Every Morning Begins With My Locked Bedroom Door

June 2026 marked one full year of becoming my mother's full-time caregiver.

I've realized that every morning begins the same way. Before I ever leave my bedroom, I pause. It's not a long pause, maybe only a few seconds, but I've learned to brace myself before unlocking my bedroom door because I never really know what I'm about to walk into.

Yes, my bedroom door stays locked. So does my daughter's. Throughout the day, my mother tries to come into both of our rooms. During the night, she'll often bang on our doors trying to get in. If she's having one of her louder nights, there isn't much sleeping for either of us because she's yelling at people only she can see, arguing with voices nobody else hears, or wandering through the house looking for something that doesn't exist.

By the time I unlock my bedroom door in the morning, I already know whether the night was loud. What I don't know is everything that happened after I finally managed to fall asleep. Did she flood the bathroom sink again? Did she move the furniture? Did she spend hours in the laundry room looking for stairs that have never existed? Did she decide she was going to cook?

I even have a camera in my living room now. I don't use it to watch my mother. I use it because I worry she'll turn on the stove again. We have a flat-top electric stove, and somehow her mind tells her to place food directly on the hot burner instead of using a pan. Eggs. Pizza. Whatever she decides she's making. It makes perfect sense to her, and that's what makes it so dangerous.

I'm her only caregiver, and it's hard.

I like to say she's healing from paranoid schizophrenia and dementia because I never want her diagnosis to become her identity. I believe God is still working, even when I don't understand what that work looks like. Believing that doesn't make the day-to-day any easier. Every single day presents a new challenge, and no two days are the same.

I don't sleep well. I honestly can't tell you the last night I've had more than four consecutive hours of sleep. For some people, that may not sound like a big deal. For me, it's painful. I'm carrying a lot mentally, physically, emotionally, professionally, and socially. I need rest. I need a break. I need time to quietly pause, reflect, figure out my next move, and then move forward. Right now, I don't really have that luxury.

If you've ever been around newborn babies through the toddler years, you've probably heard parents or doctors say, "Sleep when the baby sleeps." If you don't, your entire schedule eventually starts revolving around theirs. You put them to bed when it makes sense to you, but their little internal clock wakes them up anyway. Before long, you're sleeping when you can instead of when you want to.

That's the closest comparison I've found for this season of my life.

I'm incredibly grateful that my day job allows me to work from home because, without that flexibility, I honestly don't know how I would do this.

Before my mother came into my care, I loved sitting in my living room. I had my desk set up near the large patio window because I loved working with the natural light coming in. I'd answer emails, write, and work while looking outside. It was one of my favorite places in the house.

That changed almost immediately.

My mother touches everything, and she no longer understands what belongs to her and what belongs to someone else. Leaving my laptop, paperwork, or anything work-related in the living room became a risk I wasn't willing to take. I eventually moved my entire desk into my bedroom. "Moved" almost sounds too organized. I crammed it in there because I needed one place where I knew my work would still be exactly where I left it.

My mother's symptoms are not mild by any definition. All day and night long, she's experiencing auditory and visual hallucinations. She sees people who aren't there. She hears conversations that nobody else hears.

When I first became her caregiver, she flipped my couches over, stacked end tables on my kitchen sink, removed every piece of wall art from my walls, and somehow figured out how to unlock my double-locked doors. One of those locks is still broken because she learned how to defeat it. She believed people were outside waiting to come in, so she kept trying to open the door for them.

I remember cleaning all of this up while crying. Before I could answer a single email or begin my workday, I had to put my home back together. I knew my mother wouldn't understand why I was crying, and I wasn't angry with her. I was overwhelmed. I'm sharing this photo because I know there are other caregivers quietly living through moments like this, wondering if anyone else understands. I hope you know you're not alone.

One of the hardest parts for me is watching my mother have completely normal conversations with my fifteen-year-old daughter. That's confusing for me because I know how differently she interacts with me.

A few days after one particularly difficult morning, I was venting to my daughter. I told her it honestly felt like my mother was trying to bother me on purpose. That's when my daughter quietly said, "Bebby told me she was going to bother you."

She went on to explain that she remembered my mother saying that before she started clapping and singing loudly outside my bedroom door while I was asleep.

Hearing that stopped me in my tracks.

It frustrated me because it made me wonder what part of her mind still recognizes exactly what she's doing and what part truly doesn't. Those are the moments that leave me with more questions than answers.

One night, things escalated further than they ever had before. She was yelling at me from the living room while I was sitting in there with her. I knew arguing wasn't helping either one of us, so I walked away and headed toward my bedroom. She followed me, still yelling. I turned around one last time and asked her to stop. As I turned back toward my room, I felt this overwhelming urge to duck.

The moment I turned around, her four-pronged cane slammed into the wall exactly where my head would have been if I hadn't moved.

I screamed, "You just tried to hit me!"

She immediately answered, "No. I was trying to hit that spot on the wall."

"The spot you just made trying to hit me in the head?"

I remember looking at her and saying, "I'm not dealing with you right now. I can see the other spirit, and I rebuke it in Jesus' name."

She smirked.

"Yeah, yeah. Tell me more. What else do you want to rebuke? Tell me what else to do."

That part annoyed me to my core. My mind immediately started trying to think of a pastor I could call. It was late at night, and I came up empty.

I waited until she stepped back far enough for me to close and lock my bedroom door. I stood there crying while I could still hear her mocking me from the hallway. Then, almost as quickly as everything started, her voice changed.

"Oh, it's okay, baby. Do you need some covers? Where's your mother? Let's get you ready for bed."

She was talking to someone who wasn't there in the sweetest little baby voice.

I remember lying on my bed shaking my head. I was angry, exhausted, heartbroken, and tired all at the same time. I prayed, although I honestly couldn't tell you exactly what I prayed. After a while, I opened my laptop because work still needed to get done, and I needed my mind to focus on something else.

I've found myself praying differently during this season. I keep asking God what needs to change in me. I don't believe every difficult situation is simply something to survive. Sometimes the very thing that refuses to change is shaping us in ways we can't yet see.

I don't know if God is teaching me patience, endurance, surrender, or something I haven't recognized yet. I just know this season has changed me, and I still believe that one day it will make sense.

Thank you for reading. I hope this reflection encourages you to pause, think, or see something familiar in a new way.