The phone goes at 7.40 on a Tuesday morning and your stomach drops before you've seen the name. It's the care home. Mum's fine, they say. She had a fall in the night and the paramedic has checked her over. They just wanted you to know.
You thank them and put the phone down. Then you sit on the edge of the bed with your heart going as if you'd run up the stairs.
This was meant to be the part where things got easier. Everyone said so: your friends, the GP, the social worker. "At least she's safe now. At least you can get some rest."
So why are you more tired than you were before?
If your mum or dad has moved into a care home and you feel worn down, guilty, on edge or strangely flat, this post is for you. I'll explain what's happening in your body, why it makes sense, and what tends to help. I've spent 25 years working with families affected by dementia and with women carrying a great deal at once. This is one of the most misunderstood stages of caring I know.
Is it normal to feel worse after a parent goes into a care home?
Yes. It's very common, and it's rarely talked about.
Most of what you'll find online about care homes covers choosing one and paying for one. Very little covers what happens to you once the move is done. The assumption is that the hard part is over. For many women, this is when the exhaustion they've held off for years finally catches up.
It often looks like this:
You still sleep with your phone on the pillow.
You visit most days, and feel guilty on the days you don't.
You notice every small thing at the home: the cardigan buttoned wrong, the cold cup of tea, the hearing aid left in the drawer.
You feel relief, then feel awful for feeling it.
You cry in the car park, then go back to work.
You're exhausted, and a weekend off doesn't fix it.
None of this means you made the wrong decision.
Why am I still so exhausted when someone else is doing the caring?
Because your nervous system hasn't been told the job has changed.
For months, often years, you've lived on alert. Listening for the phone. Wondering whether Dad had eaten. Planning around the next appointment, the next fall, the next crisis. Your body adapted. The stress response that helps us deal with danger stayed switched on, because danger, or the possibility of it, was always there.
A move into a care home changes the practical load almost overnight. Your body's settings take much longer. The vigilance carries on, and it attaches to whatever is left: the staff, the phone, the visits, and the things you can see going wrong and can no longer put right yourself.
There's also a delay that catches people out. While you're in the thick of caring, your system keeps going on adrenaline. When the pressure eases even slightly, the tiredness that's been held back arrives all at once. Plenty of people get ill within weeks of the move. Their body is catching up.
Why do I feel so guilty about putting my mum or dad in a care home?
Guilt after a care home move usually comes from love meeting a decision you never wanted to make.
You may have promised you'd never do it. Your parent may have begged you not to. They may ask, at every visit, when they're going home. Each of those moments lands in the same sore place.
What I see again and again is guilt that comes from caring deeply and having very little say in what forced the choice. Most people made the decision because there was no safe alternative left: the falls, the nights, the cost, their own health, their job, their children. If you spent months trying to get your parent to accept any help at all first, that can make it feel even more raw. (I've written about that stage in When your ageing parent refuses help.)
Guilt and relief often turn up together. You can be glad she's safe and heartbroken she's there, on the same visit. Both are true, and one doesn't cancel the other.
Is it grief if my parent is still alive?
Often, yes. It has a name: ambiguous loss. It's the grief of losing someone who is still here, and it's very common when a parent has dementia or moves into care.
The move is a loss in itself. The house gets cleared. Their chair, their kitchen, the way the mugs were always arranged. You may be grieving the parent you had, the role you had and the future you imagined for them, while still visiting every Thursday.
Because nobody has died, there's no room made for that grief. No time off, no cards, nobody asking how you're holding up. I've written more about this in Grieving someone who is still here.
What do I do when I don't trust the care home to get it right?
Some worries are about real care issues and need raising. Others come from a body that's still scanning for danger. Telling the two apart takes practice.
These questions can help:
Is this about my parent's safety, dignity or health? If so, raise it, calmly, and in writing if you need to.
Is this about the home doing things differently from how I did them? That can be hard to watch and still be fine.
Am I checking because something has happened, or because checking is the only way I can settle?
It makes a real difference to build a relationship with one or two named members of staff. It also helps to agree how and when they'll contact you, so that every call doesn't feel like an emergency.
You were the expert on your parent for a long time. Handing some of that over is a loss too.
How often should I visit my parent in a care home?
There's no right number. What matters is a rhythm you can keep up, and visits you go to because you want to see them.
Lots of people visit every day in the first weeks, out of worry and guilt, and then find they can't sustain it. If that's you, it's fine to change the pattern. Your parent gets more from a visit where you're present than one where you're running on empty and watching the clock.
If your parent has dementia, shorter regular visits often go better than long ones. Staff can also tell you how your parent is between visits, which can ease the need to see for yourself.
What actually helps my body come down from all this?
Rest helps, though on its own it often doesn't reach this. Your nervous system needs repeated signs, over time, that it's safe to stand down.
Small things count:
Put your phone in another room for one hour a day. Make sure the home has a second number for anything urgent.
Leave the car park slowly. Sit for two minutes before you drive off, and breathe out for longer than you breathe in.
Tell one person the whole of it, not the edited version. Most women share one piece with one friend and another piece with someone else. Saying all of it, once, to one person can bring real relief.
Do one thing each week that belongs to you and nobody else.
Expect a dip once the adrenaline has gone. It's common, and it passes, especially with support.
If you still manage your parent's affairs or support them regularly, you may still be entitled to a carer's assessment from your local council. Carers UK can tell you more. If your parent has dementia, Dementia UK's Admiral Nurses support families after a care home move too. Their free helpline is 0800 888 6678.
When is it time to get more support?
If months have passed and you're still not sleeping, still on edge, or flat and tearful most days, take it seriously. Speak to your GP, and look for support that is for you rather than for your parent.
This is the work I do. RESTORE is my 1:1 programme for women who have held everything together for so long that their body has forgotten how to put it down. We start by getting all of it said. Then we work with your stress response so the clear thinking comes back, and build a plan that fits the life you're living now. Find out about RESTORE
A smaller place to start
If you're not ready for that, start here. My free guide, The Last One on Your Own List, is for women who have put themselves at the bottom of the pile for years. It takes a few minutes, and it might be the first thing in a while that's just for you.