When the System Breaks Trust: What This Week Has Taught Me About Mental Health Care
When the System Breaks Trust: What This Week Has Taught Me About Mental Health Care
This past week has been one of the hardest and most eye-opening of my life. And I say that as someone who’s spent years walking beside a young adult through emotional dysregulation, trauma, and crisis. I thought I understood how complex and messy the mental health system could be, but this week has taken that understanding to a whole new level.
On Friday, my daughter was sectioned again. After another terrifying crisis, she was taken back into a psychiatric unit. We were told she’d been given the last bed, though it became clear very quickly that wasn’t exactly true. There were eight people on the ward, four men and four women, in a unit with a capacity for fourteen. It didn’t add up.
From the very start, the tone was unsettling. The consultant, the same one we’ve dealt with repeatedly, spoke as though my daughter’s crisis was an inconvenience rather than a medical emergency. He compared her suicidal thoughts to “not liking cats” and suggested that if she had cancer, that would be more painful. He even described her as “very lucky” to have a brilliant mental health nurse supporting her, as though quality care is some kind of lottery win, not a basic human right.
It’s hard to describe how dehumanising it feels to hear those words about your child when you’re sitting in a room begging for help.
We had an advocate present. Together, we asked for simple, reasonable things like escorted leave or family leave so she could step outside the four walls she was trapped in. Initially, the consultant agreed. Then, almost casually, he backtracked. Suddenly, escorted leave was off the table. His justification? He claimed she’d said she was going to end her life in the meeting “the following day", which simply wasn’t true. That conversation had happened the previous Friday, the very reason she’d been sectioned in the first place.
What she’d actually said in the review was this: if she were made informal (voluntarily staying), she might try to leave and harm herself. That’s not a threat, that’s brutal honesty about how unsafe she still feels. It’s exactly why sectioning exists. But instead of listening, they used her honesty against her.
So, she stayed locked inside those four walls. By then, every other female patient had been discharged. The environment became even more intimidating, eight men, some much older, openly discussing drugs and prison life in the communal areas. My daughter retreated to her room, terrified and alone.
The result? She spiralled. She cried. She blamed herself. She couldn’t understand why promises were broken and why decisions seemed to change on a whim. And in her distress, she hit a wall and dislocated her finger, and another trip to A&E on top of everything else.
And through all of this, the consultant, the one with all the power, refused to speak to me. My daughter had given permission for me to be involved. I phoned the unit as soon as I knew she was struggling, asking him to call me after his meetings. That was 2pm. He left at 3pm without returning my call. By the next morning, still nothing. This isn’t the first time he’s avoided conversation; last time, he passed me off to one of his doctors rather than face difficult questions.
By 3pm today, the pattern continued. Even the nurses had been trying to speak with him and got nowhere. My daughter herself asked to see him and was told he was “too busy.” All she wants is the chance to have breakfast with me, a small piece of family leave that could make a huge difference to her mental state. Yet he won’t speak to her, won’t speak to me, and won’t even agree to that.
It’s cowardly. And it’s unacceptable.
The most painful part of this story is that none of it is unusual. Families across the UK are facing this same nightmare, watching their children suffer while systems designed to protect them instead gaslight, dismiss, and retraumatise them.
What have I learned this week?
I’ve learned that sectioning doesn’t always mean safety. That the quality of care can depend entirely on the consultant you happen to get. That honesty from a patient can be twisted and used against them. And that as parents, we have to advocate louder than ever, even when the people in charge don’t want to listen.
I’ve also learned that the system must change. Compassion should not be optional. Communication should not be withheld. And basic dignity should never feel like a privilege.
If you’re a parent reading this and nodding along because you’ve been there, please know you’re not alone. The fight is exhausting, but together we can start to shine a light on the cracks in a system that desperately needs rebuilding.
Because no parent should have to beg for their child’s safety. And no young person should be made to feel like a burden for needing help to stay alive.
Reflection:
I share this not for sympathy, but because stories like this need to be heard. They need to be talked about in boardrooms and waiting rooms and Parliament halls. Because until they are, too many of our children will keep slipping through the cracks.
What I Want Other Parents to Know
If you’re walking a similar path, here’s what this week has taught me and what I hope helps you, too:
Sectioning isn’t a guarantee of safety. It’s a legal framework, not a magic shield. You still have to keep advocating, asking questions, and making noise when something doesn’t feel right.
Honesty from your child matters and so does yours. If they’re brave enough to say they feel unsafe, that should never be used against them. Be their translator when the system stops listening.
You are part of the care team, not an outsider. You know your child best. Don’t let arrogance or avoidance silence you, insist on being included in decisions.
Compassion is not a privilege. It’s a right. And when it’s missing, we have to call it out. Because silence lets the system stay broken.
You’re not alone. So many parents are fighting these same battles in the shadows. Sharing our stories is how we turn whispers into change.
If this resonates with you, share it. Talk about it. Start conversations in your circles. The more we speak up, the harder it becomes for the system to ignore us.
Your calm in the chaos,
Sami xx
