, rose from my seat, and felt I had made an important decision. Nothing would ever be the same.
Emily emerged from the doctors office, shoulders slumped, the lateafternoon light filtering through the grimy windows. She told me the doctor had prescribed medication for the coming weeks and would monitor her progress. He also suggested a joint consultation for us, but asked us to wait a bit. I managed a faint smile; she trembled slightly, clearly exhausted by the lengthy talk. Relief washed over me she was finally getting help yet I also recognised that both of us would need patience and strength moving forward. Most of all, I knew I had to confront my own anxieties.
Lucy, who had become a quiet friend during the day, sat down beside me again. Her daughter flipped through a leaflet about group activities. I asked how their assessment was going. Lucys answer was vague, as if her thoughts were scattered, I think well need several sessions. The doctor said its a comprehensive programme: exercises, talks, specialist support. She turned to Emily, warmth in her voice, You know, I feel our kids expect us to lead them confidently, but were often barely holding on ourselves. I felt a warm knot form in my throat. It was exactly what I was experiencing: focusing solely on Emilys anxiety had left me disconnected from my own feelings.
Patients shuffled between rooms, parents tried not to interfere. Some whispered to siblings, others thumbed through books, but all kept checking the clock appointments and group work could run until six. My back ached from sitting so long, so I suggested a short walk with Emily. She agreed, looking a little calmer now that the medication would reduce her heightened anxiety. As we strolled past the information board and a table of disposable cups, Emily asked quietly, Mum, do you ever feel that fear? I hadnt expected the question; I had always called my stress work pressure. Yes, sometimes, I admitted, feeling my shoulders loosen slightly, a small sense of relief blooming.
A nurse then announced that the family therapist was now available for short joint sessions, inviting us to sit together. I instinctively checked my pocket for a ringing phone, but it lay silent in the depth of my coat. We entered a modest room with a small table and two chairs. The therapist, a man in his early fifties with a kindly gaze, listened to Emilys brief report, then turned to me. How are you? he asked softly. My throat tightened. I thought of the shaking hands, sweaty palms, sleepless nights filled with vague dread. Taking a breath, I said, Its not easy. I had assumed the main focus was Emilys therapy, but now I realised I, too, needed to untangle my own worries.
He nodded, explaining the centre also ran groups for relatives dealing with emotional burnout and fear. If youd like, we can book you a session with our psychologist, he offered calmly. Many parents find it helpful. I glanced at Emily; in her eyes I saw unspoken agreement You can try it too, Mum. My heart swelled with gratitude. In that moment I understood Emily didnt see me as an ironclad hero; she simply wanted her mother beside her, without losing herself. I pressed my lips together, nodded to the doctor, Alright, Ill do it. He made a note, wished us well, and we left the room.
In the hallway, Lucy stood nearby, waving as we passed. Her daughter had slipped on her shoes, ready to leave. Lucy asked, All good? I managed a weary smile, Yes I think Ill sign up for the parent group too. Its time to look after myself as well as the kids. Lucy agreed, A psychologist once told me: if were exhausted and suppressed, we cant truly support others. She handed me her number, promising a reminder about the sessions. I felt a strange mix of confusion and joy; strangers had become allies, sharing the same burdens.
We waited for Emily to change into her sturdy boots, the daycentre closing in about an hour. Staff began preparing tomorrows lists. Lucy and her daughter said goodbye, promising to meet again at a breathingtechnique workshop. I watched them go, feeling an unexpected sense of belonging with these other parents, something deeper than a simple exchange of worries.
Stepping outside, the cold wind bit at our faces. Grey clouds hung low, streetlamps flickered on slowly. On a bench a woman watched a small group waiting for their loved ones. Seeing them, I glimpsed my own reflection frightened eyes, a determined front, trying not to crumble in front of those I care for. Yet inside I no longer felt alone. Hours earlier I had feared admitting my own problems, believing it was a sign of weakness. Now I understood the opposite: the longer we hide our anxiety, the louder it shouts inside.
We ambled to the bus stop, moving gently so Emily wouldnt startle at the passing traffic. When the bus finally appeared, she turned to me and asked softly, Do you regret agreeing to these sessions? I placed my hand on her shoulder, No. If we want to get out of this mess, both of us have to work at it. She nodded and gave me a tentative hug. In that instant I realised I wasnt just needed by Emily; I too had the right to ask for help.
Waiting for the bus, the rainslicked road glistened under the lamps. When the doors opened, I helped Emily aboard. The interior was cramped, but we sat side by side. I tried to recall how many fortnightly counselling meetings were typical; I decided I would find out tomorrow. The essential thing was that I had finally made a choice: I would no longer let myself disappear behind duties. Emily rested her head against the window, and I felt a slight ache in my back, but I straightened my shoulders and looked out at the dim city beyond the glass. The streetlights hinted at change. It wont be easy or quick, but we have already stepped onto a path where every family member is allowed to seek and receive psychological support. A quiet smile formed on my lips as I thought of tomorrow it may bring new strength for both of us.
Lesson learned: caring for another does not mean neglecting yourself; true resilience begins when you give yourself permission to be helped.
