Celebrating our Kids' Strength

Lessons from Parenting Teens with Mental Health Challenges

I had dreaded this day for two years.

At first, I wasn’t sure if I was hearing muffled sobs or strange laughter. I sat on a couch in our friend’s cabin, as the sounds of Ellie’s conversation with her boyfriend wafted down from the loft above. I tried not to eavesdrop. But when I saw her face, swollen and red, I knew.

Earlier that day, Ellie confessed her concerns about her relationship. For hours, I held her in my arms on a queen-sized bed, a pile of crumpled tissues growing by the minute. I listened, empathized, and tried to strategize ways to renew her relationship with the young man she loved. It wasn’t the way I had expected to spend our family’s spring break, but it was what she needed.

Eight hours later, it was over. Suddenly, bitterly, shockingly. I felt as if someone had just cut the strings to our parachute and we were falling too quickly to breathe, anticipating a hard landing.

It all started about two years ago. Less than six months after being discharged from an eating disorders treatment center, Ellie met Tommy through a mutual friend. Within months, they were official. “We’re dating,” Ellie pondered, fingering a bracelet Tommy gave her for Valentine’s Day. “I have a boyfriend.” She said the words slowly, as if she were tasting them for the first time.

My husband Peter and I liked Tommy. Whenever he came over, he shook our hands, smiled often and thanked us effusively. He fit right in with our family’s way of playing board games, full of snarky comments and stealthy moves. He loved to tell stories, always exaggerated, which made us laugh.  Most of all, we saw the way Ellie’s eyes lit up when he appeared, how she relaxed when his arm was around her, the ways he soothed her over FaceTime when she felt anxious. Somehow, under Tommy’s affirming gaze, Ellie’s body hatred seemed to melt. She chose soft flowing dresses with confidence; she put on makeup easily before seeing him; the critical complaints about her body disappeared. 

As much as we liked Tommy, we grew concerned when Ellie’s social life shrunk. She had just begun developing friendships at her new school. Social skills often eluded Ellie, even at a young age. She envied girls who fit in easily to cliques where they found belonging, companionship, and affirmation. Now, as a high school junior starting fresh at a small private school, several girls sought her out. For the first time, I snapped photos of Ellie in a semi-formal dress, posing with friends before Homecoming. On Halloween, I introduced myself to fellow parents in their glowing white kitchen while Ellie joined the party in the basement. In November, I didn’t complain about a forty-minute drive to bring Ellie to a sleepover, because she hadn’t had a sleepover in four years. 

But as Tommy entered the picture, most of those friendships faded. Perhaps they would have anyway; navigating peer conflict proved difficult for Ellie. But Ellie also seemed less intentional about building friendships and less tolerant of her friends’ flaws. Her school friendships shifted into lunchtime buddies, with an occasional hangout. More and more of her social life revolved around Tommy. He was her confidante when she struggled with eating disorder slips. He was her cheerleader when depression returned. His voice calmed her in moments of anxiety. 

Peter and I worried frequently: how hard would Ellie crash if they ever broke up? Would the shock of losing Tommy’s support send Ellie into relapse? How could we convince her to develop more of a support system outside of Tommy?

The night of the breakup, Ellie wept in my arms again.

Afterwards I shivered in bed, trying to calm my terror. How will she get through this? I prayed. Please help us, God. I texted my friend Cameron, whose daughter Rachel is also recovering from depression and bulimia (read Cameron’s incredible story here). I told her how scared I was and asked her to pray for Ellie.

After a lovely dose of empathy, Cameron said something unexpectedly beautiful, something that changed my whole perspective. 

“You are understandably worried. But what if we remember that our daughters literally have the STRONGEST minds around? Their brains have enough resilience to be what they are in the good times AND the bad. Let’s hope that Ellie will take the strength she’s built and use it positively in this experience. Can you choose to be hopeful about her strength, rather than afraid of her fragility?”

Cameron’s words hit me like an electric shock. 

In the years when Ellie’s eating disorder spiraled out of control, I learned how to brace for an almost constant state of crisis. There were months in which I could not expect Ellie to eat full meals, get out of bed, or attend school. After she was discharged from a partial hospitalization program, I felt hopeful until her therapist gently told me that Ellie’s recovery behavior had been a farce. Unwittingly, I had fallen for a package of lies as Ellie found more sophisticated ways to restrict and purge in secret. Over time, I absorbed a consistent message: Mom, you have to be on your game, all the time. Do more, try harder, supervise constantly to keep your daughter alive. If she falls, it’s on you. Ellie can’t take care of herself, so you have to advocate for her. The stakes are life and death.

Even though it’s been about two and a half years of relative stability with Ellie’s eating disorder and depression (note: “stability” doesn’t mean the absence of short relapses), I’m realizing that my heart hasn’t caught up. Despite Ellie’s progress in individual therapy, the trust and tools we’ve built together in family therapy, and the ways Ellie has overcome multiple challenges, it’s been hard for me to relax and let go. Perhaps I’m still more aware of Ellie’s fragility than her resilience.

But Cameron’s words made me pause. At a recent checkup, my eye doctor clicked a new set of lenses and my vision was suddenly sharper. In the same way, Cameron’s words prompted me to observe Ellie with a different set of lenses. I asked myself, What if I focus on how capable she is? What if I hold a vision of her moving through grief with health and grace, rather than collapsing? If I believe Ellie is strong enough to sustain pain, what will that communicate to her? How will it affect both of us, if I trust her to work through this, rather than assuming we are in crisis?

By God’s grace, two weeks post-breakup, Ellie has shown incredible resilience. I’ve seen her express emotions in healthy ways, including taking out her anger on stuffed animals from Tommy. She weeps, and her stomach hurts more than usual. But she hasn’t let the breakup slow her down. She’s just as diligent about attending classes, doing homework, and connecting with her therapist, nutritionist and support group leader. She immediately reached out to two girlfriends from last year, who have supported her with extra companionship and encouragement. On the hardest days, Ellie pours her grief into baking a loaf of homemade bread rather than sinking under the covers.

The way forward may always be harder for Ellie than other kids, considering her neurodiversity and mental health issues. But I’m learning to trust our ability to weather storms. I can see now that her recovery journey has helped her build emotional muscles that can sustain her through hard times.

Perhaps the same is true for me as her mother. Maybe all of us who walk through a recovery journey, whether as a patient or a caregiver, develop strength that we don’t even notice until we draw upon it.