I Used To Be An OT - Until I Had To Keep My Parents Alive

I used to be an Occupational Therapist.

I thought I knew how to plan, how to pace and how to care. But when it’s your parents, it’s different. The boundaries blur. You become a daughter, a carer, an admin assistant and a mini health and social care system all rolled into one.

But nothing prepared me for becoming the one who had to keep two people alive.

My mum, who’s now borderline immobile after a failed hindfoot nailing, struggling daily with destructive arthritis and lymphoedema that leaves her housebound. Still feeling the effects of sepsis and a pulmonary embolism.

My stepdad, who’s now had two strokes - one took some of his mobility and the other took some of his words, which makes every day somewhat unpredictable.

And me? I’m attempting to work 40 hours a week, in the middle of moving house to be closer to my parents, managing epilepsy and trying to hold together a care plan for two disabled parents who don’t meet the funding thresholds for free or discounted support, in a house that has plenty of potential but is currently unsuitable for their needs.

People love to say “at least there are four of you to look after them.”

But they don’t see what I see.

A brother lost in his own mental health battles. Two stepsisters who only circle around my stepdad when they think he might die - lining up for their inheritance, not offering support.

I ask for help, but it comes on their terms, not mine. And in this world of medication, hospital appointments, continence supplies and endless admin… support on other people’s terms is next to useless.

So here I am, propping up two lives on a routine held together by Post-It notes and sticky plasters.

Living in a constant state of what if? - what if my stepdad falls? What if Mum has another infection? What if, what if, what if.

Back in 2023, my mum was fighting for her life in hospital. Between breaking the news to my vulnerable stepdad and attempting to deliver the reality of the situation to my brother without sending him spiralling, I realised I had forgotten about myself.

I tried to remember the last time I brushed my teeth. Four days had passed and it hadn’t even occurred to me to meet my own basic needs.

I returned home from the hospital and went to find myself a therapist.

I needed help.

I had planned everyone else’s lives down to the smallest detail.

But somewhere in the middle of their survival - I’d forgotten about my own.

I left that therapy session with one clear mission: to start reminding myself that I matter too.

So I set myself the tiniest, most basic goals - ones that might sound laughable to anyone who’s never been in the trenches of caregiving, but were monumental to me:

✅ Sit down for every meal. No more eating cereal whilst letting Mum’s carer in.
✅ Brush my teeth - at least once a day.
✅ Get to bed by 9pm. Not scrolling, not fretting - just resting.

It sounds small, doesn’t it? But these became my anchors, the non-negotiables that reminded me I had a life worth protecting, even in the middle of everyone else’s needs.

Because I had learned the hard way: no one was coming to rescue me. I had to rescue myself.

Over the course of the next few months, these tiny rituals helped me claw back some sense of dignity, some sense of me.

And that’s the thing about caring - it will swallow you whole if you let it.

But you don’t have to vanish to do it well.

You deserve to be in the picture too.