Supporting families who have lived through aggression towards caregivers during childhood and adolescence is part of the work I do every day. Some parents reach a moment of impossible decision—when the safety of siblings, their spouse, or themselves can no longer be sustained in the home. They are forced to choose what feels unthinkable: arranging for their child to live elsewhere. A therapeutic home. A group home. A shelter. Another family. None of these choices come wrapped in peace. None come without grief.

The world often assumes that if a home becomes safer—if the chaos stops, if sleep returns, if holes in the walls are patched and fear softens—then relief naturally follows. But for most parents, there is a lingering ambivalence that sits beneath every day like sediment that never quite settles. They may remind themselves that this was necessary. That it was the only decision left. And still, guilt may travel alongside them like an old companion—quieter over time, perhaps, but never fully gone.

Many parents describe the shock of discovering that recovery is not a straight line. The nervous system doesn’t immediately understand that the crisis has passed. Long months or years of hypervigilance reshape the body. Basic needs—sleep, medical care, social connection—were postponed indefinitely. When survival becomes a lifestyle, learning to live again is a bold and vulnerable act.

Reclaiming Life in Small and Meaningful Steps

Parents have shared with me the wide range of ways they slowly begin to recover:

• Using mantras—simple, grounding statements that interrupt catastrophizing or self-blame.
• Reframing expectations around what family holidays, birthdays, or Mother’s Day “should” look like.
• Taking care of their body after years of living on adrenaline. Going the gym. Evening walks. Fresh vegetables. A full night of sleep. What seems ordinary to many is deeply triumphant to someone relearning rest.
• Seeking non-judgmental spaces where others do not shame them but honour their unwavering advocacy and the complexity of the situation.
• Reclaiming their home environment, fixing what was broken, restoring rooms once associated with fear or destruction.
• Using creativity as medicine—painting, woodworking, baking, jewellery making.
• Approaching recovery intellectually—reading articles, saving quotes, journalling to counter intrusive doubts and reauthor their story.
• Going into nature, spending time at a cabin, reconnecting with the land, or simply sitting outside with a cup of tea.
• Reconnecting with people they had to distance themselves from when life became unpredictable.

These acts are not indulgent. They are reparative. They are evidence of selfhood re-emerging after being overshadowed by constant crisis.

A Different Kind of Parenting Journey

Recovery does not mean the caregiving ends. Even when a child is now an adult or no longer in the family home, parents may still face:

• emotional blackmail
• coercive demands
• crises that erupt by phone instead of in the kitchen
• divided holidays
• carefully supervised visits

The work of parenting continues, but now with new boundaries—shaped by safety, stability, and self-preservation.

And yet, many parents describe this stage with a quiet pride. Not because it is easy. Not because it resembles the parenting they imagined. But because it reflects love in its most complex form—a love that protects all members of the family, including the child who cannot live at home.

This Journey Deserves to Be Seen

Not much has been written about the recovery of parents after years of aggression, especially when children cannot live at home. The dominant narrative often stops at the moment of placement—as if the story ends there. But families know otherwise. There is grief. There is relief. There is guilt, pride, and a fierce, ongoing love.

There is also courage.

To the parents walking this path—you are not alone. Your recovery is real and worthy. The steps you are taking are not selfish. They are sacred acts of reclaiming a life that was put on pause for far too long. You deserve support that honours the complexity of your journey and the strength it takes to continue loving while also letting go.

You are allowed to heal.

You are allowed to reclaim joy.

And your story belongs in the world—not hidden in silence, but recognised as an extraordinary testament to resilience.