I’ve known I’m a carer for a while now. But working on content for Talking Talent this week about carers in the workplace, something just clicked. It stopped being an abstract thing and became very, very real.
Last week, my daughter, Amber, had barely any sleep. The night before heading back to school after half term. She was dysregulated, anxious, and completely overwhelmed.
Needed through the night. Not in the way they needed me when they were small – quick comfort, back to sleep. But the constant state of being alert. Listening for her. Monitoring her breathing. Knowing she was awake, dysregulated, cycling through her anxiety.
Part of my brain never switched off. Couldn’t switch off.
Needed in the morning from every angle.
Couldn’t get her to school – so I didn’t.
And the moment I made that decision, everything else had to rearrange around it. My work. My plans. My gym time – which isn’t a luxury for me, it’s literally the thing keeping my mental health upright.
My son, Jude, had to go to school. He asked why she didn’t have to. I had to explain her needs to him. Help a 6 year old understand that this was different. That his sister needed me in a way he didn’t that morning.
So I lost my therapy session with the dumbbells and the treadmill.
And I resented it.
The Resentment
“Why is it always me that she needs?”
“I’m always the default parent. This is exhausting me.”
But actually, it’s not her needing me that I resent. It’s the hypervigilance. The constant state of alert. The part of my brain that never switches off, never relaxes, never gets to be calm.
That’s what exhausts me. That’s what’s debilitating. The mood-altering cost of always monitoring, always scanning, always ready.
Even as I felt it, I was still doing it. Reading her face. Checking her tone. Assessing the next dysregulated moment. The resentment was real. It was sharp. And it felt like the cruelest thing I could possibly feel toward a child who genuinely can’t help what she needs.
That’s what was running through my head as the day fell apart. The spiral of it. The unfairness of it.
She doesn’t know any different. She doesn’t understand that always needing me costs me something. That being the one person who can calm her nervous system means my nervous system never gets to be calm.
The resentment was real. It was sharp. And it felt like the cruellest thing I could possibly feel toward a child who genuinely can’t help what she needs.
The Guilt That Follows
Before I could even sit with the anger, it flipped.
“She doesn’t know what she needs – you do know. It’s literally your job to know.”
“Will I always have to play this role? The carer as well as the parent?”
And just like that, the resentment became selfish. Small. Ungrateful.
Because I do understand her complex needs. I am the person she trusts. I am her safe space. And she can’t help that she needs me more than other kids need their parents.
So how can I resent that?
The guilt swallows the anger whole and I’m left hating myself for even feeling it.
What Nobody Talks About
I have a husband who helps. I’m aware not everyone does. He steps in. He understands. He supports.
But the labour of being THE person – the one she needs most, the one who understands her best, the one whose job it is to hold her together, that still falls on me.
Even with support, it’s invisible.
The nights I lie awake because she’s dysregulated and I’m the one who knows how to help. The constant vigilance. The never being fully off. The understanding that my needs come after hers because that’s what it means to be a carer.
It’s expected. Normal. Just what you do.
Nobody sees it. Nobody names it. Nobody asks how I’m coping with the weight of it.
The Summer Term
And then summer term happens.
Everything at once. Scheduling of sports days. Practicing end of year plays. Exams. Sorting child care for the holidays. Amber’s anxiety about secondary school. Jude’s anxiety about his sister not being at school with him next year.
Amber dysregulated at an extreme.
Everything is urgent. Everything needs me.
And I’m always monitoring. In the background of every other thing I’m doing, part of my brain is tracking her mood, her triggers, her capacity. Is she okay? Is she about to melt down? Does she need me to step in?
The caring role doesn’t get smaller in summer term. It gets bigger. More complicated. More needed.
There’s nowhere to hide anymore.
The Resentment/Guilt Loop
This is the thing that actually breaks me: I resent being needed. Then I feel guilty for resenting it. Then I’m unkind to myself about the guilt. Then I wonder if this is sustainable. If I can keep being the person she needs while also being a person with my own needs.
Round and round it goes.
“Why is it always me?”
“Because she needs you more than other kids need their parents.”
“But I need my life back.”
“Then you’re selfish.”
“No, I’m human.”
“You should be grateful.”
“I am. But I’m also exhausted.”
And the guilt wins. It always wins.
What This Actually Costs
My gym time. My therapy. My mental health budget spent on something I didn’t choose. My ability to be present for Jude without that undercurrent of resentment.
My time. My energy. My capacity.
I’m not complaining about the caring. I’m naming what it costs. Because Carers Week is here and that’s what we’re supposed to do – acknowledge carers.
But nobody acknowledges what it actually takes from us.
Here’s What I Know
Amber will always need me in a specific way. That’s not going to change. I’ll always be the default because I’m the one who understands her best.
But I also need my gym time. I need my nervous system to not be constantly dysregulated because I’m holding hers together.
My husband helps. My workplace supports. But the weight of being THE carer still lands on me.
And I’m allowed to resent that sometimes. Even though I love her completely.
Both things can be true. The resentment and the love. The guilt and the human need for my own life back.
Carers Week should say that.
Amie Meslohi leads on crafting compelling brand narratives and purposeful content that reflect the organisation’s commitment to inclusive leadership and culture. She also writes and speaks about workplace inclusion from lived experience - including as a working parent to a neurodiverse child, highlighting why supporting neurodivergent families matters not only for individual wellbeing but for future-proofing businesses.