Part 2: When the Storm Moves In: Living the “New Abnormal”I want to tell you something you might not believe yet: you’re doing better than you think.If you’re here, reading this, you’ve probably already taken those terrifying first steps to help your teen. You’ve called the GP, contacted therapists, spoken to school. You’ve started to piece together a new language, a new way of showing up. And now… now you live in what I can only call the new abnormal.It’s a weird, wild place to be.This post is about what comes next—not for your child, but for you. For your partner. For your other children. For your wider support crew. Because when your teen is in crisis, you don’t get to pause your life. You have to keep living, feeling, working, parenting, partnering, showing up. And none of it is easy.1. The Emotional Roller CoasterThis stage is emotionally feral. You’ll feel everything, sometimes all in the space of an hour. It’s a choose-your-own-adventure of grief and fear and love:SadDesperateBored (yes, that too—waiting is boring)HopefulFuriousPatient and endlessly impatientEmpathetic and completely numbYou’ll cry over a cereal bowl, then put your “everything’s fine” face on for work. You’ll sit next to your teen, aching to reach them, then walk into the hallway and scream silently into your fists.It’s exhausting—but you’re not broken. You’re adapting. You’re in training. This part of the journey is where you learn how to stay standing in the storm.2. Be Prepared (Even If You Don’t Know What For)There were times we felt like we were drowning. We scrambled for stop-gap solutions and watched them fail. We made plans, then tore them up.Eventually, we realised something painfully simple: our only job was to say “I love you and I’m here.” That’s it.It sounds easy. It’s not. It’s firefighting. Long stretches of silence and anxiety, followed by bursts of adrenaline and panic when something spirals. It’s unbearable, but you do it because you must.Looking back, I wish I’d felt more empowered to call on everything available. We hesitated to call 111 or go to ED. We were embarrassed. We didn’t want to seem dramatic. We didn’t want to upset our son more.But I want to tell you this clearly: if you’re worried, make the call. Take them to ED. Call the police if they’ve gone missing. Even if everything calms down in the waiting room, it was still the right thing to do. It tells your child: “I see you. I believe you. You matter.”3. You Become the Punching BagThis part is hard to write, but I promised honesty.When your child is in crisis, their pain has to land somewhere. And often, that place is you. They lash out. They say things they don’t mean. They beg you to go away, then fall apart when you do. It’s whiplash—and it hurts like hell.My partner and I coped like two little figurines in one of those old cuckoo clocks. Only one of us was emotionally available at a time. When I was hopeful, he was in despair. When he found strength, I fell apart.It caused tension. Arguments in whispers behind closed doors. Jealousy when one of us could comfort him and the other couldn’t. But it also gave us a way to take turns. To carry each other. To hold the line together, even when we were barely hanging on ourselves.You’ll say the “perfect” thing one day and be met with eye rolls and fury the next. It’s a volcano ride. You won’t always get it right. Keep showing up anyway.4. Create Dorky, Safe MomentsFind your family glue—however small or silly it might be.We became Catan fanatics. Ridiculously so. Our teen would sit with us and argue about sheep and wheat and occasionally laugh. It was safe ground. No pressure. No “How are you feeling today?” Just us, muddling through an imaginary game board, being a team.Find your thing. A weekly movie night, cooking together, video games, whatever works. These rituals won’t fix everything—but they anchor you. And your child needs to see life go on.5. Don’t Forget the Rest of Your FamilyI neglected myself completely in the beginning. No surprise there. But I did try to manage how much pressure was falling on everyone else.Our younger son—his little brother—became a quiet rock. He offered banter, normality, laughter. I worried it was too much for him to hold. But over time, I saw it shape him into someone strong, kind, and wise beyond his years.Still, I made space for him to just be a teenager too. I’d take him out, just us two. Let him vent about school and forget for a moment that his brother was struggling.You don’t have to be perfect at this. You won’t be. But try to remember; you are not just supporting your child—you’re holding up a whole web of people. Check in with your partner, your parents, your friends, your siblings. They might not know how to help, but they’re probably worried too.6. This is Not ForeverThis might be the hardest truth to hold onto when you’re in it. There’s no handbook. No timeline. You want it to be over, and you want to know how to fix it—and neither of those things are in your control.But this: it is not forever.The skills you’re learning now—holding space, showing up, enduring the hard bits—they’re skills for life. They are painfully earned and endlessly valuable. They are what will carry you all through this.One day, you’ll look back and realise you survived something unimaginable. And not just survived—but grew.Your family’s story might not look like ours. That’s okay. There’s no single way through. But I promise you: love, persistence, and a healthy dose of dark humour will get you further than you think.More soon.This post is the second in our journey. Read the first blog here. The next chapter will explore what recovery starts to look like, how the fog begins to lift, and what it means to slowly trust again.With love and in solidarity,A parent still learning, always lovingKeep in [email protected]
