The Tightrope: Trusting When Trust Feels Terrifying

Walking the fine line between hope and fear when your child with BPD starts to come out of crisis.

There’s a strange stillness that follows a storm. The house is quieter. The chaos softens. You breathe a little deeper, but you’re still waiting for the next clap of thunder.

That’s where we are right now.

My daughter is starting to come out of crisis. Starting. And I use that word carefully, because with BPD you never truly know. One day can feel like a breakthrough, the next like you’re right back where you started. It’s the unpredictable nature of this illness, a rollercoaster with no map, no seatbelt, and no warning signs before the drops.

Yesterday, Friday, she was placed on an informal section, which meant she could have a little escorted leave, just a couple of hours at the fair with nurses and carers. A sliver of normal life woven into the chaos. Today, she’s been on home leave. She’s here overnight, and if all goes well, she’ll be discharged on Monday.

It sounds straightforward on paper. It isn’t.

Because this part, the “coming home” part, is one of the hardest stages of all.

It’s when hope and fear live side by side.
It’s when you smile on the outside while your insides are knotted.
It’s when you desperately want to believe she’s safe… and you have to trust that she is.

And trust, in this world, is terrifying.

I have to trust her when she says she’s safe.
I have to trust the system when they say she’s ready.
I have to trust myself to manage the rising panic that whispers, what if she’s not?

Because here’s the brutal truth most people don’t want to talk about: 10% of people with BPD lose their life before the age of 27.
That statistic is never far from my mind. It’s the shadow that follows every decision, every risk, every step forward.

So yes, everything looks calm tonight. But behind the calm is a thousand small precautions, medication locked away, belts hidden, knives locked up. These are the quiet rituals of a parent living in this reality. They don’t mean I don’t trust her. They mean I love her enough to give trust boundaries.

I’ve kept her close to me all day, right up until bedtime. We’ve talked, watched telly, shared little ordinary moments and I’ve hidden my emotions as best I can. Because she needs steady, not scared. Calm, not chaos. And even though every cell in my body is on high alert, I know that part of helping her heal is letting her try.

This is the tightrope we walk as parents.
Balancing hope with fear.
Trust with vigilance.
Love with heartbreak.

It’s tough, unbearably tough sometimes but this is what it looks like to keep going.

Tomorrow isn’t promised. Neither is recovery. But tonight, she’s here. She’s safe. And for now, that’s enough.

If you’re walking this same tightrope, please know you’re not alone. It’s okay to be scared and hopeful at the same time. It’s okay to lock away the knives and still believe in better days. And it’s okay to hold space for both fear and love, because in this world, they often walk hand in hand.

Your calm in the chaos.

Sami xx