When youʻre the one left standing

I’ve been thinking a lot about my 20s and 30s lately. How much I carried. How young I was when I started holding it all together. My mom was diagnosed with kidney failure when I was 20. She started dialysis soon after, and it was a major life transition. One neither of us had the emotional tools to process. It wasn’t cancer, but it was overwhelming and terrifying in its own way. Her way of coping was to stay strong and push forward, but that often meant turning her anger and frustration toward me.

She got a transplant when I was 25. It gave us more time, but also came with new complications. The worst was psychosis brought on by her medication. I was already used to her unpredictable moods when her blood sugar was low. Those moments were hard, but I learned how to ride them out. This was different. This was like that, but a hundred times worse. The psychosis came out in deeply personal attacks. Sharp, targeted, and cruel. It wasn’t her fault, and I know she was scared. But I was still the one absorbing it.

And for reasons I’m still untangling, there really wasn’t anyone else to take on the brunt of it. My mom didn’t trust anyone else. And the truth is, there wasn’t anyone else she could trust. Not in the way she needed.

Even when my dad was well, I was the one managing the emotional weight. I didn’t know how to process it back then. How could I have? I was just doing my best to stay upright. Neither of my parents had the tools to name or navigate what was happening emotionally. And as an only child, I didn’t have a safety net. No siblings. No nearby family we could call on in a real way.

There was one cousin I grew up with. Someone who was part of our lives in very real, tangible ways, especially when it came to domestic support. But her relationship with my mother was complicated. Two women with deep trauma, both vying for control in a world that rarely gave them any. I understand that now. Still, emotional support wasn’t something we could count on. Not then, and not now.

Sometimes help is present in form but not in feeling. And when you're the only one left standing, that distinction matters.

This also isn’t just a personal reflection. It’s a way to share my truth, especially for those who assume I’ve led some kind of charmed life. People say things like, “You’re lucky you have such a good relationship with your father,” and yes, I am. But my relationship with my mother was complicated as hell. Others make comments about my career, or say things like, “Well, if you don’t have enough money to take care of your father…” And all I can think is, how was I supposed to? I’ve been putting out fires for the last 22 years with little to no support.

So no, this isn’t a call for pity. It’s a clearing. A reckoning. And maybe a lifeline to anyone else who’s been quietly holding it all together while the world assumes they’ve had it easy.