*Trigger Warning – This story contains mentions of self-harm, mental health distress and suicide.

I was in the hospital.

Earlier that day, I had received every parent’s worst nightmare—a call saying my 16-year-old daughter had taken an overdose with the intent to end her life. She had been rushed to the hospital by ambulance.

I was in shock.
I felt like I had failed as a mum and as if this was all my fault!

The nurses wheeled in a worn-out green recliner, its bumpy springs creaking, for me to stay with her overnight.

As she lay there silently, her small figure so fragile, the sterile smell of disinfectant and the steady beeps of the heart monitor filled the room.

I sat beside her, watching over her while she slept.

My mind was racing like a runaway stallion and I thought back to the day she was born, when I promised to protect her no matter what.

That night, I made her a new promise: I would do everything in my power to help her heal.

I was relentless in my search for answers.

Eventually, we got one: an autism diagnosis. But the additional labels—depression, generalized anxiety disorder, and borderline personality—didn’t sit right with me. The medications, therapies, and treatments prescribed by ‘experts’ only seemed to make things worse.

I found myself at a crossroads: keep following the experts and watch her condition deteriorate, or trust my instincts and take a different path.

There wasn’t really a choice. Her life felt like it was in my hands.

I’m nothing if not tenacious, and after many hours of research, I learned about Autistic Burnout. Finally, I had found the missing piece of her mental health puzzle. Things began to make sense.