Sophie's Story

As part of the I Wish campaign, Our Time Chair of Trustees, Sophie, shares her experience of growing up with parental mental illness. Sophie has spent much of her career funding projects across the UK that improve early intervention mental health support for young people; work that, as she explains, is rooted in something much closer to home. 

I had a happy childhood. I lived with my parents and my three siblings, although my two older siblings moved out when I was quite young, so I often felt like the oldest sibling at home. 

I was 15 when I first became aware that my mum was struggling with her mental health. Up until that point, I had no idea she'd had mental health issues before. It felt like such a huge shift, almost overnight. 

I remember coming home from school one day and she'd bought me loads of desk organisers for my studying, which I didn't need. She was just really "buzzy." The next morning, I woke up because she'd come into my bed. She was hysterically crying, uncontrollable, talking about all sorts of things - some were real, upsetting events from her past, and others weren't real at all, like her thinking she was Michael Jackson or my twin. 

I was so confused and frightened. I didn't know what to do. I don't remember what I said, I can only remember crying. It felt like something had "happened" to her and that I might never get her back. 

My dad and I took her to A&E, where nobody explained to me, in real terms, what was happening. She was taken into the psychiatric ward, and I had no idea if, or when, she'd be coming home. 

Keeping the secret 

Mum worked at my school, so there was one teacher who did know. She told me I could come and speak to her any time. I didn't want to though, it felt like it should stay a secret in my family. I remember my dad saying mum wouldn't want people to know, so we didn't even tell extended family.  

There's one moment that has always stuck with me. It was exam season, and after one exam finished, I walked the mile and a half from school to the hospital to visit her alone. It felt like such a heavy weight, coming straight out of an exam and heading to the hospital, without anyone knowing. I wish someone could have noticed and talked to me about what I might be going through. 

I wanted to talk about it a lot, but something stopped me. I can't really put my finger on what it was. I think I really wanted to understand what was happening, was she going to get "better," how would life change, but I didn't know how to even start that conversation, and I didn't want to get into trouble or for mum to feel worse than she already did. 

At school and my dance classes, I felt withdrawn but struggled through to put on a brave face. I didn't feel like talking to anyone about anything really, because my brain felt full with worry. Somehow I still managed to concentrate, maybe it was a coping mechanism, because I did really well, even though mum was having episodes around my exam times. It didn't affect my friendships too much, except when I got a bit older and confided in a couple of close friends. One of them would always ask pressing questions, and it felt like she wanted the gossip of the "crazy" things my mum had done, rather than understanding how hurtful it actually was to me. 

What I wish adults had known 

The teacher who knew did offer me her office, any time I needed it, and I did sit in there once. She was mum's friend and I didn't really have a close rapport with her, so I didn't feel comfortable talking. But it was nice to have that space offered to me. 

I wish, at the hospital, an adult had explained to me what was wrong, what it meant, and what the treatment and care would look like — how long she might be away for, and whether she'd get better. The unknown is so scary. I just wish someone had explained things to me, in simple, real terms, what was happening and what was going to happen. 

I probably wouldn't have wanted my teachers to know all the details. I just wish they'd known I was struggling, so they understood I might be quiet and need some space. 

My wish 

For the I Wish campaign, I wrote: I wish I didn't have to keep it a secret. 

Mum's illness always felt like our big family secret. She didn't want to talk about it when she was well, and when she was unwell, everyone avoided talking about it too. That uncomfortableness around mental illness has had a lasting effect on me, even now, as an adult. 

Writing that wish means I wish I'd had permission, at the time, to talk to a trusted adult or my friends, about what was going on, to make it feel lighter, and to understand it better. It also means I wish it hadn't left such a lasting impact on how I think about my own mental health, and how I feel I can, or can't, talk about mum's mental illness today. We're definitely more open as a family now, over time, but it still takes a lot of courage for me to bring up the conversation.  

It felt quite powerful and emotional to write it down and share it, to really think about the one thing I wish had been different for me. It seems like such a small ask. Especially in my line of work, funding projects across the UK that improve early intervention mental health support for young people, I know it's the foundation of what actually helps: having someone trusted to talk to, where and when you need it. 

When I wrote it, I was thinking about both my younger self and children going through it right now. It took me straight back to how I felt — I can picture the scene so clearly, still. But now, as an adult, I just wish young people didn't have to feel the loneliness I did. 

Looking forward 

What would have made the biggest difference to me, as a child, was having someone I trusted to listen, acknowledge how I was feeling and answer my questions honestly — explaining what it really meant, in clear, age-appropriate terms. 

To teachers and school staff: you don't need to do anything ground-breaking. Just listen and be able to offer simple explanations if they're asked for. 

And if you're a child in the position I was in, this is what I want you to know: it may feel like you're the only person in the world experiencing this right now, but I promise you, there are so many other children in similar positions. You're not alone. Your feelings matter and they deserve to be heard. Please know that you can speak up. 

If you would like to share your own story, please get in touch with Ella Newman-Greaves, Our Time Community Manager. ella.newman-greaves@ourtimecharity.org.uk