When the Body Joins the Battle: The Other Side of My Daughter’s Struggles

When emotional pain spills into physical pain, the journey becomes even heavier.

There’s a part of our story I don’t talk about often.
Not because it’s shameful.
Not because we’re hiding anything.
But because it’s raw, complicated, and it belongs partly to her.

My daughter doesn’t just struggle emotionally.
Her body struggles too, and this week, it’s been especially tough.

Some of her physical issues are connected to trauma.
Some have arrived out of nowhere, with no clear explanation.
Some seem to be her body’s way of holding pain that the mind can’t process all at once.

And when your child’s body and mind both feel unsafe, the world becomes a much heavier place.

“Why does my body hate me?”

Those were her words this week.
Sitting on the sofa, curled up, exhausted from yet another long day.
She wasn’t crying, she was beyond crying.
That quiet, empty distress where you can see the weight sitting across her shoulders.

She kept saying:
“I don’t get it. Why doesn’t my body work? Why me? Why is everything harder for me?”

She feels lost in her own skin sometimes.
Like she’s not sure what her body will do next.
Like she can’t trust it and that makes her feel unsafe, frustrated, and helpless.

And honestly?
I don’t blame her for feeling that way.
Because watching her navigate all of this… it is unfair.
Cruelly unfair.

The revolving doors of A&E, GP appointments, and the Mental Health Team

People imagine that mental health struggles are all emotional outbursts, mood swings, and crisis calls.

But for so many young adults, the physical side is just as overwhelming:

• unexplained pain

• dizziness

• fainting

• fatigue

• sensory issues

• trauma responses that look physical, not emotional

• symptoms no one can fully explain

• symptoms that professionals disagree on

• symptoms that get dismissed because of their mental health history

And so we end up in A&E.
And then at the GP.
And then with the Mental Health Team.
And then back at A&E again.

A loop.
A cycle.
A constant search for answers that never seem to land.

Every visit feels like it could be the one that helps or the one that leads to another shrug, another discharge note, another “keep an eye on things” without any real support.

As a mum, you sit there trying to stay calm while your insides twist into knots.

You want someone, anyone to join the dots.
To see the full picture.
To help her feel safe in her own body again.

When emotional pain becomes physical pain

In trauma, the body keeps the score and sometimes it can shout louder than the mind.

But when you’re living this in real life, it doesn’t feel like a neat psychological phrase.

It feels like:

• ambulance lights

• waiting room chairs

• pacing corridors

• Long waits

• doctors who try their best

• doctors who don’t

• googling symptoms at 2am

• holding her hand while she shakes or shuts down completely

• trying not to fall apart because she needs you steady to sometimes be her voice.

This isn’t “drama.”
It’s not “attention seeking.”
It’s not “overreacting.”

It’s her body screaming what her trauma has never been allowed to speak.

So how do we approach it? Carefully. Gently. Together.

We validate the physical experience, always.

We don’t say “it’s just anxiety.”
We don’t minimise.
If she says her body feels wrong, we believe her.

We focus on safety first.

No risks.
No guessing.
If something feels worrying, we go to A&E.
If it needs checking, we check it.
If she feels unsafe in her own skin, we treat it seriously.

We build bridges between teams.

Mental health + GP + A&E should talk, but they often don’t.
So we become the glue.
The historian.
The advocate.
The one who sees the whole picture.

We help her understand her body without blaming it.

“Your body isn’t broken sweetheart, it’s overwhelmed.”
“Your body isn’t attacking you, it’s trying to protect you, even if it gets it wrong.”
“You’re not weak, you’re strong and you are surviving.”

These words matter.
They reduce shame.
They give hope.

We plan for the aftermath.

Because the emotional crash after physical distress is huge.
Rest days aren’t optional, they’re essential.

My Final thoughts

This week has been a reminder that recovery is not a straight line.
Some weeks the mind struggles more.
Some weeks the body struggles more.
Some weeks everything feels heavy.

And that’s why compassion matters for her and for me.

Because underneath the symptoms, appointments, and exhaustion is a young woman who is trying so hard to exist in a body and brain that have been through far too much.

And a mum trying so hard to help her feel safe in both.

If you’re living this too, I see you.
You’re not imagining it.
You’re not alone.
And you’re doing so much better than you think.

⚓️Your calm in the chaos,
Sami xx