I’ve spoken a lot about my time in hospital. I stayed there for six weeks — and to be honest, it felt like a lifetime. Not just for me, but for everyone waiting on the outside, hoping I’d come home.
When I realised I needed to go into hospital, I was overwhelmed with guilt.
Guilty for leaving Archie.
Guilty for handing all my responsibilities over to my mum.
Guilty for not being there for my nan and grandad.
Guilty for missing work.
I felt like I’d let everyone down — and now they had to pick up the pieces.
But what I didn’t realise at the time was that I had already been gone for a long time. I may have been physically present, but I had mentally checked out long before I was admitted. I hadn’t really been there for a long while.
Being admitted was terrifying.
In my first two ward rounds, I insisted I didn’t need to be there. I told the consultant I was fine. I said I wasn’t a danger to myself anymore.
But I wasn’t convincing anyone. I was silent, empty, withdrawn — with visible signs of self-harm on my face and arms. I looked like a shadow of myself.
And yet, all I could think about was how much I was letting people down by being there.
The guilt of being away from Archie was unbearable.
Every time I saw him or spoke to him, he would be upset — and I knew that was my fault.
As a parent, your job is to protect your child. And in that moment, I felt like I had failed him in the worst possible way.
I avoided calling my nan at first. Not because I didn’t love her — but because I couldn’t bear the thought of hearing her sadness.
When I finally did speak to her, she tried to be positive. But I could hear it in her voice.
She was broken.
And when her voice cracked, it broke me too.
Then there was my mum.
She’s the strongest woman I know — always the one holding everything together.
She looked after Archie, kept life running, and supported me through everything. But even she couldn’t keep it all in.
There were moments when I saw the cracks in her strength. And again, I blamed myself. I hated that I was the reason behind so much pain.
I started trying to rush my recovery. I wanted to prove I was better. I wanted to go home and fix things.
The mask came back — slowly, piece by piece.
Only this time, I knew I was lying.
I knew I wasn’t ready.
And that I still wasn’t safe.
Despite how much I wanted to go home and undo the hurt, I knew deep down:
I needed to stay.
For me. For Archie. For all of us.
I often wonder what might have been different if I’d got help earlier.
What if there had been real early intervention?
What if someone had seen the signs — or I had spoken up sooner?
How many people could be saved from that kind of suffering?
How many families could be spared the heartbreak?
How many lives could be saved if help didn’t come only at the point of crisis?
We need more than crisis response.
We need early help. Ongoing support. Real understanding.
And no one should have to feel guilty for needing it.
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