Julia's Story

For our Better Care = Safer Care campaign, Julia shares her story of being a carer for her 32-year-old daughter, Stephanie. After years of witnessing poor-quality care, Julia feels deeply frustrated and increasingly concerned. Repeated failings and serious safety incidents - some of which have cost lives - have left her fearing that her daughter could one day become the next statistic. 

My daughter, Stephanie, first began experiencing mental health difficulties in her early twenties while she was at university. Since then, it has had a profound impact on her life, and over the past few years she has been admitted to hospital on average twice a year.

As a result, I have seen first-hand how different the experience can be. At times, there are staff who genuinely seem to care - people who take the time to understand what’s brought my daughter there and who try to be by her side. But that kind of care isn’t prioritised. Too often, everything is task-based. It’s about observation, routines and watching people, rather than really caring for them.

I don’t understand why one-to-one support feels more like surveillance. It should be a chance to comfort someone, to help them feel safe but instead, it feels like they’re just being watched. There’s no meaningful communication, no real conversation, no human connection. This creates a huge disconnect. She’s already struggling, and then you have staff around her who are just observing, not engaging with her.

It leaves her feeling completely alone, even when she’s not. Like she’s surrounded by people, but no one is really there for her. The tone of voice, the way you speak to someone, how you make them feel in those moments - it all matters. When someone is in that level of distress, they need to feel safe, supported, and able to decompress. But in an acute environment, that just doesn’t seem to happen.

I have seen many members of staff who are not properly trained to support someone with severe mental illness in a compassionate way. It feels like their role is just to administer medication, rather than to understand the person behind the condition. Because when you really get to know someone, you begin to understand their triggers, what might help, what might calm things down. And that’s the hardest part: she’s there to be cared for, but good care isn’t what she receives.

What I want to see now is real change. Families like mine need to be told, clearly and honestly: this is what we are going to do differently. Not vague reassurances, but tangible actions that we can see and feel - changes that genuinely improve safety and care. Families should be involved in that process, not kept at a distance. We live this every day and we have knowledge that could help.
 
Because beyond all of this is a very real and constant fear that my daughter could die. She has made so many suicide attempts over the years. She is high risk, with a clear history, and yet it often feels like meaningful support only comes after something has gone wrong. Where is the proactive support? Outreach workers for those at risk of suicide could make a real difference here, as could meaningful networking with suicide prevention charities and centres. 
 
Families like mine shouldn’t feel like we’re waiting for the worst to happen before action is taken. We need a system that steps in sooner; that listens and involves us and  truly protects the people we love. Right now, mental health wards don’t feel like places of healing – they feel like places of containment.  And even as a parent, it can feel like I’m kept at arm’s length. I can visit my daughter, I can speak to her, and she will tell me how she’s feeling, but there’s very little communication from staff.

Often, the only time you hear anything is when it comes to discharge planning. There’s no shared understanding along the way, no consistent updates, and no real sense of being part of a team around her care.

I’m not given a copy of her care plan, and there’s rarely a clear, collaborative plan for discharge that includes what will actually help her once she leaves. Families should be part of that conversation from the beginning. Care should feel like a team effort: staff, patient and family working together. Instead, it feels fragmented and distant.

My daughter is an intelligent, compassionate person, but when she becomes unwell, she can enter a completely altered state where she loses touch with reality. In those moments, what she needs most is care, kindness, patience and someone who knows how to gently reconnect her. If staff had the time, training and support to provide that kind of compassionate, person-centred care, I truly believe it would make all the difference.