The Quiet Grief of Parenting a Child With Depression

No one really talks about the mental and emotional toll depression takes on those trying to love the person who is struggling. No one talks about how it is often more of a marathon than a sprint. 

As the mother of a child who suffers with clinical depression, and drawing from my training and experience as a social worker, I have found that there is a great deal of information available about treatment modalities, psychotropic medications, and how to support the individual living with the diagnosis. There is far less information about the sleepless nights spent worrying, the seasons when no matter how much love you pour into your child, they cannot feel it, and the reality that therapy and medication do not always provide a quick fix - or sometimes, what feels like any fix at all.

There is even less information about the numbness, anger, exhaustion, and grief that caregivers begin to feel after years of difficult conversations with their child.

No one talks about the constant vigilance that comes with loving a child who is struggling. The overthinking. The scanning of the environment. The quiet calculations that become part of everyday life when your child’s safety is never far from your mind. Or the self-doubt that accompanies nearly every decision made in an effort to help. Or the financial burden.

Or how isolating it is to be surrounded by family, friends, and a faith community whose lived experiences of parenting don’t look the same as ours. We are living alongside other families, but not experiencing the same season of life. We’re roughly the same age, raising children who are the same age, yet our experiences are worlds apart. We celebrate their children’s milestones genuinely, but sometimes I wish someone would recognize that we’re celebrating different kinds of milestones over here. We are navigating an entirely different landscape; grasping onto hope that our child can find the strength to make it through another day. And that deserves to be celebrated too.

I do not claim to be an expert in parenting a child with depression. My husband and I have spent countless hours checking in and processing with our child. Most of the time, until more recently, it felt like we were trying to draw something - anything - out of a soul that had gone to sleep. There were moments when the weight of that silence left me feeling desperate to reach my child, to find some way to break through the numbness. I wish I could say that I always responded with patience and understanding, but the truth is that desperation sometimes brings its own intensity. We want our children to find a reason to keep going. We want to reach them in the places where our love seems unable to follow. 

Perhaps one of the most difficult parts of this journey is recognizing that our child’s mental health struggles are not mine to tell. When friends and family check in to ask how things are going, I often don’t know what to share. It feels incredibly tender and vulnerable. What I need from others is to hold space for me while I articulate what is happening in my own soul as I navigate how my child is doing - all without sharing details that would violate their trust. 

Honestly this is not something for which we have found answers. Perhaps there are small arrows pointing the way, like a tiny candle in the dark, but nothing that feels neatly wrapped in a bow. 

Maybe the biggest thing I have learned through this incredibly long season is the importance of showing up every day and allowing ourselves to be fully human through the process. Some days I am angry. Some days I cry through my entire conversation with my child. Sometimes I feel numb. Sometimes, despair. But I still show up. I still schedule the medication management and counseling appointments, I still brainstorm with the psychiatrist alternatives that might help. I still hold onto hope, even when it feels fragile. 

And I am reminded of a quote from author Anne Lamont in her book Bird by Bird that has meant a great deal to me for a very long time:

 “Hope begins in the dark, the stubborn hope that if you just show up and try to do the right thing, the dawn will come. You wait and watch and work: you don’t give up.” 

Have you ever found yourself navigating a season of parenthood that looks different from what you imagined? What is something you wish others understood about your journey?

I would love to hear your thoughts in the comments. Sometimes, sharing our stories is one small way we can remind each other that we aren’t alone.