at some point you have to walk away

I woke at around 3:30 one morning needing the bathroom, which in itself wasn't unusual. What had become more familiar over the previous few weeks was everything that arrived with waking. The nausea. The awareness of the situation waiting for me before my feet even touched the floor. The tears that seemed to come before I had consciously formed a single thought. The only difference that morning was the time. On the previous couple of mornings, it had happened a little later. This time my day had begun in the middle of the night.

I had travelled to Northern Ireland about 8 weeks ago now because I was worried about Mum and Dad, especially Dad. What I thought might be an extended visit offering support had slowly become weeks of trying to untangle a situation that seemed capable of being untangled, if only everyone involved was able to move in the same direction.

Dad had become caught up in a scam. Since then, his and Mum's bank accounts had been frozen. Practical solutions existed. Mum, the lawyer, and I had spent weeks trying to move things forwards. Others had tried to help as well. Every time it seemed we were close to making progress, something would stop. Dad would resist, refuse, or simply be unable to accept the help being offered.

At first, I believed that if I stayed a little longer, if I explained things another way, if I gave it one more day, one more chance, we might finally get somewhere. I had been due to fly back to Frankfurt on July 15th. Instead of thinking about packing, I found myself looking at changing my flight and staying another three weeks. I worked out how I could return just in time for my ten-weekly Crohn's infusion and Dennis' birthday. I turned it over in my mind more than once because leaving felt impossible when nothing had been resolved.

Lying awake that morning, however, something shifted. I realised that nothing was going to change just because I might not go back to Frankfurt when I was meant to. It wasn't a thought that brought relief. If anything, it landed with a heaviness I hadn't expected because I realised that staying had quietly become less about whether it would help, and more about my hope that somehow it still might.

All the while, my own life hadn't stopped waiting for me. Dennis was back in Frankfurt after losing his job. Germany was waiting for paperwork from Austria before his unemployment benefit could begin. Until that happened, neither of us had health insurance. He had recently needed emergency treatment for a detached retina. My own infusion wasn't something I could simply ignore. My business income had been painfully low for some time and money was something I thought about every day, whether I wanted to or not.

By this point I had already spent almost six weeks away from Dennis and realised I’d put my own life on pause for long enough. Even writing those words here now, I can still feel how uncomfortable they were to admit because they sounded selfish when my mind immediately returned to Mum and Dad. How could I think about my own life when theirs felt as though it had ground to a halt?

Yet the reality was that life hadn't paused simply because I wasn't living it. Dennis was carrying everything that our life in Germany required. Bills still existed. Health concerns still existed. The uncertainty around work and money hadn't politely waited until I returned. They had continued alongside everything that was happening in Northern Ireland.

Dad believed the world had collapsed around him. From where he stood, people were conspiring against him. I could understand why he felt frightened after everything that had happened. I could understand how overwhelming it must all have felt. Understanding it, however, wasn't changing anything.

The more I tried to help and the more he refused to let us help, the more angry I could feel myself becoming. That anger surprised me because it wasn't how I wanted to feel towards my own father. Here was a man who had made a mistake, innocently and naively become caught up in something, and who now found himself trapped inside it. Those of us supporting him could see ways through. We weren't asking him to solve it alone. There were practical steps that could move everything forwards. Whether he couldn't accept that help or wouldn't was becoming almost irrelevant because the outcome remained the same. Nothing changed.

As the days passed, I found myself thinking less about the practical problem and more about what was happening inside me. Every extra conversation, every attempt to move things forwards that went nowhere, was costing something I hadn't realised I was steadily giving away.

I know my own nature. There comes a point where I can no longer keep pouring myself into a situation that refuses to receive what I'm offering. Eventually I know I have to draw a line in the sand and say no more.

I've seen something similar over the years with some of the people I've supported. They came looking for guidance, yet weren't in the place where they could truly receive it. Often they walked away because they weren't yet ready to do the work for themselves. It was never because I stopped wanting to help. It was because no one can live another person's journey for them.

I never imagined I would find myself recognising that same truth with my own Dad.

And yet I could also feel that if I stayed much longer, something inside me would harden in a way I didn't want it to. I had done everything I could. That acknowledgement wasn’t anything to do with giving up nor was it connected to spite or frustration, it was simply the truth; the truest thing I could acknowledge after weeks of trying every avenue that had been available to me.

I know the hardest part wouldn’t be leaving because nothing had been fixed. It would be accepting that my own responsibilities still existed. It wasn't even about acknowledging that I couldn't continue putting my own life on hold indefinitely. The hardest thing would be walking away from Mum. I could get on a plane and return to my life in Germany. She couldn't.

She would still be living alongside the situation every single day after I had gone. That knowledge sat heavily with me because leaving felt uncomfortably close to abandoning her, even though I knew those weren't the same thing.

My sister had had very little involvement during my stay. After one particularly difficult day with Dad, I had messaged her. I had also phoned her earlier that same day while Dad had gone out to hit a few golf balls. She was driving at the time. She read my message afterwards, although nothing came of it. I had hoped we might spend some time together before I left, just the two of us, working out the best way forward. However, I had already seen so little of her during my stay because she had struggled to find free time outside family time. I know she has a life and a family. However, so do I.

In fairness, I don't know what she may have been doing behind the scenes. There may well have been things I wasn't aware of. All I knew was how alone I had begun to feel in carrying so much of what was happening.

Looking back now, I don't think the turning point came because anything changed around me. Nothing did. The paperwork was still waiting. The practical solutions were still there. Dad was still unable or unwilling to accept the help available. The circumstances remained exactly as they had been. The only thing that changed was my understanding of where my responsibility ended.

When you live abroad, perhaps that recognition can feel even more complicated because leaving is rarely just leaving a room or driving home. It means returning to another country whilst knowing that the people you love continue living inside circumstances you cannot change. Life asks you to carry responsibilities in more than one place at the same time, and occasionally those responsibilities pull in opposite directions. That doesn't make the choice easier. If anything, it makes it harder.

That’s why the personal support I offer is so valuable. Life abroad often asks us to hold situations that don't have tidy endings, and sometimes what helps most isn't someone solving them. It's simply having somewhere safe to lay them down for a while with someone who understands the weight they can carry.

Even now, I don't look back on that decision as the moment everything became okay. It wasn't. I don't remember boarding my flight feeling certain or at peace. What I remember is finally accepting something I had resisted for weeks. Love can keep offering a hand. It cannot, however, force someone else to take it. And sometimes the hardest act of love is recognising that another person's journey cannot be lived for them, no matter how much you wish it could.